saw so little of each other. I was three years and
a half in Burmah; then I was ordered, on temporary
duty, with a battery, to Afghanistan, and, as you
remember, although in the same army, we were in
different divisions, and did not see very much of
each other. During that time my wife remained at
Burmah, where I joined her at the end of the
campaign. A year later she had her first child and a
year afterwards her last, which she died in giving
birth to. Our marriage was a very happy one under
the circumstances, but I question whether it would
have been so had I been stationed at any place where
there were other ladies, and where my poor wife's
deficiencies of education and manners would have been
brought into contrast with them. After her lights—
after the fashion of her people, her education, and her
manners—she made me an excellent wife, and I
don't think we ever had a disagreeable word.
It was only at her death, when I wanted to put my
two babies upon the register of the military fund, I
discovered that, although married to her in the eyes
of God and by a clergyman of her own church, I
was not legally married according to the laws of
Portugal, and therefore was not so according to those
of England. I took the best legal opinion in
England, and every lawyer confirmed this view of the
case. A marriage of any English subject is considered
as lawful as if the Archbishop of Canterbury
had performed it, provided it is lawful in the
country where it is solemnised, but not so otherwise;
and, to my intense sorrow, I discovered that
my two daughters were illegitimate when it was too
late to rectify the error.

"A bachelor home in the hot plains of Hindostan
was no place for young children, and I therefore
determined to consign my two girls to the care of the
French nuns, who have a convent in the Himalaya
Hills. I did so, and for many years only saw them
now and again when I could run up to pay them a
short visit and snatch a mouthful of cool air for
myself. My wife had on her death-bed made me promise
that they should be brought up in her own faith, and
this I promised solemnly should be the case. The lady
superior of the convent never knew that the children
were mine, nor do the girls themselves know
it. When I took them to the convent, I said they
were the orphans of a friend of mine who had died
in very bad circumstances, and that, not being
likely to marry myself, I had adopted his little
ones. I gave them the name of Faber, and to this
day they go by the name of Ann and Mary Faber.
They are two lovely girls— not the least like me,
but the very image of what their poor mother was
when we married, only not so dark. They look
more like Italians or Spaniards, and, unless they
alter very much indeed, will grow up very handsome
women.

"And now, my dear old friend, you know what
my skeleton is, or, rather, you know that I have two
of them; and you can understand why I have
remained out in India so long. Not being legitimate,
my two girls would be destitute when I die, unless I
can manage to save up something to leave them, and I
have fixed the minimum of that 'something' at five
thousand pounds each. If I am spared four years
longer, I shall be able, what between the money I have
saved and the amount I can spare from my pension
towards paying for a life insurance, to leave them
this amount at my death. But not until they are
much older, and are able to understand the difficulties
I was placed in with regard to their poor mother,
will I ever tell them, or tell any one else, that
they are my daughters. You are the only person on
earth that knows my secret, and I rely upon your
honour not to mention it, even to Lady Milson,
although, of all other women on earth, she is the one
for whom I have the greatest esteem. If you will
do this, and take charge of the two girls when they
reach home, you will add a very large item to the
already long list of kind acts for which I am in your
debt. Only remember these girls must not be known
to any single being as my daughters. Their name
is Faber. They believe that their father was an
English merchant in Burmah, that both their parents
are dead, and that I have adopted them.

"What I want you to do for them is as follows:
Immediately after I receive your reply—and I will
gladly pay for a telegram as far as Suez, so as to
anticipate the mail—I will prepare the girls for their
start, and send them to Calcutta, there to embark for
England. But, in any case, it will be some three
or four months after you receive this before they can
reach Southampton. In that time I want you to
look out for some respectable lady with whom they
can be boarded, and who will take charge of their
education, and provide the requisite masters for them
at my expense. In short, I should wish you to
engage a suitable person for them as governess, and
to take a small house somewhere in the western
suburbs of London for her and the girls, where they
can have all the advantages of good masters. I
will send you, by the same mail that takes the girls
home, five hundred pounds; this will serve to outfit
them, on their arrival, with clothes, &c., and to
furnish the house you take for them neatly. After
that, I will remit home four hundred or five
hundred pounds per annum, out of which the salary of
the governess, the rent of the house, the girls'
clothing, and all other expenses ought to be paid. If
you don't think it enough, let me know, and I will
send more. I need hardly remind you that you
should be very particular in the person you select
as governess. The girls can read and write English
well, and have a fair knowledge of history, but they
are utterly ignorant of all that the world calls
accomplishments, and have no more idea of music or
drawing than your old Kitmagar, who, by the way,
comes regularly once a month to ask news about
'Milson Sahib' and the 'Mem Sahib.'

"And now I shall bring this letter to an end. I
have made my confession to you, told you how you
can help me, and shall await your answer with some
impatience, although I am pretty certain that it
will be in the affirmative. There is merely one
thing I find I have omitted to say, which is, that
as, according to the promise I made their mother,
the girls have been brought up as Roman Catholics,
it would be better if you procured the services of a
governess belonging to that church."

This lengthy communication of his old friend,
Sir John Milson found lying on his breakfast-
table one morning about Easter. According to
his wont, he had got down-stairs a few minutes
before his wife. The Calcutta mail had been
delivered that morning, and there were four or
five Indian letters (as well as "The Englishman
Overland Summary"), and one or two for his
wife, for both had many friends who remembered
them in the land of the sun. Colonel
Laber's handwriting at once caught Sir
John's eyes, but he generally left it to the
last, preferring to scan the communications
from others before reading the long, pleasant,
gossiping epistle of his old comrade, which
recalled many bygone events— deeds in the battle
as well as the hunting field; night attacks on