“As the boy is going up to the house after all, he might as well have taken the telegram,” observed her uncle.
“Oh, but Usk and I always get father’s telegrams and give them to him. Besides, it’s for you.”
“For me? Give it me at once, Phil.”
“Oh, Uncle Cyril, but you must pay the postman!” cried Philippa, in bitter reproach, holding the missive behind her. “Father always does. It’s one kiss for each letter, and two for a paper, and three for a telegram.”
Cyril made the required payment, rather perfunctorily, it must be confessed, and tore open the envelope. His face changed as he read the message, and he crumpled the paper in his hand, and thrust it into his pocket.
“Come, Phil,” he said, “we must go back to the Castle, and tell the ingenuous Teuton to pack up my things.”
“Oh, that means Dietrich!” cried Philippa delightedly. “You do call him such funny names, Uncle Cyril. But is it from the House? Father lets Usk and me have his telegrams to play post-office with when he has done with them, and they always say, ‘Division comes on to-morrow night. Expect you by morning mail.’ Is yours that kind?”
“Not quite,” said Cyril, walking on so fast that the child could scarcely keep pace with him, “but it brings me my marching orders, Phil. I must start for Thracia to-night.”
CHAPTER II.
IN THE PRESENCE OF DEATH.
“Why, Cyril, what’s the matter?” cried Caerleon, as he jumped out of the carriage to find his brother standing on the doorstep, equipped for a journey. Cyril answered by another question.