It made no difference that the bread
and the coffee were both black, and the clothes of the veteran
were coarse and seldom new.
"Ho, Peggy!" he used to say to his wife, "my cloak is as fine as
the one the 'Iron Duke' wore when they carried me past him just
as the French were breaking; and as for the bread, only a veteran
knows how the recollection of victory makes everything taste
sweet!"
But it seemed as if the old soldier's life was going to prove
like his share in that great day at Waterloo--success and victory
till the end had nearly come, and then one shot after another
striking him with troubles, he could never get over.
The first came in the midst of the beautiful summer days, when
the bees droned through the delicious air, the rose-bush was in
full bloom, and the old soldier sat in the cottage door reveling
in it all. A slow, merciless fever rose up through the soft
air--it did not venture near the high ground where the castle
stood, but it crept noiselessly into the whitewashed cottage, one
night, and the soldier's two daughters were stricken down. This
was the beginning of terrible trouble to the veteran of Waterloo.
Not that he minded watching, for he was used to standing sentry
all night, and as for nursing, he had seen plenty in the
hospital; but to see his daughters suffering--that was what he
could not bear!
And worst of all, between medicines and necessaries for the sick,
the three months' pension was quite used up, and when the old
soldier's nursing had pulled through the fierceness of the fever,
there was nothing but black bread left in the house--and black
bread was almost the same as no bread at all to the dainty
appetities the fever had left; and that was what he had to think
of, and think of, as he sat in the cottage door.
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