Fred Denville seemed to revive as soon as he was left alone with his sister; and, looking at her fixedly, he seemed to be struggling to make out whose was the face that bent over him.
“Claire—little sister,” he said at last, with a smile of rest and content. “Clairy—Richard Linnell? Tell me.”
“Oh, Fred, Fred, hush!” she whispered.
“No, no! Tell me. I can see you clearly now. It would make me happier. I’m going, dear. A fine, true-hearted fellow; and he loves you. Don’t let yours be a wrecked life too.”
“Fred! dear Fred!”
“Let it all be cleared up now—you two. You do love him, sis?”
“Fred! dear Fred!” she sobbed; “with all my heart.”
“Ah!” he said softly, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Ask him to come here. No; bring the old man back—and Morton. Don’t cry, my little one; it’s—it’s nothing now, only the long watch ended, and the time for rest.”
In another hour he had fallen asleep as calmly as a weary child—sister, father, and brother at his side; and it seemed but a few hours later to Morton Denville that he was marching behind the bearers with the funeral march ringing in his ears, and the muffled drums awaking echoes in his heart—a heart that throbbed painfully as the farewell volley was fired across the grave.
For Fred Denville’s sin against his officers was forgiven, and Colonel Lascelles was one of the first to follow him to the grave.