No wonder Roy was half crazy with delight. To be ordered, when barely eighteen, to the seat of war—to serve in his first campaign under Sir John Moore;—this indeed went beyond the utmost that he had dared to hope for.
"You'll write to me sometimes," pleaded Molly, clinging to him, oblivious of a pair of dreamy eyes fixed wistfully on her face. She had no attention but for Roy; not that she did not like Bob Monke, as she would have said, "quite as much as most people." But Bob had begun to want something more than the liking accorded to most people.
"And oh, Roy, don't be taken prisoner again."
"Trust me for that," laughed Roy.
"But you won't be too reckless." Molly turned to Bob. "You'll look after him, won't you? For me!"
"I'd do anything in the world for you, Molly." Bob's whole heart was in the words.
"I don't mean that you are to put yourself in danger, of course." Molly's soft heart reproached her, for not having shown concern on behalf of Bob as well. "And Roy must take care of you too. Only—"
"Only I'm ages older than Roy. I'll be sure."
"Much more likely I shall have to look after Bob. He's no end of a dreaming genius—most of his time in the clouds," laughed Roy. "Take care of yourself, Molly—and don't let Polly lose heart."
And then they were gone.