himself under Dr. Cliffe’s orders like a wonderful lamb.  When she came back, she hoped that her two sick men would be restored to health and able to look more favourably upon her projected dinner party.  Marigold also brought into my bedroom a precious old Waterford claret jug which I had loved and secretly coveted for twenty years, with a card attached bearing the inscription “With love from Anthony.”  That was his dumb, British way of informing me that he was taking my advice.

When my self-respect would allow me no longer to remain in bed, I got up; but I still shrank from publishing the news of my recovery, in which reluctance I met with the hearty encouragement both of Cliffe and Marigold.  The doctor then informed me that my attack of illness had been very much more serious than I realised, and that unless I made up my mind to lead the most unruffled of cabbage-like existences, he would not answer for what might befall me.  If he could have his way, he would carry me off and put me into solitary confinement for a couple of months on a sunny island, where I should hold no communication with the outside world.  Marigold heard this announcement with smug satisfaction.  Nothing would please him more than to play gaoler over me.

At last, one morning, I said to him:  “I’m not going to submit to tyranny any longer.  I resume my normal life.  I’m at home to anybody who calls.  I’m at home to the devil himself.”

“Very good, sir,” said Marigold.

An hour or two afterwards the door was thrown open and there stood on the threshold the most amazing apparition that ever sought admittance into a gentleman’s library; an apparition, however, very familiar during these days to English eyes.  From the shapeless Tam-o’-Shanter to the huge boots it was caked in mud.  Over a filthy sheepskin were slung all kinds of paraphernalia, covered with dirty canvas which made it look a thing of mighty bulges among which a rifle was poked away.  It wore a kilt covered by a khaki apron.  It also had a dirty and unshaven face.  A muddy warrior fresh from the trenches, of course.  But what was he doing here?

“I see, sir, you don’t recognise me,” he said with a smile.

“Good Lord!” I cried, with a start, “it’s Randall.”

“Yes, sir.  May I come in?”

“Come in?  What infernal nonsense are you talking?” I held out my hand, and, after greeting him, made him sit down.

“Now,” said I, “what the deuce are you doing in that kit?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking myself for the last ten months.  Anyhow I shan’t wear it much longer.”

“How’s that?”

“Commission, sir,” he answered.

“Oh!” said I.

His entrance had been so abrupt and unexpected that I hardly knew as yet what to make of him.  Speculation as to his doings had led me to imagine him engaged in some elegant fancy occupation on the fringe of the army, if indeed he were serving his country so creditably.  I found it hard to reconcile my conception of Master Randall Holmes with this businesslike Tommy who called me “Sir” every minute.