"I am so sorry—so very, very sorry. My poor little May! Did Captain Everard speak of her, of me, before he died?"
"He died instantaneously, Lady Thetford. There was no time."
"Ah, no! poor fellow! It is the fortune of war—but it is very sad."
That was all; we may feel inexpressibly, but we can only utter commonplaces. Lady Thetford was very, very pale, but her pallor told nothing of the dreary pain at her heart.
"Would you not like to see little May? I will send for her."
Little May was sent for, and came. A brilliant little fairy as ever, brightly dressed, with shimmering golden curls, and starry eyes. By her side stood Sir Rupert—the nine-year-old baronet, growing tall very fast, pale and slender still, and looking at the colonel with his mother's dark, deep eyes.
Col. Jocyln held out his hand to the flaxen-haired fairy.
"Come here, little May, and kiss papa's friend. You remember papa, don't you?"
"Yes," said May, sitting on his knee contentedly. "Oh, yes. When is papa coming home? He said in mamma's letter he would fetch me lots and lots of dolls, and picture-books. Is he coming home soon?"
"Not very soon," the colonel said, inexpressibly touched; "but little May will go to papa some day. You are mamma, I suppose?" smiling at Lady Thetford.