CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
A BRUSH NEAR KANDAHAR.
While Raby that night dreamed troublously of the events of the day, a soldier was sitting in his tent near Kandahar, some four thousand or more miles away, reading a letter.

He was an officer; his sword lay beside him on the table, his boots were off, and a flannel coat took the place of the regimental jacket which lay beside his saddle on the floor.
If these signs were not sufficient to prove that for the time being he was off duty, his attitude as he lolled back in his camp-chair, with his feet on the table considerably above the level of his chin, reading his letter by the uncertain light of a lamp, would have left little doubt on the subject.

So engrossed indeed was he that he was unaware of the presence of his native servant in the tent preparing supper, and read aloud to himself.

The envelope of the letter, which lay on the table, was a foreign one with an English stamp, and addressed in a feminine hand.
The soldier, having completed his first perusal, turned back to the beginning, reading partly to himself, partly aloud.
"`October 4'-- three months ago or more!--before she heard of this business.

`You poor dull darling'-- nice names to call one's father, true enough, though, at the time, it was brutally dull at Simla--`I can fancy how you hate loafing about all day with nothing to do but try and keep cool and find a place to sleep in where the flies can't worry you.' Hum! Picture of a soldier's life! A little different from the usual impression, but not very wide of the mark after all." Then he read to himself for a bit something which made his weather- beaten face soften, and brought a sparkle to his eyes.
"Bless the child!" he murmured; "she doesn't forget her old father! `How glad I shall be if you get sent to the front, for I know how you hate doing nothing.