As it drew
near, I saw that it was filled with luggage--a naval officer's, I knew it
to be. As the sailors hauled it up, I noticed that the initials upon the
portmanteaus were G. R. The owner was evidently an officer going home on
leave, or invalided. It did not, however, concern me, as I thought, and I
turned away to look for Mr. Treherne, that I might fulfil my promise to
escort his daughter and Mrs. Callendar to the general cemetery at Aden;
for I knew he was not fit to do the journey, and there was nothing to
prevent my going.
A few hours later I stood with Miss Treherne and Mrs. Callendar in the
graveyard beside the fortress-wall, placing wreaths of artificial flowers
and one or two natural roses--a chance purchase from a shop at the
port--on the grave of the young journalist. Miss Treherne had brought
some sketching materials, and both of us (for, as has been suggested, I
had a slight gift for drawing) made sketches of the burial-place. Having
done this, we moved away to other parts of the cemetery, looking at the
tombstones, many of which told sad tales enough of those who died far
away from home and friends.
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