I read all that he had written, and passed over each sheet to the Major as I
finished it.
We saw from his accounts how very seriously he had taken everything. He wrote
about "disgrace which he was unable to bear"--"indelible shame"--"criminal
folly"--"wasted life," and so on; besides a lot of private things to his
Father and Mother too much too sacred to put into print. The letter to the
girl at Home was the most pitiful of all; and I choked as I read it. The Major
made no attempt to keep dry-eyed. I respected him for that. He read and rocked
himself to and fro, and simply cried like a woman without caring to hide it.
The letters were so dreary and hopeless and touching. We forgot all about The
Boy's follies, and only thought of the poor Thing on the charpoy and the
scrawled sheets in our hands. It was utterly impossible to let the letters go
Home.
They would have broken his Father's heart and killed his Mother after killing
her belief in her son.
At last the Major dried his eyes openly, and said: "Nice sort of thing to
spring on an English family! What shall we do?"
I said, knowing what the Major had brought me but for: "The Boy died of
cholera. We were with him at the time. We can't commit ourselves to half-
measures.
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