THE LOST DIAMOND SNUFF BOX.

The grand old kingdom of England, in the course of the mossy centuries
you can count over its head, has had its times of gloom and depression
at dangers that looked near, and its times of shouting and rejoicing
over dangers its brave men have driven away quite out of sight again.

One of the deepest seasons of gloom was when the French Emperor,
Napoleon, had conquered one country after another, until there was
scarcely anything but England left to attack; and one of the proudest
times of rejoicing was when the "Iron Duke" Wellington, and the bluff
old Prussian, Blucher, met him at Waterloo, defeated his armies and
drove him from the field. There were bonfires, and bell-ringings then,
and from that day onward England loved and cherished every man who
had fought at Waterloo--from the "Duke" himself down to the plainest
private, every one was a hero and a veteran.

In one of the humblest houses of a proud nobleman's estate, a low,
whitewashed cottage, one of these veterans lived not so very many years
ago. He had fought by his flag in one of the most gallant regiments
until the last hour of the battle, and then had fallen disabled from
active service for the rest of his life.

That did not seem to be of so very great consequence though, just now;
for peace reigned in the land, and with his wife and two beautiful
daughters to love, his battles to think over, and his pension to provide
the bread and coffee, the old soldier was as happy as the day was long.
It made no difference that the bread and the coffee were both black, and
the clothes of the veteran were coarse and seldom new.

"Ho, Peggy!" he used to say to his wife, "my cloak is as fine as the one
the 'Iron Duke' wore when they carried me past him just as the French
were breaking; and as for the bread, only a veteran knows how the
recollection of victory makes everything taste sweet!"

But it seemed as if the old soldier's life was going to prove like his
share in that great day at Waterloo--success and victory till the end
had nearly come, and then one shot after another striking him with
troubles, he could never get over.

The first came in the midst of the beautiful summer days, when the bees
droned through the delicious air, the rose-bush was in full bloom, and
the old soldier sat in the cottage door reveling in it all. A slow,
merciless fever rose up through the soft air--it did not venture near
the high ground where the ca