tory of India, a book which old Mrs. Newcome had
been reading on the night of her death, had discovered a paper, of
which the accompanying letter enclosed a copy, and I gave my friend the
letter.

He opened it, and read it through. I cannot say that I saw any
particular expression of wonder in his countenance, for somehow, all the
while Clive perused this document, I was looking at the Colonel's sweet
kind face. "It--it is Ethel's doing," said Clive, in a hurried voice.
"There was no such letter."

"Upon my honour," I answered, "there was. We came up to London with
it last night, a few hours after she had found it. We showed it to Sir
Barnes Newcome, who--who could not disown it. We took it to Mr. Luce,
who recognised it at once, who was old Mrs. Newcome's man of business,
and continues to be the family lawyer, and the family recognises the
legacy and has paid it, and you may draw for it to-morrow, as you see.
What a piece of good luck it is that it did not come before the B. B. C.
time! That confounded Bundelcund Bank would have swallowed up this like
all the rest."

"Father! father! do you remember Orme's History of India?" cries Clive.

"Orme's History! of course I do, I could repeat whole pages of it when I
was a boy," says the old man, and began forthwith. "'The two battalions
advanced against each other cannonading, until the French, coming to a
hollow way, imagined that the English would not venture to pass it.
But Major Lawrence ordered the sepoys and artillery--the sepoys
and artillery to halt and defend the convoy against the
Morattoes'--Morattoes Orme calls 'em. Ho! ho! I could repeat whole
pages, sir."

"It is the best book that ever was written," calls out Clive. The
Colonel said he had not read it, but he was informed Mr. Mill's was a
very learned history; he intended to read it. "Eh! there is plenty
of time now," said the good Colonel. "I have all day long at Grey
Friars,--after chapel, you know. Do you know, sir, when I was a boy
I used what they call to tib out and run down to a public-house in
Cistercian Lane--the Red Cowl sir,--and buy rum there? I was a terrible
wild boy, Clivy. You weren't so, sir, thank Heaven! A terrible wild boy,
and my poor father flogged me, though I think it was very hard on me. It
wasn't the pain, you know: it wasn't the pain, but----" Here tears came
into his eyes and he dropped his head on his hand, and the cigar from it
fell on to the floor, burnt almost out, and sca