"There is a slight monotony about your mail, in these latter days,
Carew," he observed dispassionately. And Carew had answered, with
perfect composure,--
"Yes, in view of my chronic trick of being potted at, I find it wise
to keep on good terms with my nurse. It may prove handy in case of
accident, like an insurance policy, you know. Is that all?" And,
cramming the letters into his pocket, he walked away to his tent.
And Weldon, as he watched him, nodded contentedly to himself. He
liked Carew; he also liked Alice Mellen. Beyond that, he made no
effort to go. Just now, he cared to penetrate the thoughts of but
one woman. The others he was willing to take on trust. Nevertheless,
it would have caused him some surprise, could he have reviewed all
the mental processes of Alice Mellen, during the past ten months.
For Weldon, the days at Springfontein differed not one whit, one
from another, yet each day was full of an excitement which sent his
blood stinging through his veins. Every man in the regiment could
ride a broken horse; but, for many of them their attainments stopped
there, and broken horses were few and far between. With the
increasing need of troopers for the guerrilla raiding into which the
war was degenerating, with the inevitable losses of a long campaign,
mounts of any kind were scarce.
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