more. The cold weather in India would certainly be the most delicious thing in the world-except young love-if we were permitted to do what we like in it. But with the cold weather, to the military man, come eternal parades and eternal practice; and always at the very times, which he particularly wants to set aside for his own recreations, he is called out to drill or to be drilled-to work instead of to play-to prepare for inspections, field-days, reviews, and a host of other military nuisances. As for Peregrine Pultuney, he made the best of it, and so indeed did Julian Jenks, though he was just as loud as ever in his execrations of the "confounded hole," into which it had pleased Providence to throw him. When he wanted to play at cricket, and was obliged, as he was most evenings in the week, to be playing at siege-battery instead, and throwing about a heavier species of projectiles than Mr. Duke's inimitable cricket-balls, until it was so dark that the fuzes in the shells looked like stars going the circuit, then Dum-Dum was a "confounded hole." When he wished to be out with the Calcutta Hounds, and was obliged to be out with the field-battery bullocks, hunting for colds on a foggy morning in the wet grass, then Dum-Dum was a "confounded hole." When he wanted to go into Calcutta, to join a pic-nic to the Botanical Gardens, and was obliged to go to the Expense Magazine, to weigh out powder and prepare cartridges, instead of drinking champaign and

flirting al fresco, then Dum-Dum was a confounded hole;"-and yet, in spite of these little nuisances, and there were many more ejusdem generis, Julian Jenks, as well as Peregrine Pultuney, was happy, nay happier than the days were long, for they are not very long in the cold weather, and all the happier, because there was something for him to grumble at, and a place to be called "a confounded hole."

But the cold weather passed away, as it always does, a great deal too soon to be pleasant; and then came March-warm certainly-and April, May, June, grilling with their usual accompaniments of prickly-heat, mangoes, mangoe-fish, and clean linen. Throughout these months no one ever does more than exist, and few contrive to do quite as much, with the mercury in the thermometer standing at fever-heat, and the blood in one's veins a few degrees higher. All this is bad enough in reality, with plenty of money to purchase what the rising generation very classically call thermantedotes— plenty of punkah-pullers and tatty-wetters, and that prime luxury ice; but a subaltern on a hundred and fifty rupees a month, knows little or nothing of such deliciœ as these, and has to get through the hot weather as best he can, by exuding plentifully, drinking cold tea, smoking cheroots, and swearing.

Then came the rains, of which Peregrine Pultuney had already had a slight foretaste-Dum-Dum was under water, and fevers became popular, and a

dry pair of shoes or boots an unknown luxury in Bengal. Julian Jenks got a slight attack of fever, and Peregrine Pultuney nursed him; and the green damps stood on the walls of " Stangy Hall,” as they do in a vault or a charnel-house.

But even the wet months, disagreeable as they were, passed away rapidly enough; and Peregrine, who had not been deterred by the heat, was still less deterred by the rain, from paying an occasional visit to Chowringhee; and when the cold weather came round again, as come it did, and come it will, if we only wait patiently for it, his expeditions became so frequent, that Julian Jenks began to complain, that he might just as well not have a chum at all, for that he seldom saw any thing of his, except at coffee time and on guard-days. Julia Poggleton, we need not say, was still a spinster; and people began to hint that she would remain so. Whether she loved Peregrine Pulțuney we cannot state just at present, but a circumstance occurred which we shall keep for our next chapter that elicited the fatal truth, even before Peregrine expected it, and gave a colour to his whole future life. What this circumstance was, our readers will learn by following us to the third book of our history.

CHAPTER XVII.

In which Peregrine discovers that a Soldier cannot always do precisely what he pleases.

"PLEASANT this, certainly," remarked Peregrine Pultuney, as he threw a chit upon the table in a manner, which to an intelligent observer would have suggested a very considerable doubt of the sincerity with which the words were spoken.

The young gentleman who had thus given vent to his feelings, was sitting one March morning, just after he had finished his breakfast, with a cup of cold tea before him, a cheroot in his mouth, and a history of the Mahratta war in his hand. Peregrine had almost given up smoking, which is the same thing as to say that he was very deeply in love-but we have already said this so often, that it would be of little use to say it again, and we only mention the fact of his indulging on the present occasion, that our readers may be quite sure that on the day we are now referring to, Peregrine Pultuney had not the least intention of going into

Calcutta.

Our hero every now and then spent a whole day at Dum-Dum, but in order to reward himself for his self-denial, he always took care to receive a pretty lengthy chit (note), perhaps two, from Julia Poggleton on these fast days.

Let not our readers think, however, that the chit, which Peregrine Pultuney threw down upon the table, with an ironical remark upon the pleasantries it contained, was written by Julia Poggleton. It came from a very different quarter, and contained intelligence of that which the poor girl would have given all she possessed to avert.

Julia Jenks was lying upon a toon-wood couch, with one leg thrown over the back of it, and the other dangling to the ground, in the full enjoyment of an excellent Manilla and Mr. Hook's last novel. He had just been abusing Peregrine for having become such desperately bad company of late, and had been declaring that he was heartily tired of living with such an unsociable creature, as the lovesick young gentleman had become. Not, however, that Peregrine had become unsociable, nor that Julian Jenks thought so in the least, but that the latter was much in want of something to grumble at, and was moreover seldom so happy as when laughing at Peregrine's tender passion, and talking about the "fair Julia."

"Pleasant this, certainly," remarked Peregrine Pultuney; "very pleasant indeed."