George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice – how many times Amelia scarcely knew. At last George came for Rebecca’s shawl and flowers. She was going away. She did not even come back and say good-bye to Amelia. The poor girl let her husband come and go without saying a word, and her head fell on her breast.

“William,” she said, suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, “you’ve always been very kind to me – I’m – I’m not well. Take me home.” He went away with her quickly.

George led Becky to the coach and passed her a bouquet of flowers in which there lay a letter. In this letter Amelia’s faithful husband asked Becky to elope with him and search for a new life. Osborne, wild with elation, went off to a play-table, and began to bet frantically.

“Come out, George,” said Dobbin, still gravely; “don’t drink.”

“Drink! there’s nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up your lantern jaws, old boy. Here’s to you.”

Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at which George walked away speedily on his friend’s arm. “The enemy has passed the Sambre,” William said, “and our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in three hours.”

George thought over his brief married life. How wild and reckless he had been! How unworthy he was of her. He sat down to write a letter to his father. George came in and looked at her again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could see her sweet, pale face. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender, and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with crime! God bless her! God bless her! He came to the bedside, and bent over the pillow noiselessly towards the gentle pale face.

Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped down. “I am awake, George,” the poor child said, with a sob fit to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She was awake, poor soul, and to what? At that moment a bugle from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken up through the town; and amidst the drums of the infantry, and the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.

Thus all the superior officers being summoned on duty elsewhere, Jos Sedley was left in command of the little colony at Brussels.

The following days were the grave ones. Only Rebecca had the heart to proceed with her affairs of flirting with Jos and searching for new sources of income. Darkness came down on the field and city: and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.

The news which that famous Gazette brought to the Osbornes gave a dreadful shock to the family and its chief. The girls indulged unrestrained in their grief. The gloom-stricken old father was full of sorrow. Sometimes a shuddering terror struck him, as if he had been the author of the doom which he had called down on his son. There was a chance before of reconciliation. The boy’s wife might have died; or he might have come back and said, Father I have sinned. But there was no hope now. And it is hard to say which pang it was that tore the proud father’s heart most keenly – that his son should have gone out of the reach of his forgiveness, or that the apology which his own pride expected should have escaped him.

About three weeks after the 18th of June, Mr. Osborne’s acquaintance, Sir William Dobbin, called at Mr. Osborne’s house in Russell Square, with a very pale and agitated face, and insisted upon seeing that gentleman. He took out a letter sealed with a large red seal. “My son, Major Dobbin,” the Alderman said, with some hesitation, “dispatched me a letter by an officer. My son’s letter contains one for you, Osborne.” The Alderman placed the letter on the table, and Osborne stared at him for a moment or two in silence.