Claire knew what was coming, but she did not speak.
“Fred. I’d half forgotten about him, and he’s in my troop.”
“Did—did Fred speak, Morton?”
“No; he cut me dead, and of course he is James Bell in the regimental books; but, I say, isn’t it awkward? I can’t know him, you see, as my brother: what shall I do?”
“Fred has shown you,” said Claire huskily, as her troubles seemed to be on the increase. “I will try and persuade him to leave the regiment. We must buy him out.”
“Yes, to be sure,” cried the boy. “Oh, I say, what a clever old girl you are, Sis! Why, you’re better than a mother.”
Claire smiled sadly as he kissed her and left the house.
That night she wrote to Private James Bell about the difficulty—a long sisterly letter, offering to get the money to buy his discharge, and alluding to everything as tenderly as the subject would allow.
In due time a crisp short reply came back:
“Dear Claire,