off as completely as possible from his usual environment, he left no address at his lodgings, but told his servant that when he wanted his letters he would telegraph for them from the place, whatever it might be, where he was halting.  He kept steadily to his plan, wandering over hill and dale, by lake and river, and steeping his soul in “the cheerful silence of the fells.”  When he lighted on a spot which particularly took his fancy, he would halt there for two or three days, and would send what in those day was called “a telegraphic despatch” from the nearest town.  In response to the despatch he would receive from his servant in Mount Street a package containing all the letters which had been accumulating during the fortnight or three weeks since he last telegraphed.  One day in April, when he opened the customary package, he found in it a letter from Arthur Grey.

“The General has just told us that peace is practically settled.  If this proves true, you will not get another letter from me.  I presume we shall be sent home directly, and I shall make straight for London and Mount Street, where I expect I shall find you.  Dear old chap, I can guess what you have been going through; but it looks as if we should meet again in this world after all.”

What this letter meant to Philip Vaughan they only know who have been through a similar experience; and words are powerless to express it

* * * * *

After the first bewilderment of joy had subsided, Philip began to study the practical bearings of the letter.  By a comparison of the date within and the post-mark outside, the letter appeared to have been a long time on the way, and another delay had occurred since it had arrived at Mount Street.  It was possible that peace might have been actually concluded.  News in those days took long to travel through Scottish glens, and Vaughan had never looked at a paper since he left England.  It was conceivable that the Guards were already on their homeward voyage—­nay, it might even be that they were just arriving, or had arrived, in London.  The one clear point was that Vaughan must get home.  Twenty miles on his landlord’s pony brought him to a telegraph-office, whence he telegraphed to his servant, “Returning immediately,” and then, setting his face southward, he travelled as fast as steamers and express trains would take him.  As he travelled, he picked up the news.  Peace had been concluded on the 30th of March, and some of our troops were homeward bound; some had actually arrived.  The journey seemed unnaturally long, and it was dark when the train rattled into Euston Station....  In a bewildered mood of uncertainty and joy, he rang the bell in Mount Street.  His servant opened the door.  “You’re just in time, sir.  You will find him in the drawing-room.”