“I’m sure I don’t know what A.J.  Mortimer could see of a military nature in that tender incident,” said Crayshaw, with great mildness.  “I did not expect, after our long friendship, to have a Latin verse written upon me, and called ‘The Blunderbuss.’”

Crayshaw had grown into a handsome young fellow, and looked old for his years, and manly, though he was short.  He had quite lost his former air of delicate health, and, though sorry to part with the young Mortimers, could not conceal a certain exultation in the thought of leaving school, and returning to his native country.

“Scroggins has been growing faster than ever,” he said, half-enviously.  “Whenever he gets from under my eyes he takes advantage of it to run up.”

Emily remonstrated.  “I don’t like to hear you call Johnnie ‘Scroggins.’”

“Oh, that’s only my poetical way; the old poets frequently did it.  ‘Lines to his Mistress, Eliza Wheeler, under the name of Amaryllis.’  You often see that kind of thing.  In the same way I write to my chum, A.J.  Mortimer, under the name of Scroggins.  ’Scroggins, of vertuous father vertuous son.’  I think it sounds extremely well.”

Valentine was very well pleased the next afternoon to find himself sitting among a posse of young Mortimers and Crayshaw, under the great pear and apple trees, the latter just coming out to join their blossom to that of their more forward neighbours.  It was his nature to laugh and make laugh, and his character to love youth, his own being peculiarly youthful.  His usual frame of mind was repentant and humble, and he was very grateful for the apparent removal of illness.  He was soon to be well, and hope and joy woke up in his heart, and came forth to meet the spring.

John Mortimer and Emily sat near enough, without joining the group, to catch the conversation, when they chose to listen.  John was peculiarly grave and silent, and Emily was touched for the supposed cause.  Valentine was the only relation left who had lived in his presence.  She knew he had almost a brother’s affection and partial preference for him.  She knew that he had doubts and fears as to his health, and she thought of nothing more as the cause of his silence and gravity.

She made some remark as to Valentine’s obvious improvement that morning; in fact, his spirits were lightened, and that alone was enough to refresh him.  Things were making progress also in the direction he wished; his berth was secured, his courier was engaged, and some of his packing was done.

By degrees the mere satisfaction of Emily’s presence made it easier for John Mortimer to accept the consolation of her hope.  He began to think that Valentine might yet do well, and the burnt letters receded into the background of his thoughts.  Why, indeed, unless his cousin died, need he ever allow them to trouble him again?