by the wayside, never to resume their toilsome journey; dead, as to any sentient life that was in it, and yet alive,—­the form that had been Lieutenant Richard Doubledick, with whose praises England rang, was conveyed to Brussels.  There it was tenderly laid down in hospital; and there it lay, week after week, through the long bright summer days, until the harvest, spared by war, had ripened and was gathered in.

Over and over again the sun rose and set upon the crowded city; over and over again the moonlight nights were quiet on the plains of Waterloo:  and all that time was a blank to what had been Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.  Rejoicing troops marched into Brussels, and marched out; brothers and fathers, sisters, mothers, and wives, came thronging thither, drew their lots of joy or agony, and departed; so many times a day the bells rang; so many times the shadows of the great buildings changed; so many lights sprang up at dusk; so many feet passed here and there upon the pavements; so many hours of sleep and cooler air of night succeeded:  indifferent to all, a marble face lay on a bed, like the face of a recumbent statue on the tomb of Lieutenant Richard Doubledick.

Slowly labouring, at last, through a long heavy dream of confused time and place, presenting faint glimpses of army surgeons whom he knew, and of faces that had been familiar to his youth,—­dearest and kindest among them, Mary Marshall’s, with a solicitude upon it more like reality than anything he could discern,—­Lieutenant Richard Doubledick came back to life.  To the beautiful life of a calm autumn evening sunset, to the peaceful life of a fresh quiet room with a large window standing open; a balcony beyond, in which were moving leaves and sweet-smelling flowers; beyond, again, the clear sky, with the sun full in his sight, pouring its golden radiance on his bed.

It was so tranquil and so lovely that he thought he had passed into another world.  And he said in a faint voice, “Taunton, are you near me?”

A face bent over him.  Not his, his mother’s.

“I came to nurse you.  We have nursed you many weeks.  You were moved here long ago.  Do you remember nothing?”

“Nothing.”

The lady kissed his cheek, and held his hand, soothing him.

“Where is the regiment?  What has happened?  Let me call you mother.  What has happened, mother?”

“A great victory, dear.  The war is over, and the regiment was the bravest in the field.”

His eyes kindled, his lips trembled, he sobbed, and the tears ran down his face.  He was very weak, too weak to move his hand.

“Was it dark just now?” he asked presently.

“No.”

“It was only dark to me?  Something passed away, like a black shadow.  But as it went, and the sun—­O the blessed sun, how beautiful it is!—­touched my face, I thought I saw a light white cloud pass out at the door.  Was there nothing that went out?”