expected to be fought against Napoleon somewhere near Leipzig."

"Yes; I heard the guns, mother, and I expect there has been a victory.
I hope not."

"Why do you hope not, Ralph?"

"Why, of course, mother, I don't want the French to be beaten--not
regularly beaten, till I am old enough to have a share in it. Just
fancy what a nuisance it would be if peace was made just as I get my
commission."

"There will be plenty of time for you, Ralph," his mother said
smiling. "Peace has been patched up once or twice, but it never lasts
long; and after fighting for the last twenty years it is hardly
probable that the world is going to grow peaceful all at once. But
there, it is time for you to be off; it only wants ten minutes to nine
and you will have to run fast all the way to be in time."

When Mrs. Conway was alone she took up the letter, and turned it over
several times before opening it.

What could Herbert Penfold have written about after all these years?
Mrs. Conway was but thirty-six years old now, and was still a pretty
woman, and a sudden thought sent a flush of color to her face.
"Never!" she said decidedly. "After the way in which he treated me he
cannot suppose that now--" and then she stopped. "I know I did love
him once, dearly, and it nearly broke my heart; but that was years and
years ago. Well, let us see what he says for himself," and she broke
open the letter. She glanced through it quickly, and then read it