THE SECOND MRS. TILLOTSON,

BY THE AUTHOR OF "NEVER FORGOTTEN."

BOOK III.

CHAPTER XI. "THE POOR, FOOLISH LITTLE THING."

THREE weeks more went by. The captain was
still a steady correspondent. They had dined
with Sir Thomas Rumbold, those "tip-top"
people, and the mayor, " now as like Alderman
Harty of Cirencester, as one private ever was to
another," had asked them all to a grand ball. "To
which," said the captain, " I hope we shall not
go. I do indeed. The fact is, our little woman
has been going out a little too much, and the
doctor came to me the other day to say it would
be as well she did not.

"Poor child! It would be hard to disappoint
her, for her little heart is set upon it. And do
you know, Tillotson, I think she is rather led
by the travelling gentleman we picked up on the
road. Nothing can be more civil and obliging,
and he is always with us, and most attentive.
So I think if you were to write her a little
lecture, you know, and tell her she must keep
herself close, and take care of herself, and not
go to parties, it would do a vast deal of good."

Mr. Tillotson smiled as he read this, and he
did sit down and write a kind, gentle expostulation
in the terms the captain proposed, warning
her against the harsh winter, and begging of her
to give up those proposed balls and parties.
"Of course," he said, as he sealed it, " she will
think I have some aim or view in this matter.
But it is a duty, nevertheless."

A fortnight passed away again. The mayor,
who was so like " Alderman Harty of Cirencester,"
had given his ball, and it had been long since
forgotten, being more than a week old.
Others had been given; for, as is well known,
none are so " gay " as invalids, and Consumption
went round in the valse with Pleurisy. Some
even went from the supper-room to the grave.
For deaths are very sudden; and there are
apparent recoveries and wonderful healthy bloom
on the cheeks, all the while life is kept in but
by a thin airy net growing finer and finer every
hour, and which suddenly bursts at a second's
notice. Still the survivors dance on, and say
that Nice is a wonderfully " restoring " place,
and that they are mending every day and
getting quite strong.

Again came the familiar handwriting of the
captain. But it was in a more constrained and
laborious style. The sense of boyish and
unbounded enjoyment had perhaps begun to wear
off. The old officer was sighing for the good
English life to which he had been accustomed.
It might do very well for a time, perhaps.
He seemed to hesitate and be embarrassed as
he wrote:

"The fellow-traveller is not as well as we could
wish. But she is full of spirits. The fact is,
my dear Tillotson, we had to go to that ball; the
mayor himself came the very day itself to ask us,
and one couldn't well refuse, you know. It was a
very rough night, and the ice an inch thick upon
the ground, and our poor little girl they made
her go, and when we were going away I went
to get the carriage, leaving her at the door with
our travelling friend, and only a thin rag of a
cloak about her. I couldn't find the carriage—
you know what an old Bolshero I am to send
out on such a chase—and when we got home she
was shivering like an aspen-leaf. I declare to
God I could cut my own right hand off, Tillotson.
I am such a stupid blundering old fogie
that ought to be put up in an hospital.  It was
all my fault from beginning to end, and that
stupid old mayor, who forced her out; for when
she got your letter, I do think she had given it
all up. The doctor says it will be nothing in
the end,  and that we must shut her up in a month
or two. Which, between you and me and the
post, I am not sorry for, as it will do her good.
Our travelling friend calls every day, but I am
rather stiff and dry to him, as I think it was a
good deal his doing. Now, my dear fellow, do
you think you could manage to get rid of the
business for a time, and just take a race over
here?  It would set us all right, and put us on
our legs again. Try, now.

"Don't be in the least alarmed, it is only her
cough is a little strong, and keeps her awake at
nights a little.  For Doctor Delorney, or
Delahorney—it sounds like that—is a wonderful
man, and I do think could make a barking dog sleep."

Again came another letter from the captain:
"The fellow-traveller is much better, my dear
Tillotson; and, do you know, I think you must
set me down as little less than an old woman,