with his father, the helper of his money-making, the sharer of the
planning out and building of Verner's Pride, the joint resident there
after it was built. The elder son--Captain Verner then--paid one visit
only to England, during which visit he married, and took his wife out
with him when he went back. These long-continued separations, however
much we may feel inclined to gloss over the fact, do play strange havoc
with home affections, wearing them away inch by inch.

The years went on and on. Captain Verner became Colonel Sir Lionel
Verner, and a boy of his had been sent home in due course, and was at
Eton. Old Mr. Verner grew near to death. News went out to India that his
days were numbered, and Sir Lionel Verner was instructed to get leave of
absence, if possible, and start for home without a day's loss, if he
would see his father alive. "If possible," you observe, they put to the
request; for the Sikhs were at that time giving trouble in our Indian
possessions, and Colonel Verner was one of the experienced officers
least likely to be spared.

But there is a mandate that must be obeyed whenever it comes--grim,
imperative death. At the very hour when Mr. Verner was summoning his son
to his death-bed, at the precise time that military authority in India
would have said, if asked, that Colonel Sir Lionel Verner could _not_ be
spared, death had marked out that brave officer for his own especial
prey. He fell in one of the skirmishes that took place near Moultan, and
the two letters--one going to Europe with tidings of his death, the
other going to India with news of his father's illness--crossed each
other on the route.

"Steevy," said old Mr. Verner to his younger son, after giving a passing
lament to Sir Lionel, "I shall leave Verner's Pride to you."