"Miss St. Just does not intrude into the secrets of her sister's married life; and if she did, she would not repeat them."
Major Campbell sighed, and walked on a few moments in silence, then,—
"Pardon, Miss St. Just; I asked a rude question, and I am sorry for it."
"Pardon you, my dear Saint Père?" cried she, almost catching at his hand. "Never! I must either believe you infallible, or hate you eternally. It is I that was naughty; I always am; but you will forgive Queen Whims?"
"Who could help it?" said the Major, in a sad, sweet tone. "But here is the postman. May I open my letters?"
"You may do as you like, now you have forgiven me. Why, what is it, mon
Saint Père?"
A sudden shock of horror had passed over the Major's face, as he read his letter: but it had soon subsided into stately calm.
"A gallant officer, whom we and all the world knew well, is dead of cholera, at his post, where a man should die…. And, my dear Miss St. Just, we are going to the Crimea."
"We?—you?"
"Yes. The expedition will really sail, I find."