“For what regiment are you enlisting?” asked Heathcote, coldly, disregarding the other's inquiry.
“Her Majesty's Bays,—could you ask better? But here's my officer.”
Before Heathcote had well heard the words, his name was called out, and a slight, boyish figure threw his arms about him.
“Charley, how glad I am to see you!” cried he.
“Agincourt!—is this you?” said Heathcote, blushing deeply as he spoke.
“Yes, I have had my own way at last; and I'm going to India too.”
“I am not,” said Heathcote, bitterly. “They 'll not have me at the Horse Guards; I am too old, or too something or other for the service, and there's nothing left me but to enter the ranks.”
“Oh, Charley,” cried the other, “if you only knew of the breaking heart you have left behind you!—if you only knew how she loves you!”
Was it that the boyish accents of these few words appealed to Heathcote's heart with all the simple force of truth?—was it that they broke in upon his gloom so unexpectedly,—a slanting sun-ray piercing a dark cloud? But so it is, that he turned away, and drew his hand across his eyes.
“I was off for a day's hunting down in Leicestershire,” said Agincourt. “I sent the nags away yesterday. Come with me, Charley; we shall be back again to-morrow, and you 'll see if my old guardian won't set all straight with the War-Office people for you. Unless,” added he, in a half-whisper, “you choose in the mean while to put your trust in what I shall tell you, and go back again.”