I read all that he had written, and passed over each sheet to the
Major as I finished it.
We saw from his accounts how very seriously he had taken
everything. He wrote about "disgrace which he was unable to bear"--
"indelible shame"--"criminal folly"--"wasted life," and so on;
besides a lot of private things to his Father and Mother too much
too sacred to put into print. The letter to the girl at Home was
the most pitiful of all; and I choked as I read it. The Major made
no attempt to keep dry-eyed. I respected him for that. He read
and rocked himself to and fro, and simply cried like a woman
without caring to hide it. The letters were so dreary and hopeless
and touching. We forgot all about The Boy's follies, and only
thought of the poor Thing on the charpoy and the scrawled sheets in
our hands. It was utterly impossible to let the letters go Home.
They 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 but for: "The Boy
died of cholera.
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