"Young Henry met the foe with pride;
Jane followed—fought—ah! hapless story!
In man's attire, by Henry's side,
She died for love, and he for glory."
He was still dressed as a sailor, but the pilot-coat was buttoned up high and tight about his throat, and the round glazed hat was worn upon the front of his head instead of the back of it.
"I thought you meant to change these things, Tom," I said as we sat down.
"All in good time," he answered; "don't quite know yet what costume to adopt. Could one become a negro-melody man, think you, Charley—or a Red Indian juggler with balls and sword-swallowing?"
How light he seemed! how supremely indifferent! Was it real or only assumed? Then he turned suddenly upon me:
"I say, what are you in black for, Charley? For my sins?"
"For Mr. Brightman."
"Mr. Brightman!" he repeated, his tone changing to one of concern. "Is he dead?"
"He died the last week in February. Some weeks ago now. Died quite suddenly."
"Well, well, well!" softly breathed Tom Heriot. "I am very sorry. I did not know it. But how am I likely to know anything of what the past months have brought forth?"