The August sun had just sunk below the horizon, as Jack Blythe, a passenger by the down train from London to Portsmouth, walked leisurely home to a little cottage situated on Southsea Common. He was a tall, well-built young fellow of five-and-twenty, with a remarkably graceful figure. His hair was pale brown, with the faintest tinge of gold upon it; his eyes were grey and languid in their expression--his general appearance somewhat delicate. And yet Jack Blythe (who had been christened Vernon) was one of the merriest, most manly fellows in existence. The very fact of his proper name having been mysteriously changed to ‘Jack’ was a proof of his being a favourite with his own sex: as for the …
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