any thing else, as they resembled in their sound something between the gibber of an ape and the laugh of an idiotic child.

At length the poor sufferer sunk into a feeble drowse, and Julian Jenks continued sitting by the bedside of the patient, bathing his forehead with the contents of an eau-de-cologne bottle which he Saw laying on the pillow. "And this," thought Julian, whose wonted animal spirits, which no misfortune of his own could suppress, had subsided into a state of complete dejection; "and this is what we come to India for-a month or two and the work is done the destroyer fastens upon his victim and a week of suffering closes the scene. Poor Appleby! poor Appleby!-how little I thought to see you thus."

It was not merely the sickness-the suffering of his friend, or the prospect of death, near as it seemed, that so completely overcame Julian Jenks in this melancholy hour. Sickness and suffering he had seen, and to death itself he was not quite a stranger; but he had never seen sickness and suffering with so little to alleviate their miseries, as he now saw in that wretched barrack-room. To him they had always been as hideous pictures set in very handsome frames; but here was all hideous-unredeemedly hideous-the setting as well as the pic

tures.

How utterly unlike a sick-room in Englandhow different the condition of that poor boy, from what it would have been at home under the same

pressure of sickness and suffering-the nicely papered room, the cheerful carpet, the white-curtained bed, and all so clean, so neat, with woman stamped on its every arrangement-the little jar of flowers by the bed-side-the physic-bottles, and all other things that might disgust, so carefully removed out of sight-the pastile-burner on the chimneypiece-the clean towels on the horse-and countless other things indicative of female kindliness and care; but more than all-far more than all-the ministering presence of the mother or the sister— comforting, aiding, sweetening the bitter draught, and shedding plentiful sunshine around her. Ah! yes-the demon of disease is Janus-faced-and how different the two aspects-how different this from poor Appleby's comfortless barrack-room-an uncarpeted, unmatted floor-a stifling atmospherea dirty apartment-heaps of blood-stained linen in the corners-dirty physic glasses on the table, and lastly, a native hireling drowsily pulling a punkah, and only waiting for a favourable opportunity to slink away altogether.

But poor Appleby, his sleep was not long-lasting -he woke with a start,-stared around him, seemed suddenly to recognise the reality of his situation, sat up for a minute in his bed, and then sunk back, in utter exhaustion, faintly articulating, "Jenks."

In a little while the poor fellow gained, or seemed to gain an accession of strength-he expressed himself delighted to see Julian, asked a variety of ques

tions, declared that he felt much better, that he should soon be well, and be able to drink beer again, asked particularly after Peregrine Pultuney, and begged Julian to send him a note instantly, asking him to come to the barracks as soon as he possibly could.

"Poor fellow!" thought Julian Jenks, "it may be your last request, and shall I not comply with

it ?"

There was an open writing-desk on the table, Julian sat down, penned the note, addressed to Mr. Poggleton's, and sent it off by his syces, almost fearing that before his friend could arrive, the soul of the sufferer would have passed from his body.

CHAPTER VI.

Illustrative of the Lights and Shadows of Indian Life.

IN our penultimate chapter, we left Peregrine Pultuney starting off in a great hurry from Mrs. Parkinson's drawing-room, to embrace his old aunt on the staircase; and the chances are that long before the incidents contained in the last chapter had been brought to a close, this feat had been most effectually accomplished, so that we might almost be warranted in passing it over altogether and in bringing Peregrine Pultuney, without further delay, to the sick-chamber of poor little Appleby; but as our hero's respectable aunt is intended to cut no mean figure in these pages, we think that we are bound to introduce the reader to her with all proper formality and decorum.

Slowly walking up the broad staircase, with a white feather punkah in full use, Peregrine beheld, from the landing-place, a little, vapoury woman, about eight-and-thirty years of age. She was very slight and transparent-looking indeed, with a sort

of light straw-coloured complexion, thin lips, white teeth, and a pair of large, sleepy, languishing eyes. Perhaps, she had once been a beauty, but she had lived twenty years in Bengal, and now looked precisely as though she had actually done what Hamlet desired to accomplish in his own person, and thawed and dissolved herself into a dew.

She was dressed in a white muslin robe, most elaborately worked all over, with a large deep tippet of the same manufacture, descending even lower than her waist; over this was thrown an etherial-looking light-blue scarf, which gave a more spiritual aspect to the transparent tenuity of her figure; and might have rendered the tout-ensemble something like what we may conceive of an elderly angel, if it had not been that angels are not supposed to wear caps, and Mrs. Poggleton wore one of a somewhat fantastic description, with a great quantity of very deep lace about it, and a forest of cerulean ribbons, disposed after the most tasteful fashion that can be imagined, like so many patches of blue sky in the midst of a number of light feathery clouds.

At the very first sight of this fragile-looking creature, Peregrine Pultuney moderated his ardour, and abandoned all thoughts of the warm embrace he had contemplated, lest he might happen to murder his aunt at the first intoduction, by breaking her into particles in his arms. He had spoken of her before hand, as his "respectable aunt;" and