For six months I had brain fever. During my illness ten grapeshot were extracted from my body which I had unconsciously received during the battle. When I opened my eyes I met the sweet glance of a Sister of Charity.
“Blanche!” I stammered feebly.
“The same,” she replied.
“You here?”
“Yes, dear; but hush! It’s a long story. You see, dear Terence, your grandfather married my great-aunt’s sister, and your father again married my grandmother’s niece, who, dying without a will, was, according to the French law”—
“But I do not comprehend,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Blanche, with her old sweet smile; “you’ve had brain fever; so go to sleep.”
I understood, however, that Blanche loved me; and I am now, dear reader, Sir Terence Sackville, K. C. B., and Lady Blanche is Lady Sackville.