Old Friends in New Aspects.  
On the evening of the third day after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, Sergeant Hardy sat in an easy-chair on the verandah of the Soldiers’ Institute at Alexandria, in the enjoyment of a refreshing breeze, which, after ruffling the blue waters of the Mediterranean, came like a cool hand on a hot brow, to bless for a short time the land of Egypt.
 
Like one of Aladdin’s palaces the Institute had sprung up—not exactly in a night, but in a marvellously short space of time. There was more of interest about it, too, than about the Aladdin buildings; for whereas the latter were evolved magically out of that mysterious and undefinable region termed Nowhere, the Miss Robinson edifice came direct from smoky, romantic London, without the advantage of supernatural assistance.
 
When Miss Robinson’s soldier friends were leaving for the seat of war in Egypt, some of them had said to her, “Three thousand miles from home are three thousand good reasons why you should think of us!” The “Soldiers’ Friend” took these words to heart—also to God. She did think of them, and she persuaded other friends to think of them, to such good purpose that she soon found herself in possession of funds sufficient to begin the work.
 
As we have seen, her energetic servant and fellow-worker, Mr Thomas Tufnell, was sent out to Egypt to select a site for the building. The old iron and wood Oratory at Brompton was bought, and sent out at Government expense—a fact which speaks volumes for the Government opinion of the value of Miss Robinson’s work among soldiers.
 
In putting up the old Oratory, Tufnell had transformed it to an extent that might almost have made Aladdin’s Slave of the Lamp jealous. Certainly, those who were wont to “orate” in the building when it stood in Brompton would have failed to recognise the edifice as it arose in Egypt on the Boulevard Ramleh, between the Grand Square of Alexandria and the sea.
 
The nave of the old Oratory had been converted into a room, ninety-nine feet long, with couches and tables running down both sides, a billiard-table in the centre, writing materials in abundance, and pictures on the walls. At one end of the room stood a pianoforte, couches, and easy-chairs, and a door opened into a garden facing the sea. Over the door were arranged several flags, and above these, in large letters, the appropriate words, “In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners.” At the other end was a temperance refreshment bar. On a verandah facing the sea men could repose on easy-chairs and smoke their pipes or cigars, while contemplating the peculiarities of an Eastern climate.
 
It was here that our friend Sergeant Hardy was enjoying that blessed state of convalescence which may be described as gazing straight forward and thinking of nothing!
 
Of course there were all the other appliances of a well-equipped Institute—such as sleeping-cabins, manager’s room, Bible-class room, lavatory, and all the rest of it, while a handsome new stone building close beside it contained sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, club-room for officers, kitchens, and, by no means least, though last, a large lecture-hall.
 
But to these and many other things we must not devote too much space, for old friends in new aspects claim our attention. Only, in passing from such details, it may not be out of place to say that it has been remarked that the sight of Miss Robinson’s buildings, steadily rising from the midst of acres of ruins, while men’s minds were agitated by the bombardment and its results, produced a sense of security which had a most beneficial and quietening effect on the town! Indeed, one officer of high rank went so far as to say that the Institute scheme had given the inhabitants more confidence in the intentions of England than anything yet done or promised by Government!
 
In a rocking-chair beside the sergeant reclined a shadow in loose—remarkably loose—fitting soldier’s costume.
 
“What a blessed place to sit in and rest after the toils and sufferings of war,” said Hardy, to the shadow, “and how thankful I am to God for bringing me here!”
 
“It’s a hivenly place intirely,” responded the shadow, “an’ ’tis mesilf as is thankful too—what’s left o’ me anyhow, an’ that’s not much. Sure I’ve had some quare thoughts in me mind since I come here. Wan o’ them was—what is the smallest amount o’ skin an’ bone that’s capable of howldin’ a thankful spirit?”
 
“I never studied algebra, Flynn, so it’s of no use puttin’ the question to me,” said Hardy; “besides, I’m not well enough yet to tackle difficult questions, but I’m real glad to see you, my boy, though there is so little of you to see.”
 
“That’s it, sarjint; that’s just where it lies,” returned Flynn, in a slow, weak voice. “I’ve bin occupied wi’ that question too—namely, how thin may a man git widout losin’ the power to howld up his clo’es?”
 
“You needn’t be uneasy on that score,” said Hardy, casting an amused glance at his companion, “for there’s plenty o’ flesh left yet to keep ye goin’ till you get to old Ireland. It rejoices my heart to see you beside me, thin though you are, for the report up country was that you had died on the way to Suez.”
 
“Bad luck to their reports! That’s always the way of it. I do think the best way to take reports is to belaive the exact opposite o’ what’s towld ye, an’ so ye’ll come nearest the truth. It’s thrue I had a close shave. Wan day I felt a sort o’ light-hiddedness—as if I was a kind o’ livin’ balloon—and was floatin’ away, whin the doctor came an’ looked at me.
 
“‘He’s gone,’ says he.
 
“‘That’s a lie!’ says I, with more truth than purliteness, maybe.
 
“An’ would ye belave it?—I began to mind from that hour! It was the doctor saved me widout intindin’ to—good luck to him! Anyhow he kep’ me from slippin’ my cable that time, but it was the good nursin’ as brought me back—my blissin’ on the dear ladies as give their hearts to this work all for love! By the way,” continued Flynn, coughing and looking very stern, for he was ashamed of a tear or two which would rise and almost overflow in spite of his efforts to restrain them—but then, you see, he was very weak! “By the way,” he said, “you’ll niver guess who wan o’ the nurses is. Who d’ee think?—guess!”
 
“I never could guess right, Flynn.”
 
“Try.”
 
“Well, little Mrs Armstrong.”
 
“Nonsense, man! Why, she’s nursin’ her old father in England, I s’pose.”
 
“Miss Robinson, then?”
 
“H’m! You might as well say the Prime Minister. How d’ee s’pose the Portsmuth Institute could git along widout her? No, it’s our friend Mrs Drew!”
 
“What! The wife o’ the reverend gentleman as came out with us in the troop-ship?”
 
“That same—though she’s no longer the wife of the riverend gintleman, for he’s dead—good man,” said Flynn, in a sad voice.
 
“I’m grieved to hear that, for he was a good man. And the pretty daughter, what of her?”
 
“That’s more nor I can tell ye, boy. Sometimes her mother brings her to the hospital to let her see how they manage, but I fancy she thinks her too young yet to go in for sitch work by hersilf. Anyhow I’ve seen her only now an’ then; but the poor widdy comes rig’lar—though I do belave she does it widout pay. The husband died of a flyer caught in the hospital a good while since. They say that lots o’ young fellows are afther the daughter, for though the Drews are as poor as church rats, she’s got such a swate purty face, and such innocent ways wid her, that I’d try for her mesilf av it wasn’t that I’ve swore niver to forsake me owld grandmother.”
 
Chatting thus about times past and present, while they watched the soldiers and seamen who passed continuously in and out of the Institute—intent on a game, or some non-intoxicant refreshment, or a lounge, a look at the papers, a confab with a comrade, or a bit of reading—the two invalids enjoyed their rest to the full, and frequently blessed the lady who provided such a retreat, as well as her warm-hearted assistants, who, for the love of Christ and human souls, had devoted themselves to carry on the work in that far-off land.
 
“I often think—” said Hardy.
 
But what he thought was never revealed; for at that moment two ladies in deep mourning approached, whom the sergeant recognised at a glance as Mrs Drew and her daughter Marion. The faces of both were pale and sorrowful; but the beauty of the younger was rather enhanced............