“I dare say a good dinner would do that man’s daughter a world of good; she is ill, and they are very poor:  but then there is no way of sending it.”

“Where do they live?” asked Edward.

“Oh, it is half-an-hour’s walk:  they live close to the beach.”

“I’ll take it,” said he; and added, by way of apology, “I should rather like a walk before dinner.”

A happy gleam passed over Ellen’s face, but she only said,—­

“Thank you, Edward,” and gave him one very bright look, when he left her on her sofa and went to fetch some meat for the sick girl.

It was with feelings of amusement, rather than anything else, that Edward set out on what was probably the first errand of mercy he had ever undertaken.  He had done it merely to please his sister, and could not help laughing at the idea of what some of his brother-officers would say if they could see Crawford of the ——­ Regiment carrying food to a sick girl.  But his conversation with Ellen soon returned to his mind, and the thought struck him, “If my good, unselfish little sister, thinks her time and money have been wasted, what have mine been?  According to her, the sixpence which I have occasionally thrown to a beggar to quiet my conscience was only half charity, because I did not add ‘kind words,’ as she would say.  But I wonder what people would say if I were to inquire after the birth, parentage, and education of every street-sweeper I came across?  No, my vocation is to defend my Queen and country, and not to act the charitable.”  Something whispered, “Cannot you do both?” but Edward would not listen, and soon arrived at his destination.  The door was opened by the sick girl’s mother, who, with her “Bon jour, monsieur!  Entrez, s’il vous plait,” took Edward rather by surprise, and would by no means hear of receiving the gift outside the door.  This was more than he had bargained for; he had come on a message from Ellen, not for a charitable visit on her own account:  but there was no alternative, and go in he must.  The woman spoke a little English; and while she poured forth her gratitude to Miss Crawford, together with a long account of her daughter’s maladies, saying so much in one breath that it became a question whether she would ever breathe again, Captain Crawford looked at the sick girl lying pale and thin by the fire; and when he thought how miserable her lot was compared even with his sister’s, whose sufferings were soothed by all that affection could suggest or that money could buy, his heart—­for he had a heart, and a warm one too—­was touched, and his hand went to the waistcoat pocket where the sixpence had been deposited in the morning.  He was disappointed to find so little there, and wondered whether it was worth giving her.  “If Ellen were here to add some of her ‘kind words,’” he thought, it might do very well; “however, I’ll try.”

Next time Mrs. Tourtel stopped to take breath he went and stood by the poor girl, and said,—­