"Isn't it strange? You know I've always wanted to live at an army post—but I'm not engaged yet,"—then Cadet Kindred grew silent, and as soon as possible resigned in favour of Mr. Clinker.
So the hope-gilded days flew on: but with the end of May came a check.
Magnus got back from a long walk, to find two letters on his table. I know it is the correct thing for hero and heroine to "tear open" their letters, but Magnus cut his as carefully as if the very envelope might hold its quota of words.
"Dear Magnus," so the clear handwriting began, "I am afraid—no, I suppose I hope—that you will be very sorry. For I cannot go East with Mrs. Kindred and the girls."
And here, truth compels me to say, Cadet Kindred threw down the letter, and stamped about the room in a small tempest of displeasure.
"What's up?" queried Rig, who had noted the postmark. "Hasn't gone back on you, has she?"
For which harmless suggestion, Magnus promptly tumbled the offender out of his chair, and left him to pick himself up.
"I say! Steady on that, you know," commented Mr. McLean. "Girls are plenty; but where will you find a friend like me?"
"That was a beastly insinuation!" said Magnus in hot wrath.
"Was it? Girls are all alike, old boy." And Rig heaved a sigh.