eternally. It is I that was naughty; I always am; but you will forgive
Queen Whims?"

"Who could help it?" said the Major, in a sad, sweet tone. "But here is
the postman. May I open my letters?"

"You may do as you like, now you have forgiven me. Why, what is it, mon
Saint Père?"

A sudden shock of horror had passed over the Major's face, as he read
his letter: but it had soon subsided into stately calm.

"A gallant officer, whom we and all the world knew well, is dead of
cholera, at his post, where a man should die.... And, my dear Miss St.
Just, we are going to the Crimea."

"We?--you?"

"Yes. The expedition will really sail, I find."

"But not you?"

"I shall offer my services. My leave of absence will, in any case, end
on the first of September; and even if it did not, my health is quite
enough restored to enable me to walk up to a cannon's mouth."

"Ah, mon Saint Père, what words are these?"

"The words of an old soldier, Queen Whims, who has been so long at his
trade that he has got to take a strange pleasure in it."