The Colonel put aside his house-book, and wiped his pen.
In another minute the door opened, and the servant announced—"Mr. Digby."
The Colonel's face fell, and he staggered back.
The door closed, and Mr. Digby stood in the middle of the room, leaning on the great writing-table for support. The poor soldier looked sicklier and shabbier, and nearer the end of all things in life and fortune, than when Lord L'Estrange had thrust the pocket-book into his hands. But still the servant showed knowledge of the world in calling him gentleman; there was no other word to apply to him.
"Sir," began Colonel Pompley, recovering himself, and with great solemnity, "I did not expect this pleasure."
The poor visitor stared round him dizzily, and sank into a chair, breathing hard. The Colonel looked as a man only looks upon a poor relation, and buttoned up first one trowser-pocket and then the other.
"I thought you were in Canada," said the Colonel at last.
Mr. Digby had now got breath to speak, and he said meekly, "The climate would have killed my child, and it is two years since I returned."
"You ought to have found a very good place in England, to make it worth your while to leave Canada."
"She could not have lived through another winter in Canada—the doctor said so."