Chatting thus about times past and present, while they watched the soldiers and seamen who passed continuously in and out of the Institute—intent on a game, or some non-intoxicant refreshment, or a lounge, a look at the papers, a confab with a comrade, or a bit of reading—the two invalids enjoyed their rest to the full, and frequently blessed the lady who provided such a retreat, as well as her warm-hearted assistants, who, for the love of Christ and human souls, had devoted themselves to carry on the work in that far-off land.
“I often think—” said Hardy.
But what he thought was never revealed; for at that moment two ladies in deep mourning approached, whom the sergeant recognised at a glance as Mrs Drew and her daughter Marion. The faces of both were pale and sorrowful; but the beauty of the younger was rather enhanced than otherwise by this, and by contrast with her sombre garments.
They both recognised the sergeant at once, and, hastening forward, so as to prevent his rising, greeted him with the kindly warmth of old friends.
“It seems such a long time since we met,” said the elder lady, “but we have never forgotten you or the comrades with whom we used to have such pleasant talks in the troop-ship.”
“Sure am I, madam,” said the sergeant, “that they have never forgotten you and your kind—kind—”
“Yes, my husband was very kind to you all,” said the widow, observing the delicacy of feeling which stopped the soldier’s utterance; “he was kind to every one. But we have heard some rumours that have made me and my daughter very sad. Is it true that a great many men of your regiment were killed and wounded at the battle fought by General McNeill?”
“Quite true, madam,” answered the sergeant, glancing at the daughter with some surprise; for Marion was gazing at him with an intensely anxious look and parted lips. “But, thank God, many were spared!”
“And—and—how are the two fine-looking young men that were so fond of each other—like twins almost—”
“Sure, didn’t I tell ye, misthress, that they was both ki—”