"Harry," said she, "I shall always think of you and that tune together.

It is called the Revelly, which is a French word." "But the soldier is English ?" said I.
"Oh, I truly trust so--a heart of oak, I should hope! England cannot have too many of them in these days, when a weak woman can scarce lay herself down in her bed at night with the certainty of getting up in the same position in the morning." (They were days when, as I afterwards learnt, Napoleon's troops and flat-bottomed boats were gathered at Boulogne and waiting their opportunity to invade us.

But of this scarcely an echo penetrated to our courtyard, although the streets outside were filled daily with the tramping of troops and rolling of store-wagons.

We knew that our country--whatever that might mean--was at war with France, and we played in our yard a game called "French and English." That was all: and Miss Plinlimmon, good soul, if at times she awoke in the night and shuddered and listened for the yells of Frenchmen in the town, heroically kept her fears to herself.

This was as near as she ever came to imparting them.) "I have often thought of you, Harry," she went on, "as embracing a military career.