the old soldier gave to his son's wish, in his entire comprehension of
motives so akin to his own nature, there was yet a visible sorrow; it
seemed even as if he constrained himself to the assent he gave. Not
till I had read it again and again could I divine Roland's feelings
while he wrote. At this distance of time I comprehend them well. Had
he sent from his side, into noble warfare, some boy fresh to life, new
to sin, with an enthusiasm pure and single-hearted as his own young
chivalrous ardor, then, with all a soldier's joy, he had yielded a
cheerful tribute to the hosts of England. But here he recognized,
though perhaps dimly, not the frank, military fervor, but the stern
desire of expiation; and in that thought he admitted forebodings that
would have been otherwise rejected, so that at the close of the letter
it seemed, not the fiery, war-seasoned Roland that wrote, but rather
some timid, anxious mother. Warnings and entreaties and cautions not to
be rash, and assurances that the best soldiers were ever the most
prudent,--were these the counsels of the fierce veteran who at the head
of the forlorn hope had mounted the wall at--, his sword between his
teeth?

But whatever his presentiments, Roland had yielded at once to his son's
prayer, hastened to London at the receipt of his letter, obtained a
commission in a regiment now in active service in India; and that
commission was made out in his son's name. The commission, with an
order to join the regiment as soon as possible, accompanied the letter.

And Vivian, pointing to the name addressed to him, said, "Now indeed I
may resume this name, and next to Heaven will I hold it sacred! It
shall guide me to glory in life, or my father shall read it, without
shame, on my tomb!" I see him before me as he stood then,--his form
erect, his dark eyes solemn in their light, a serenity in his smile, a