John was smoking a cigar whose odor Jane liked, and her head leaned against his shoulder, and now and then they said a low, loving word, and now and then he kissed her.
"John," she said finally, "I had a letter from Aunt Harlow today.

She is in trouble." "I am sorry for it." "Her only child has been killed in a skirmish with the Afghans--killed in a lonely pass of the mountains and buried there.

It happened a little while since and his comrades had forgotten where his grave was.

The man who slew him, pointed it out.

He had been buried in his uniform, and my uncle received his ring and purse and a scarf-pin he bought for a parting present the day he sailed for India." "I do not recollect.