Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about the drink, which he only

took, he said, because he was deuced low; but when his friend began to

put to him clumsy inquiries, and asked him for news in a significant

manner, Osborne declined entering into conversation with him, avowing,

however, that he was devilish disturbed and unhappy.

Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in his room at the

barracks--his head on the table, a number of papers about, the young

Captain evidently in a state of great despondency. "She--she's sent me

back some things I gave her--some damned trinkets. Look here!" There

was a little packet directed in the well-known hand to Captain George

Osborne, and some things lying about--a ring, a silver knife he had

bought, as a boy, for her at a fair; a gold chain, and a locket with

hair in it. "It's all over," said he, with a groan of sickening

remorse. "Look, Will, you may read it if you like."

There was a little letter of a few lines, to which he pointed, which

said: My papa has ordered me to return to you these presents, which you made

in happier days to me; and I am to write to you for the last time. I

think, I know you feel as much as I do the blow which has come upon us.

It is I that absolve you from an engagement which is impossible in our

present misery. I am sure you had no share in it, or in the cruel

suspicions of Mr. Osborne, which are the hardest of all our griefs to

bear. Farewell. Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this

and other calamities, and to bless you always. A.

I shall often play upon the piano--your piano. It was like you to send

it.

Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of women and children in pain

always used to melt him. The idea of Amelia broken-hearted and lonely

tore that good-natured soul with anguish. And he broke out into an

emotion, which anybody who likes may consider unmanly. He swore that

Amelia was an angel, to which Osborne said aye with all his heart. He,

too, had been reviewing the history of their lives--and had seen her

from her childhood to her present age, so sweet, so innocent, so

charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and tender.

What a pang it was to lose all that: to have had it and not prized it!

A thousand homely scenes and recollections crowded on him--in which he

always saw her good and beautiful. And for himself, he blushed with

remorse and shame, as the remembrance of his own selfishness and

indifference contrasted with that perfect purity. For a while, glory,

war, everything was forgotten, and the pair of friends talked about her

only.




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