’And is not that long enough, and too long, to shut me up, you cruel old woman?  Come, come, Sally, girl, I’m resolved, and to the ball I’ll go; don’t be frightened.  I’ll cover my head, and send in for Aunt Becky, and only just peep in, muffled up, for ten minutes; and I’ll go and come in the chair, and what harm can I take by it?’

Was it spirit?  Did she want to show the folk that she did not shrink from meeting somebody; or that, though really ill, she ventured to peep in, through sheer liking for the scrape of the fiddle, and the fun, to show them that at least she was not heart-sick?  Or was it the mysterious attraction, the wish to see him once more, just through her hood, far away, with an unseen side glance, and to build endless speculations, and weave the filmy web of hope, for who knows how long, out of these airy tints, a strange, sad smile, or deep, wild glance, just seen and fixed for ever in memory?  She had given him up in words, but her heart had not given him up.  Poor little Lily!  She hoped all that was so bad in him would one day mend.  He was a hero still—­and, oh! she hoped, would be true to her.  So Lily’s love, she scarce knew how, lived on this hope—­the wildest of all wild hopes—­waiting on the reformation of a rake.

’But, darling Miss Lily, don’t you know the poor master would break his heart if he thought you could do such a wild thing as to go out again ‘the doctors’ orders, at this time o’ night, and into that hot place, and out again among the cold draughts.’

Little Lily paused.

‘’Tis only a step, Sally; do you honestly think it would vex him?’

’Vex him, darling? no, but break his heart.  Why, he’s never done asking about you, and—­oh! its only joking you are, my darling, that’s all.’

‘No, Sally, dear love, I meant it,’ said little Lily, sadly; ’but I suppose it was a wild thought, and I’m better at home.’

And she played a march that had somehow a dash of the pathetic in it, in a sort of reverie, and she said: 

‘Sally, do you know that?’

And Sally’s gentle face grew reflective, and she said: 

’Sure, Miss Lily, that’s the tune—­isn’t it—­the Artillery plays when they march out to the park?’

Lily nodded and smiled, and the tune moved on, conjuring up its pictured reverie.  Those review days were grand things when little Lily was a child—­magnanimous expenditure of hair and gunpowder was there.  There sat General Chattesworth, behind his guns, which were now blazing away like fun, wearing his full uniform, point cravat and ruffles, and that dignified and somewhat stern aspect which he put on with the rest of his review-day costume, bestriding his cream-coloured charger, Bombardier, and his plume and powdered ails de pigeon, hardly distinguishable from the smoke which enveloped him, as a cloud does a demigod in an allegorical picture.