As I gazed in dumb appeal on the face of unresponsive nature, the
sound of nearing wheels sent a pulse of hope through my being;
increasing to rapture as I recognised in the approaching vehicle
the familiar carriage of the old doctor. If ever a god emerged
from a machine, it was when this heaven-sent friend,
recognising us, stopped and jumped out with a cheery hail.
Harold rushed up to him at once. "Have you been there?" he
cried. "Was it a jolly fight? who beat? were there many people
killed?"

The doctor appeared puzzled. I briefly explained the situation.

"I see," said the doctor, looking grave and twisting his face
this way and that. "Well, the fact is, there isn't going to be
any battle to-day. It's been put off, on account of the change
in the weather. You will have due notice of the renewal of
hostilities. And now you'd better jump in and I'll drive you
home. You've been running a fine rig! Why, you might have both
been taken and shot as spies!"

This special danger had never even occurred to us. The thrill of
it accentuated the cosey homelike feeling of the cushions we
nestled into as we rolled homewards. The doctor beguiled the
journey with blood-curdling narratives of personal adventure in
the tented field, he having followed the profession of arms (so
it seemed) in every quarter of the globe. Time, the destroyer of
all things beautiful, subsequently revealed the baselessness
of these legends; but what of that? There are higher things than
truth; and we were almost reconciled, by the time we were dropped