Polly looked sadly at her brother.
"I have not writ to him lately, Jack. I cannot tell how to write. What shall I do? I have none but you to advise me. And if he should no longer care—if he should by now have forgot me?"
"He is not that sort. Trust him, Polly."
"It is so long—five years and more. And no letter from him of later date than the summer of 1806! Jack, sometimes I wonder—why does he not ask me to go out to him there. If he asked me I would go. And sure, if he indeed wished it, he might send me some little word—by some private hand—"
Jack was silent, thinking.
"And there is that French girl, whom Roy is so fond of—always with them, as one of themselves."
"But trust him still, Polly dear," urged Jack. "I cannot know, neither can you, how things are yet a while; only I do truly believe that Den is no man to change, nor to be fickle in his likings. Whether you write or do not write, trust him still!"
[CHAPTER XXXI]
ORDERED TO SPAIN
A FEW hours later Roy came in, wild with joy, bringing a brother-Ensign and great friend, Robert Monke, first cousin to Jack and Polly. Monke was two or three years older than Roy, but he looked two years less. He was a slight lad, fair-haired, blue-eyed, dreamy in expression. Bitche had made Roy older than his years; and Bob Monke was younger than his.