Harry looked. Andrew had a tall hat in his hand. It was gloomily bedecked with weepers of crape, as big almost as those worn by hearse-drivers.
“That’s my Sunday’s hat,” said Andrew; “and I’ve worn it, as you see it, every sabbath since the terrible day when Captain Wayland came here and told us we would never see you more.”
“But I’ll take them off now,” he added, joyfully.
Honest Andrew did so, folded them up, and put them carefully away in a drawer. Then he heaved a big sigh and took another pinch of snuff.
It was very gratifying to Harry’s feelings to find that his little garden and boy’s bungalow, where the swallow that Eily brought him told the story of Africa, had been carefully tended and kept up inside and out.
This was Andrew’s doings.
Harry has had many wanderings since then, both by sea and land, but adventures such as those he came through on the dark continent come but once in a lifetime.
He has been a gallant and good officer.
He has done his duty.
Ah! there is a halo around the head of every one who does his duty, be that duty high or be it humble.