up to me for you. Good-bye, dear, I cannot write any more because my
head aches so.--Ever yours,

"Madeline Spenser."


When George Peritt, _alias_ Bottles, had finished reading and re-reading
this letter, he folded it up neatly and put it, after his methodical
fashion, into his pocket. Then he sat and stared at the red camellia
blooms before him, that somehow looked as indistinct and misty as though
they were fifty yards off instead of so many inches.

"It is a great blow," he said to himself. "Poor Madeline! How she must
suffer!"

Presently he rose and walked--rather unsteadily, for he felt much
upset--to his quarters, and, taking a sheet of notepaper, wrote the
following letter to catch the outgoing mail:--


"My dear Madeline,--I have got your letter putting an end to our
engagement. I don't want to dwell on myself when you must have so much
to suffer, but I must say that it has been, and is, a great blow to me.
I have loved you for so many years, ever since we were babies, I think;
it does seem hard to lose you now after all. I thought that when we got
home I might get the adjutancy of a militia regiment, and that we might
have been married. I think we might have managed on five hundred a year,
though perhaps I have no right to expect you to give up comforts and
luxuries to which you are accustomed; but I am afraid that when one is
in love one is apt to be selfish. However, all that is done with now,