He
certainly meant to kill him."
"What an entirely, hopelessly complete scoundrel!" said McGregor.
"Except," said Rivers, "that he did not want his mother to know how he
died."
"Human wickedness is very incomplete," said the surgeon. "I wonder
whether the devil is as perfectly wicked as we are taught to believe. You
think this fellow, my dear old schoolmaster, was not utterly bad. Now
about wanting his mother not to know--I for my part--"
"Don't, Tom. Leave him this rag of charity to cover a multitude of sins.
Now, I must leave you. See John soon--he is wasted by unending and
dangerous work--with malaria too, and what not; see him soon. He is a
splendid replica of the Colonel with a far better mind. I wish he were at
home."
"And I that another fellow were at home. Good-bye."
McGregor called at John's tent, but learned that at six he had gone on
duty to the trenches.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Late on Christmas morning of this year 1864, Penhallow with no duty on
his hands saw with satisfaction the peacemaking efforts of the winter
weather. A thin drizzle of cold rain froze as it fell on the snow; the
engineers' lines were quiet. There was no infantry drill and the raw
recruits had rest from the never satisfied sergeants, while unmanageable
accumulations of gifts from distant homes were being distributed to
well-pleased men.
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