a copy of verses in the
same hand, in a plaintive ballad style, of the soldierly sort, in which the
writer said, that as living his sole object was to please me, so dying I
should be his latest thought; and some more poetic impieties, asking only
in return that when the storm of battle had swept over, I should 'shed
a tear' on seeing 'the _oak lie_, where it fell.' Of course, about
this lugubrious pun, there could be no misconception. The Captain was
unmistakably indicated; and I was so moved that I could no longer retain
my secret; but walking with Milly that day, confided the little romance to
that unsophisticated listener, under the chestnut trees. The lines were so
amorously dejected, and yet so heroically redolent of blood and gunpowder,
that Milly and I agreed that the writer must be on the verge of a
sanguinary campaign.

It was not easy to get at Uncle Silas's 'Times' or 'Morning Post,' which we
fancied would explain these horrible allusions; but Milly bethought her of
a sergeant in the militia, resident in Feltram, who knew the destination
and quarters of every regiment in the service; and circuitously, from
this authority, we learned, to my infinite relief, that Captain Oakley's
regiment had still two years to sojourn in England.

I was summoned one evening by old L'Amour, to my uncle's room. I remember
his appearance that evening so well, as he lay back in his chair; the
pillow; the white glare of his strange eye; his feeble, painful smile.

'You'll excuse my not rising, dear Maud, I am so miserably ill this
evening.'

I expressed my respectful condolence.

'Yes; I _am_ to be pitied; but pity is of no use, dear,' he murmured,
peevishly. 'I sent for you to make you acquainted with your cousin, my son.
Where are you Dudley?'

A figure seated in a low lounging chair, at the other side of the fire, and
which till then I had not observed, at these words rose up a little slowly,
like a man stiff after a day's hunting; and I beheld with a shock that held
my breath, and fixed my eyes upon him in a stare, the young man whom I had
encountered at Church Scarsdale, on the day of my unpleasant excursion
there with Madame, and who, to the best of my belief, was also one of that
ruffianly party who had so unspeakably terrified me in the warren at Knowl.

I suppose I looked very much affrighted. If I had been looking at a ghost I
could not have felt much more scared and incredulous.

When I was able to turn my eyes