A figure was in one of the easy chairs by the fire--a figure which seemed familiar there, though the Major could not make out who it was until a well-known voice said,-- "Is that you, Buckley ?" It was the Doctor.

They both welcomed him warmly home, and waited in the gloom for him to speak, but only saw that he had bent down his head over the fire.
"Are you ill, Doctor ?" said Mrs.Buckley.
"Sound in wind and limb, my dear madam, but rather sad at heart.

We have had some very severe black fighting, and we have lost a kind old friend--James Stockbridge." "Is he wounded, then ?" said Mrs.Buckley.
"Dead." "Dead!" "Speared in the side.

Rolled off his horse, and was gone in five minutes." "Oh, poor James!" cried Mrs.Buckley.

"He, of all men! The man who was their champion.