“It’s not quite the same,” piped the widow; “but it reminds me very much of an old bottle of attar of roses that was given to me when I was at school, with a copy of verses, by a young gentleman who was brother to one of the pupils.  I remember Mr. Jones was quite annoyed when he found it in an old box, where I am sure I had not touched it for ten years or more; and I never spoke to him but once, on Examination Day (the young gentleman, I mean).  And its like—­yes it’s certainly like a hair-wash Mr. Jones used to use.  I’ve forgotten what it was called, but I know it cost fifteen shillings a bottle; and Macready threw one over a few weeks before his dear papa’s death, and annoyed him extremely.”

Whilst the company were thus engaged, Master MacGreedy took advantage of the general abstraction to secure half-a-dozen crackers to his own share; he retired to a corner with them, where he meant to pick them quietly to pieces by himself.  He wanted the gay paper, and the motto, and the sweetmeats; but he did not like the report of the cracker.  And then what he did want, he wanted all to himself.

“Give us a cracker,” said Master Jim, dreamily.

The dogs, after a few dissatisfied snorts, had dropped from their sitting posture, and were lying close together on the rug, dreaming and uttering short commenting barks and whines at intervals.  The twins were now reposing lazily at the tutor’s feet, and did not feel disposed to exert themselves even so far as to fetch their own bonbons.

“There’s one,” said the tutor, taking a fresh cracker from his pocket.  One end of it was of red and gold paper, the other of transparent green stuff with silver lines.  The boys pulled it.

* * * * *

The report was louder than Jim had expected.  “The firing has begun,” he murmured, involuntarily; “steady, steady!” these last words were to his horse, who seemed to be moving under him, not from fear, but from impatience.  What had been the red and gold paper of the cracker was now the scarlet and gold lace of his own cavalry uniform.  He knocked a speck from his sleeve, and scanned the distant ridge, from which a thin line of smoke floated solemnly away, with keen, impatient eyes.  Were they to stand inactive all the day?

Presently the horse erects his head.  His eyes sparkle—­he pricks his sensitive ears—­his nostrils quiver with a strange delight.  It is the trumpet!  Fan farra!  Fan farra!  The brazen voice speaks—­the horses move—­the plumes wave—­the helmets shine.  On a summer’s day they ride slowly, gracefully, calmly down a slope, to Death or Glory.  Fan farra!  Fan farra!  Fan farra!

* * * * *