It was wonderful to me to see how rapidly Grace and my mother changed. The terribly anxious look died out of their faces, but in both there was a saddened aspect which grew stronger daily; and it was most marked when they talked of the perils of the past, and my mother offered up a prayer that those she loved might not be called upon again to face the perils of the fight.
Her prayer was heard, for the horrors of war swept farther and farther away. Others had the task of crushing it out, while we remained to garrison Nussoor; and the various civil officers toiled hard to restore order and remove the horrible traces of the war of desperate fights for life.
It was during these days, when I was busy with Haynes—Captain Haynes now—trying to work up the draft of new men—who had come to fill up the gaps made in our troop in action—to something like the form of our old, that we had a surprise in the coming of Major Lacey, still rather weak, but who had made a wonderful recovery. He was full of anecdotes of his narrow escapes during the time he was being nursed back to health by the two faithful dhoby women, and he gave us a terrible account of the surprise that day when Barton was slain—for he was killed—the major saw him fall. But the old officer never referred to the death of his wife, that was too sacred a subject, and we dared not ask.
It was about two months after that awful night, and the cool season had come. My mother had had a few friends to dinner, and I was out on the verandah with the doctor, as he smoked his cigar.
“Humph! so you want to get on active service again, eh?” he said, after a long chat. “Well, after what you went through, I think you might wait for a few years.”
“You misunderstand me,” I said. “I don’t want that kind of active service, but something more to do.”
“It’ll come,” he said; and then he laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” I said.
“At you.”
“Why?”