would have broken his father's heart and killed his Mother after killing her belief in her son.
At last the Major dried his eyes openly, and said:—"Nice sort of thing to spring on an English family! What shall we do?"
I said, knowing what the Major had brought me out for:—"The Boy died of cholera. We were with him at the time. We can't commit ourselves to half-measures. Come along."
Then began one of the most grimly comic scenes I have ever taken part in—the concoction of a big, written lie, bolstered with evidence, to soothe The Boy's people at Home. I began the rough draft of the letter, the Major throwing in hints here and there while he gathered up all the stuff that The Boy had written and burnt it in the fire-place. It was a hot, still evening when we began, and the lamp burned very badly. In due course I got the draft to my satisfaction, setting forth how The Boy was the pattern of all virtues, beloved by his regiment, with every promise of a great career before him, and soon; how we had helped him through the sickness—it was no time for little lies you will understand—and how he had died without pain. I choked while I was putting down these things and thinking of the poor people who would read them. Then I laughed at the grotesqueness of the affair, and the laughter mixed itself up with the choke—and the Major said that we both wanted drinks.
I am afraid to say how much whisky we drank before the letter was finished. It had not the least
