"Poor Winny Lloyd!"
"Why poor?" asked Phil.
"Well, pretty, then. I saw her just before I left Southampton."
"This goat seems to be the peculiar care of Caradoc," said Gwynne; "he rivals its keeper, little Dicky Roll the drummer, in his anxiety to procure leaves, and buds of spurge, birch, and bird-cherry for it."
Phil Caradoc laughed, and muttered something about being "fond of animals;" but a soft expression was in his handsome brown eyes, and I knew he was thinking of sweet Winifred Lloyd, of his bootless suit, and the pleasant woods of Craigaderyn.
"And you, Charley, were hit, too? Saw your name in the Gazette," said I.
"A ball right through the left fore-arm, clean as a whistle; but it is almost well."
"And now to breakfast. Look sharp, Evans, there's a good fellow! A morning walk from Balaclava to the front gives one an appetite," said I.
"Yes, that one may not often have, like us, the wherewith to satisfy. An appetite is the most troublesome thing one can have in the vicinity of Sebastopol," replied Phil.
A strange-looking group we were when contrasted with our appearance when last we met.