Nelly's last moments,—Nelly's death, over
again to me!

Then Georgie came out crying—crying, O!
so bitterly; and in going down from the
door she dropped the flowers that she had
brought in her hand to gladden eyes that
the sight of her would never more gladden
on this earth. Robert picked them up; and,
after watching her a few minutes on her way,
went in again and shut the door. But, in the
afternoon, she returned and went up-stairs to
see what had been her lover. It is good to
look at the cast-off mould of what we love:
it dissevers us so coldly, so effectually from
their dust. It forces us to look elsewhere for
the warm, loving soul that animated it. There
is nothing in that clay that can respond to
us. That which we idolised, exists
elsewhere.

Every day—sometimes at one hour, sometimes
at another—Georgie came to the
opposite house, was admitted by Robert and
visited the relics of her beloved. She seemed
to be more than ever alone; for, even in these
melancholy comings and goings, she was
always unaccompanied. On the sixth day
from Arthur's death, there was a funeral;
and Georgie and Robert were the only
mourners who attended it. Seeing the girl
in her black clothing, white and tearful,
I said, "She did love him, and I hope she
will stay—for his sake—a widow all her
life!"

The Thursday and Saturday morning transits
were now resumed. Georgie looked
graver, loftier, more thoughtful; like a woman
on whom sorrow has lighted, but whom
sorrow cannot destroy. Robert left the
opposite house and sometimes my fancy went
home with the poor, lonely girl, and I wondered
whether she had any friend in the
world who was near to her and dear to her
now.

For upwards of six months I never missed
her with her roll of music twice in the week;
but, at the end of that time, she suddenly
ceased to appear in our quiet street, and I
saw her no more for a long time. I thought
that this romance of mine, like many
others, was to melt away amongst the crowd
of actualities; but, yesterday, behold! there
came upon me its dramatic conclusion.
Georgie and Robert, he strong and handsome
as ever, she fair and lovely, and wearing
garments that had the spotless air of belonging
to a new bride, came like a startling sunbreak
into its gloom. They paused opposite
the house where Arthur died, seemed to
recall him each to the other, and then walked
on silently and more slowly than before; but
before they turned the corner I could see
Georgie smiling up in Robert's face, and
Robert looking down on Georgie with such
a love as never shone in Arthur's cold,
spiritual eyes.

For an instant I had a little regret,—
a little anger against her—but it passed.
Let Georgie live her life, and be happy! Did
I not at the first wish that Robert—and not
Arthur—had been her choice?

A MUTINY IN INDIA.

YEARS ago, a brigade of irregular cavalry
lay at a station not very remote from Poona.
It was composed of three regiments, in which
Mahomedans and Hindoos were mingled, and
was renowned for the very high state of its
discipline. In the war that had not very
long terminated, these troops had repeatedly
distinguished themselves, and by acts of the
utmost gallantry and heroism had won the
highest eulogies from the commander-in-chief
and the rest of the army. The brigadier in
command was a dare-devil old officer named
Daintry, a grim soldier, who loved a tussle,
sword in hand, as dearly as CÅ“ur de Lion
himself, and who, with his long white
moustachios and scarred face, looked superb when
in the saddle. One of the best horsemen and
hog-hunters in India, he performed such wonders
with the boar-spear as are still spoken of
in the hunting-camp, and I have myself seen
him overtake and transfix almost the whole
of a sounder of wild pigs that by some strange
chance had galloped right through our
cantonments. In the day of battle, the
brigadier was as full of fire as his own mettled
charger; his voice rang like a trumpet, and
his troopers followed him with an
unhesitating ardour that nothing could daunt.

But, peace came, and mischief came with it.
Daintry's great misfortune simply was this:
he had been born five hundred years too
late. As a feudal baron, unable to read and
unused to think, most likely spent a dull
spell of rainy weather in yawning about his
castle halls and kicking his unoffending
vassals, so did Daintry fall foul of his vassals as
soon as there were no enemies to be
pommelled. The brigadier had received an old-
fashioned education; that is to say, he wrote
badly, spelt worse, and, as a matter of choice,
read not at all. Indeed, a bookish man was
the brigadier's abhorrence. So, as he was an
abstemious drinker, and could not always be
hunting, he turned martinet and tyrant from
sheer idleness.

He worked the brigade pitilessly. Morning,
noon, and eve, there were inspections,
foot and mounted drills, sword exercises, and
so forth. By night, though the country was
profoundly quiet, patrols were kept in motion,
and the stony roads rang to the clattering
hoofs of the cavalry. Each regiment was
perfect in its evolutions, but the men were
kept day by day grinding at their manœuvres
as if they had been the most awkward squad
of bumpkins alive. Then the uniforms were
altered, the saddle-cloths meddled with, the
soldiers kept hard at work sharpening swords
and pointing spears. Once a-week the sabres
were inspected, and any blade not of razor
keenness was snapped across the brigadier's