Two years’ soldiering had greatly altered George Lechmere.  He had lost the heavy step caused by tramping over ploughed fields, and was a well set-up, alert and smart-looking soldier; and although now in civilian clothes—­for his master had bought him out of the service when he sent in his own papers—­no one could avoid seeing that he had served, for in addition to the military carriage there was the evidence of two deep scars on his face, the handiwork of the mutineers’ sabres on the day when he had stood over his master surrounded by rebel horse.  His complexion was deeply bronzed by the sun, and there was that steady but watchful expression in his eyes that is characteristic of men who have gone through long and dangerous service.

“I shall stay two or three days in town,” Major Mallett said.  “I must get an entire refit before I go down.  You had better come round with me to the tailor’s tomorrow, the first thing after breakfast.  You will want three or four suits, too.”

“Yes, sir.  And besides, they would like to know down there when you are coming home.  They are sure to want to give you a welcome.”

“And you, too, Lechmere.  I am sure that all your old friends will give you as hearty a welcome as they will give me.  Indeed, it ought to be a good deal heartier, for you have been living among them all your life, while I have been away for the most part ever since I was a boy.”

Four days later they went down to Chippenham.  Mr. Norton, the steward, was on the platform when the train came in.

“Welcome home again, sir,” he said warmly, as Frank stepped from the carriage.  “We were all glad, indeed, when we heard that you were back safe, and were coming down among us.”

“I am glad enough to be back again, Norton,” Frank Mallett said; as he shook the man’s hand.  “We had warm work of it for a bit, but at the end, when the excitement was over, one got pretty tired of it.

“This is George Lechmere, Norton,” the Major said, as he went along with the agent to where George was standing with the pile of luggage.  “You have heard how gallantly he behaved, and how he saved my life at the risk of his own.”

“How are you, George?” the agent said, as he shook hands with him.  “I should hardly have known you.  Indeed, I am sure I should not have done so if I had met you in the street.  You seem to have grown taller and altogether different.”

“I have lost flesh a bit, Mr. Norton, and I have learnt to stand upright, and I shall be some time before I get rid of this paint the sun has given me.”

“Yes, you are as brown as a berry, George.  We saw in the gazette about your getting the Victoria Cross in saving the squire’s life.  I can tell you every man on the estate felt proud of you.

“Are you ready to be off, sir?”

“Yes.  I suppose you have got the dog cart outside, as I asked you?”

“Well, no, sir,” the agent said, in a tone of some embarrassment.  “You see the tenants had made up their minds that you ought to come in a different sort of style, and so without asking me about it they ordered an open carriage to be here to meet you.  I knew nothing about it until last night.  The dog cart is here and will take up your luggage.”