Gallipoli, Scutari, Varna, they have borne
away golden opinions, and they are a trophy
by no means to be underrated even in Turkey.
As for their military exploits this is not the
place to speak of them. Enough that we have
ample evidence to show, ten of the enemy
have hitherto fallen for one of the allies.

NORTH AND SOUTH,

BY THE AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.

THE next morning brought Margaret a
letter from Edith. It was affectionate and
inconsequent like the writer. But the affection
was charming to Margaret's own affectionate
nature; and she had grown up with
the inconsequence so she did not perceive it.
It was as follows:—

"Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from
England to see my boy! He is a superb little
fellow, especially in his caps, and most especially
in the one you sent him, you good,
dainty-fingered, persevering little lady!
Having made all the mothers here envious, I
want to show him to somebody new, and hear
a fresh set of admiring expressions; perhaps,
that's all the reason; perhaps it is not,—nay,
possibly, there is just a little cousinly love
mixed with it; but I do want you so much to
come here Margaret! I'm sure it would be the
very best thing for Aunt Hale's health;
everybody here is young and well, and our
skies are always blue, and our sun always
shines, and the band plays deliciously from
morning till night; and, to come back to the
burden of my ditty, my baby always smiles. I
am constantly wanting you to draw him for
me, Margaret. It does not signify what he is
doing; that very thing is prettiest,
gracefulest, best. I think I love him a great deal
better than my husband, who is getting stout,
and grumpy,—what he calls 'busy.' No! he
is not. He has just come in with news of such
a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of the
Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because
he has brought in such a pleasant piece of
news, I retract all I said just now. Did not
somebody burn his hand for having said or
done something he was sorry for? Well, I
can't burn mine, because it would hurt me,
and the scar would be ugly; but I'll retract
all I said as fast as I can. Cosmo is quite as
great a darling as baby, and not a bit stout,
and as un-grumpy as ever husband was; only
sometimes he is very, very busy. I may say
that without love—wifely duty—where was
I?—I had something very particular to say, I
know, once. Oh, it is this—Dearest
Margaret!—you must come and see me—it
would do Aunt Hale good, as I said before.
Get the doctor to order it for her. Tell him
it's the smoke of Milton that does her harm.
I have do doubt it is that, really. Three
months (you must not come for less) of this
delicious climate—all sunshine, and grapes as
common as blackberries, would quite cure
her. I don't ask my uncle "—(Here the letter
became more constrained, and better written;
Mr. Hale was in the corner, like a naughty
child, for having given up his living.)—
"because, I dare say, he disapproves of war,
and soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I
know that many Dissenters are members of
the Peace Society, and I am afraid he would
not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray
say that Cosmo and I will do our best to make
him happy; and I'll hide up Cosmo's red coat
and sword, and make the band play all sorts
of grave, solemn things; or, if they do play
pomps and vanities, it shall be in double slow
time. Dear Margaret, if he would like to
accompany you and Aunt Hale, we will try
and make it pleasant, though I'm rather
afraid of any one who has done something for
conscience sake. You never did I hope. Tell
Aunt Hale not to bring many warm clothes,
though I'm afraid it will be late in the year
before you can come. But you have no idea of
the heat here! I tried to wear my great beauty
Indian shawl at a pic-nic. I kept myself
up with proverbs as long as I could;
' Pride must abide,'—and such wholesome
pieces of pith; but it was of no use. I was
like mamma's little dog Tiny with an
elephant's trappings on; smothered, hidden,
killed with my finery; so I made it into a
capital carpet for us all to sit down upon.
Here's this boy of mine, Margaret,—if you
don't pack up your things as soon as you get
this letter, and come straight off to see him, I
shall think you're descended from King
Herod!"

Margaret did long for a day of Edith's life
—her freedom from care, her cheerful home,
her sunny skies. If a wish could have
transported her she would have gone off; just for
one day. She yearned for the strength which
such a change would give,—even for a few
hours to be in the midst of that bright life,
and to feel young again. Not yet twenty! and
she had had to bear up against such hard
pressure that she felt quite old. That was
her first feeling after reading Edith's letter.
Then she read it again, and, forgetting herself,
was amused at its likeness to Edith's self, and
was laughing merrily over it when Mrs. Hale
came into the drawing-room, leaning on
Dixon's arm. Margaret flew to adjust the
pillows. Her mother seemed more than,
usually feeble.

"What were you laughing at, Margaret?"
asked she, as soon as she had recovered from
the exertion of settling herself on the sofa.

"A letter I have had this morning from
Edith. Shall I read it you, mamma?"

She read it aloud, and for a time it seemed
to interest her mother, who kept wondering
what name Edith had given to her boy, and
suggesting all probable names, and all possible
reasons why each and all of these names
should be given. Into the very midst of these