waltz," muttered Bobby. "That's our own - our very ownest own . .
Mummy dear."

With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early
next morning.

Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went
into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow
the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the
keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in
confusion on the table, and among them a half-finished letter. The
last sentence ran: "So you see, darling, there is really no fear,
because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you,
nothing can touch me."

Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes
were redder than ever.

Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and listened to a not
unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should
have been tenderly treated.

"Ho! "said Private Conklin. "There's another bloomin' orf'cer da-
ed."

The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes filled with a
smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-gray bedgown was
regarding him with deep disfavour.

"You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky! Orf'cer? - bloomin'