Annette chimed in:  “Anything we can do, anything.  Nothing can be too much.”

Van Diemen was praising little Jane for her devotion to her master.

“Master have been so kind to me,” said little Jane.

“Now, march; it is cold,” Van Diemen gave the word, and Herbert stood by Mary rather dejectedly, foreseeing that his prospects at Elba were darkened.

“Now then, Mart, left leg forward,” Van Diemen linked his arm in his friend’s.

“I must have a look,” Tinman broke from him, and cast a forlorn look of farewell on the last of the house on the beach.

“You’ve got me left to you, old Mart; don’t forget that,” said Van Diemen.

Tinman’s chest fell.  “Yes, yes,” he responded.  He was touched.

“And I told those fellows if they landed you dry they should have—­I’d give them double pay; and I do believe they’ve earned their money.”

“I don’t think I’m very wet, I’m cold,” said Tinman.

“You can’t help being cold, so come along.”

“But, Philip!” Tinman lifted his voice; “I’ve lost everything.  I tried to save a little.  I worked hard, I exposed my life, and all in vain.”

The voice of little Jane was heard.

“What’s the matter with the child?” said Van Diemen.

Annette went up to her quietly.

But little Jane was addressing her master.

“Oh! if you please, I did manage to save something the last thing when the boat was at the window, and if you please, sir, all the bundles is lost, but I saved you a papercutter, and a letter Horse Guards, and here they are, sir.”

The grateful little creature drew the square letter and paper-cutter from her bosom, and held them out to Mr. Tinman.

It was a letter of the imposing size, with the horse guards very distinctly inscribed on it in Tinman’s best round hand, to strike his vindictive spirit as positively intended for transmission, and give him sight of his power to wound if it pleased him; as it might.

“What!” cried he, not clearly comprehending how much her devotion had accomplished for him.

“A letter to the Horse Guards!” cried Van Diemen.

“Here, give it me,” said little Jane’s master, and grasped it nervously.

“What’s in that letter?” Van Diemen asked.  “Let me look at that letter.  Don’t tell me it’s private correspondence.”

“My dear Philip, dear friend, kind thanks; it’s not a letter,” said Tinman.

“Not a letter! why, I read the address, ‘Horse Guards.’  I read it as it passed into your hands.  Now, my man, one look at that letter, or take the consequences.”

“Kind thanks for your assistance, dear Philip, indeed!  Oh! this?  Oh! it’s nothing.”  He tore it in halves.

His face was of the winter sea-colour, with the chalk wash on it.

“Tear again, and I shall know what to think of the contents,” Van Diemen frowned.  “Let me see what you’ve said.  You’ve sworn you would do it, and there it is at last, by miracle; but let me see it and I’ll overlook it, and you shall be my house-mate still.  If not!——­”