Is there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno-ow?
You do not love me, 'tis in vain,
Bid me goodbye and go!
An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and he tried to
shake his head.
The Surgeon-Major bent down--"What is it? Bobby?"--
"Not that 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 dead.
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