And, when the war was over, one in khaki would step in and take the young life into his keeping, and make all the sunshine for it that a boundless love makes possible.
On his far battle-fields Mortimer knew now the little girl's heart was his own. His father had written to him one of his characteristic letters.
'I'm glad to hear, my boy, you're still alive, but it was a fine thing that other fellow Stevenson did for his general. I take pride that my name's the same. But perhaps you'll get a chance yet to do the same thing. I've been looking round, and I think the hill over the way will make the best place for your house, and I daresay two or three thousand a year would keep you going for a time, as she's not flighty and used to fine things, like Luke's wife. It's a pity she can't make soap and such things, but maybe she can learn; she may favour her mother, who seems a sensible body, more than that fool of a father of hers. I'll give the little baggage credit, at all events, for being fond of you. A nice job of it I had with her, when we thought it was you killed instead of that fine fellow Mark Stevenson. She was nearly crazy, because she said you'd never know how she loved you.'
ONE OF HIS FATHER'S CHARACTERISTIC LETTERS.
So Mortimer fought the rest of his battles with a light heart, and many a night, when the veldt slumbered restlessly beneath its covering of white, harmless-looking tents, he lay happily awake, thinking of the green twin hill at home and the bright cottage that was going to crown it.
'But I shall insist that he travels about with you for a year or two before you settle down,' said the mother; 'it will do you both good. And he must bring you for a visit home to us at least every three years.'
The girl went on her way, shyly, sweetly, learning all she might to fit her for the high office of woman and wife.
Miss Browne?
At first Mrs. Cameron had almost obeyed the natural impulse to dismiss her kindly, give her a handsome present of money, and help her to find a comfortable situation. But the vision perpetually haunted her of the poor woman with a strand of dull hair blown loose, and her blouse and skirt not quite meeting, and her face moist with perspiration, toiling in one hot country town after another, getting sparks in her eyes, cooking other peoples' food, dragging fat babies out for a walk, battling helplessly with naughty small boys and girls, and distractedly saying to them, 'My love, my dear.'