“He ought to be my brother, and not my cousin,” said Raby, “I feel so jealous on his account.”
“He is fortunate—may I say so?—in his cousin. Here is Mr Rimbolt.”
Mr Rimbolt had papers in his hand, and looked rather anxious.
Raby, with a daughter’s instinct, rushed to him.
“Uncle, have you news from the war? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing wrong,” said her uncle reassuringly; “I brought you this paper to see. It reports that there has been an encounter with the Afghans near Kandahar, with complete success on the British side and comparatively trifling loss. Particulars are expected almost immediately. I telegraphed to town to get the earliest possible details. Meanwhile, Raby, don’t alarm yourself unduly.”
“I won’t, uncle; but where exactly was the battle?”
“You will see the names mentioned in the telegram. Jeffreys can show you the exact spot in the atlas; we were looking at it the other evening.”
Jeffreys thankfully accepted the task. He and Raby spent an hour over the map, talking of the absent soldier, and trying, the one to conceal, the other to allay, the anxiety which the incomplete telegram had aroused.
At the end of the hour Scarfe walked into the library. His face darkened as he saw the two who sat there.