Let me alone.'
The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was content to drift
away on the easy tide of Death.
'It's no good,' said the Surgeon-Major. 'He doesn't want to live. He's
meeting it, poor child.' And he blew his nose.
Half a mile away the regimental band was playing the overture to
the Sing-song, for the men had been told that Bobby was out of
danger. The clash of the brass and the wail of the horns reached
Bobby's ears.
Is there a single joy or pain,
That I should never kno ow?
You do not love me, 'tis in vain,
Bid me good-bye and go!
An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and he
tried to shake his head.
The Surgeon-Major bent down 'What is it, Bobby?' 'Not that waltz,'
muttered Bobby. 'That's our own our very ownest own. Mummy
dear.'
With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early
next morning.
Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went into
Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow the
white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the
keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in
confusion on the table, and among them a half-finished letter. The
last sentence ran: 'So you see, darling, there is really no fear,
because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you,
nothing can touch me.
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