HER OWN PEOPLE

By Mrs. B. M. CROKER

Author of
"Diana Barrington," "Beyond the Pale,"
"Peggy of the Bartons," "Terence,"
"The Catspaw," etc.

London:
Hurst and Blackett, Limited
Paternoster House, E.C.

DEDICATION. TO
EDITH M. VINCENT,
WITH THE AUTHOR'S LOVE

"God pardon me and give me rest."

HER OWN PEOPLE

CHAPTER I

"Oh yes! I know what it is to be hard up myself! I'm hard up now!—but I'll help you in another way. You must marry, Malcolm, my boy! Leave it to me, and I'll find you a rich wife!"

In making the foregoing boastful promise, Sir Horace Haig raised a naturally harsh voice, and all but shouted his officious announcement. The empty air seemed to echo the words, "rich wife"—"rich wife," their regular measured tread to repeat, "rich wife"—"rich wife," as the two men, uncle and nephew, hurried down a by-street in Homburg.

There was good reason for haste, a neighbouring clock was chiming the hour, and already they were unfashionably late for the morning ceremonies at the Elisabeth Brunnen.

"But——" began the prospective Benedict, in a doubtful tone.

"My grandfather used to say," interrupted his uncle, in a loud authoritative key, "that a man should marry young, and marry often. He had four wives!"

"And you, sir, have not had one!" rejoined his companion, with unexpected audacity.

"Oh—ah—well, yes—that is true—but the fact is, I had an unhappy love affair—(a fiction invented on the spot)—a—a—blighted life—a blighted life!!—it is a—a painful subject."

Here Sir Horace suddenly turned into a narrow footpath, where, as it was necessary to walk in single file, awkward questions were evaded, or postponed.

The subject of "a blighted life" was a spruce, straight-backed gentleman of sixty, with a large hooked nose, and two keen little blue eyes, sheltered by a pair of beetling brows; he dressed in a careful middle-aged style, and wore his clothes, and his years, with ease.

Sir Horace was the seventh Baronet—a resolute old bachelor, who enjoyed a comfortable income, and was on the committee of the Bellona Club. He claimed an immense acquaintance, and was fairly popular, being recognised as a fine judge of a vintage, or a cook, and one of the best bridge players in London. It is painful to add that he was incredibly selfish, and never expended a shilling on any more deserving object than Horace Haig, Baronet, and yet, in a hearty jovial fashion, he contrived to extract an astonishing amount of hospitality and favours, from other people!

Such an individual was naturally the last man in the world to trouble himself respecting his relations—and above all, his poor relations. Nevertheless, on the present occasion he was accompanied by his nephew and heir. Indeed it was in answer to his uncle's warm invitation (but not at his expense) that Captain Haig was visiting Homburg before rejoining his regiment in India.

Malcolm Haig was a well-set-up young officer, with a pair of merry blue eyes, and a touch of sunshine in his closely cropped locks. Sir Horace introduced, with an air of bland complacency, a kinsman who did him credit, made no demands on his patience, nor yet upon his pocket. All the same, he had excellent reason to know that Malcolm was "hard up." His private means were nominal, and he was about to conclude a year's leave in England—a year's leave is often an expensive luxury. Under such circumstances his banker's account would be uncomfortably low—in fact, Malcolm had said as much. Sir Horace was disposed to exert his social influence, and endeavour to do the poor young fellow a good turn. He was handsome and well born; if his purse was lean, he had an adventurous spirit and a susceptible heart.

As uncle and nephew followed the winding path which led to the far-famed Elisabeth Well, the latter was struck by the exceptional beauty of their surroundings, the admirably-kept greensward, the shady trees and flowering shrubs, on which the early dew was still glistening.

There was a delicious perfume of roses in the air, and the inspiriting sound of a string band in the near distance.

"I say," began the young man, now walking beside his companion, "I had no idea that Homburg was like this—half park, half garden, and so pretty."

"Hadn't you!" rejoined his uncle gruffly; "well, I suppose it is! This is my twenty-seventh season—I've got over my first raptures by this time."

"I don't believe I could ever come back to the same place twenty-seven times."

"Think it argues a lack of originality? It would depend on its attractions. You don't want to go back to Perapore twenty-seven times, eh?"

"By Jove, no—nor twice!" he answered, with emphasis.

"But here it is different, my boy. It is good for one's liver, it is gay, and, as you remark, pretty. There is any amount of entertaining; dinners and luncheons; there is golf and tennis. I meet the people I know—or want to know. In short, Homburg has become an agreeable habit, which there is no occasion to relinquish. And here we are!" he announced, as they emerged from a shady walk into a wide and crowded promenade.

At one end of this promenade was the celebrated well, at present closely invested by a number of votaries, who were sipping their first glass, or waiting to be served by the active, blue-gowned maidens.

Here were young and old, society folk and nobodies, a Russian Grand Duke stood elbow to elbow with a Scotch grocer, and the Countess of Marmalade was patiently waiting till Cora Sans Souci was served.

As soon as Sir Horace had swallowed his glass (he took it warm), and having vainly urged his nephew to pledge him in another, he carried him off to stroll up and down, between the bandstand and the jewellers' shops. As they sauntered along he saluted almost every second person, and indicated the chief notabilities to his relation.

"Here comes the Duke of Luxembourg," and he swept off his hat, "getting very shaky on his pins, poor old boy. This man passing now with the lady in the Ascot frock is De Jeers, the great Jew financier. She is Lady Merrythought, and getting all she can out of him, I'll lay long odds. The pale girl in the white linen gown is the notorious 'Sauta'—the Spanish dancer. She stabbed a man with a hat pin the other day. This couple comparing prescriptions are the Bishop of Timbucktoo and Dooley, the steeplechase jock. The lady with the herd of Borzois is the Duchess of Valetta, and the little woman with the brown poodle is Madame Cuzco; that poodle is a European celebrity, and has his own manservant and barber. Now let us go and sit on one of the seats and watch the madding crowd."

"All right," assented his nephew, "they certainly are a wonderfully-mixed lot! Look at these two swarthy giantesses—regular six-footers—a most formidable couple!"

"Oh, the Misses Rookes—twins. They go by the name of the 'Powerful' and the 'Terrible'!"

Captain Haig laughed aloud.

"Yes," resumed his mentor, "and this little dressy woman, with tremendous knee action, who prances alongside of the rosy-cheeked youth, is Mrs. Waller, with her third husband. They are known as 'the Skipper and the Boy'!"

"Splendid!" ejaculated the other.

"And that red-faced man yonder is Turnbull, the great traveller. He is called 'the Crimson Rambler!' Rather good, eh?"

"Rather—but who are these coming now?—this girl and the squat old woman—walking in a sort of crowd, with a dog?"

"Oh, that is Madame de Godez—Madame de Gaudy they call her—a fabulously wealthy widow. She always reminds me of a toad, with her dark, mottled face, bright black eyes, and huge chinless mouth. Madame is a personage here, as you may see. Gives wonderful dinners and picnics, subscribes to everything, and is quite in the smart set!"

"Great Scotland!" ejaculated his listener, "why, she looks for all the world like an old Portuguese half-caste!"

"She is Portuguese, I believe; of blue, not black, blood."

"And the girl?—she is a jewel, if the other is a toad. The princess and the witch. What do they call her here?"

"Miss Chandos. She is Madame's adopted daughter, and lives with old de Godez—goes everywhere, and has a good time."

"What do you call a good time?" questioned Captain Haig as his eyes followed the de Godez group.

"She has everything money can purchase, each wish forestalled, boundless admiration, forty-guinea frocks, and as many proposals of marriage as there are days in the week."

"Oh, I say, come!" expostulated his nephew.

"Well, I know for a fact that she refused Dormer Lisle and Tubby Coote, and, they say, Lord Caraway. Observe that young officer in the Frankfort Dragoons rushing on his fate, and the dark, foreign-looking chap leading the dog is Prince Tossati, an Italian prince, long pedigree, lean purse!"

Captain Haig stared intently at the group, which had halted to greet some friends within a few yards of his seat—at the stout old woman, who had no chin or neck to speak of, but a shrewd, piercing eye—a bargaining eye—and a far-reaching, authoritative voice. She was dressed with great magnificence, in a crimson and black foulard, and in her ears blazed two large diamonds. There was something tragic in the intensity of the effort and the insufficiency of the result; for all her pains Madame de Godez was merely an ugly old woman who waddled like a duck. During her progress she talked incessantly in a high falsetto—chiefly to a man who strolled beside her—listening with an air of reverent attention, his head bent, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. It would be difficult to imagine a more complete contrast than that presented by Madame de Godez and her niece. Miss Chandos was a tall and graceful demoiselle, who moved with deliberate, indolent gait; her flowing white gown was studiously plain; she wore no ornaments, and few would have cast a second glance at her large black hat. It was a certain air of personal distinction which arrested attention, for if her toilet was simple, her carriage was regal. Her head was firmly set upon a long white throat, and the face beneath the shady hat was unquestionably beautiful. The girl's complexion indicated the morn and dew of youth; her features were cut with the precision of a cameo; her eyes and hair were dark, and both were glorious.

The young lady's manner was considerably more animated than her movements. She talked and laughed gaily and uninterruptedly, with a slim, sallow cavalier (obviously her bondslave) who conducted Madame's morose-looking pet by a long leather strap.

This animal was an elderly terrier, who did not appreciate these early promenades where he was restrained from speaking to his own species—and was secretly dosed with nasty waters. He loathed the foreign food, foreign manners, foreign tongue—he never met an English pal, or enjoyed a day's good English sport. Oh, where were the rabbits, the cats, the friends and the enemies of his youth? He was an ill-used, expatriated animal, as surly and injured as any other old gentleman compelled to reside on the Continent against his inclination. Madame de Godez invariably addressed the poor creature as "Dog Darling," for she was passionately attached to him, despite his churlish humours; but he remained his own dog, and nobody's darling, as he was half-dragged, half-led, in the train of a triumphal progress.

Captain Haig's eyes dwelt long on this particular group, and his uncle, noting the fact, made a sudden and startling remark.

"Malcolm, my boy, that girl would be the very wife for you!" and when he had enunciated this opinion, he coughed, and gave his neat washing tie an emphatic twitch.

"Wife for me, sir?" repeated his relative, "but I'm not looking for one!"

"No! well it is never too late to mend—and fully time you were making a search. Handsome heiresses won't fall into your mouth, and nothing but an heiress will suit. I may live till I'm ninety, you know—and, anyway, I'm a poor man. Don't wait till you are a stiff, stocky old fellow, for, if you do, you may wait. But now, when you are a smart-looking chap, and I can give you a shove, is your time. There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to a fortune."

"I don't think a lady with a fortune would care to swelter in India," remarked his companion, "and I could not bring myself to live at home on my wife's money."

"Hut-tut-tut!" exclaimed Sir Horace, and his eyebrows assumed an expression which invariably struck terror to the hearts of club waiters. "That sort of talk is bosh! It's of no consequence which has the coin, so long as it's there—and I could show you a dozen men who live quite happily with wealthy wives—and haven't a rap of their own!"

There was a silence for two or three moments, broken only by the buzz of voices and the strains of the "Valse Bleu." At last the younger man spoke.

"What sort of a girl is this Miss Chandos?"

"The sort of girl you see. A beautiful creature who carries herself superbly, knows how to talk, and to walk, and to put on her clothes. As far as I'm aware, she neither gambles, swears, smokes nor drinks!"

"Good Lord, I should hope not!" ejaculated his nephew.

"But, mind you" (here Sir Horace's tone changed into a graver key), "she is perfectly sensible of her own value—though affable and gracious to all. Perhaps a little supercilious to her foreign slaves—especially the Italian—she has a horror of dusky complexions and black blood which amounts to a craze."

"Then what about the aunt?" inquired Captain Haig, with rather malicious significance.

"My dear boy, I've already assured you that Madame is of sang azur—an old Alcantara family. She married a Scotchman who made a fortune in indigo. The girl has been brought up in England, and polished abroad. I believe she is twenty-two years of age. From personal experience I am in a position to inform you that she can keep her temper, hold her tongue, write a fine hand, and add up a bridge account."

"Oh, well, that is something."

"The old woman has given her a superior education, and lavished money on her, and now takes her everywhere, for the pure pleasure of the reflected glory she enjoys as aunt of the celebrated Miss Chandos! The girl is her hobby. Instead of cats, china, or old furniture, her craze is Verona, and she carries her about, and exhibits her, like a prize animal, enters her for all the big shows, such as this—and when her property comes in an easy first, looks on with a grin extending from ear to ear, and for all I know, meeting under her wig!"

Here Sir Horace paused, and struck his cane forcibly on the gravel as he added:

"Miss Chandos is the beauty here this year; all the world is at her feet."

"And what does she say to all the world?"

"Nothing particular. Takes it as a matter of course—though she is not a bit conceited, to give her her due—smiles and laughs, as you see, and turns to conquests new."

"Such as the chap in the blue coat! Are the poor devils never out of uniform?"

"Never, except at tennis, and then they change before leaving the pavilion. Miss Chandos would be a splendid match for some needy baron or princelet. She will come in for fifteen thousand a year, and the money is all there—I happen to know it for a fact."

"Fifteen thousand a year—and beauty—will never stoop to a poor captain in the line!"

"Why not!" argued Sir Horace, "a good-looking chap, a future baronet, with a pedigree that goes back to the Picts, is not to be despised!"

"He will be despised, all the same," muttered his nephew, in a tone of sombre conviction.

"And I tell you, you can't do better, Malcolm. I'll present you; it's an intimate sort of life—we all meet three or four times daily; golf and picnics are easily arranged. Then there is the Casino Terrace of a night, and romantic and sequestered walks hard by. In a week you should be able to report progress. The game lies to your hand!"

"I assure you, sir, I really could not face it; it's too cold-blooded! too bare-faced—and there is something unnatural in sitting here, on a bench before breakfast, coolly discussing a possible marriage with a girl to whom I've never even spoken!"

"A marriage discussed before breakfast is far more likely to be a success than one arranged after dinner!" responded Sir Horace, with knitted brows. "I'm afraid you are a fool! What have you against it?"

"Nothing. I admit that Miss Chandos is the prettiest girl I've seen for ages. I admire her immensely. Now if she had but a few hundreds a year——"

"She would not do at all," interrupted his uncle impatiently. "Well! the gods cannot help a man who refuses opportunity. Why should you not try your luck?"

"What's the good—it will only be adding to her scalps."

"Nothing venture, nothing have," declared Sir Horace, rising as he spoke. "Come, we must be moving—it is long past the time for my second glass."

Captain Haig got upon his legs with some reluctance, gave himself a little shake, stamped down his trousers, and in another moment was walking away in the footsteps of his mentor.

CHAPTER II

Sir Horace, followed by his nephew, made his way briskly to the well, and having cast one searching glance among the crowd, immediately descended the steps, where in a few moments, he and Captain Haig found themselves wedged in closest proximity to Madame de Godez. On nearer inspection, she really proved to be one of the ugliest old women in Homburg, in spite of her costly clothes, elaborate black wig, and brilliant earrings: but it was a shrewd—nay, a clever face; and the countenance expressed not only determination, but animation. Madame instantly accosted her neighbour in a sort of bleating foreign key, each syllable most distinctly articulated.

"Oh ho, my friend! so here you are! Just get my glass filled, will you? it is my own propertee," and as she spoke Madame handed Sir Horace a gorgeous red and gold tumbler. "This ees your nephew, ees it not?" and she looked up at Malcolm, with an eager twinkling gaze, and nodded her head with an air of affable encouragement.

"Good Lord!" he said to himself, "why the old woman talks the purest Chi-Chi!"

Meanwhile the old woman was inspecting him with her quick black eyes, and as he swept off his Homburg hat, and stood momentarily bare-headed, she was aware of his shining locks, deep blue eyes and winning smile (oh, the hypocrite!). Here was a young man, with the face of the hero in a picture-book. Between two sips of water she remarked:

"Your nephew is not one beet like you, Sir Horace. He is quite nice-looking."

"Oh, but, dear lady, you should have seen me at his age," protested the Baronet, with a ludicrous effort to look languishing, but the beetling brows frustrated the attempt.

"Now do not pretend that you were handsome," she retorted, giving him a playful poke, "for I will nott believe eet."

"How cruel of you, madame," he rejoined, as he took her tumbler and held it, whilst he gazed down into her swarthy, wrinkled face with an air of melancholy reproach, "when I am prepared to believe anything you tell me, and to swear that you were the belle of—was it Lisbon?"

"Verona," screeched the quondam beauty, ignoring Sir Horace and his tender question—"where is Dog Darling? Do take care that he is not trampled on."

"He is all right, auntie," replied her niece, "I left him with the Prince."

"Ah," with a gasp of relief, "then thatt is arl-right. This is Sir Horace's nephew, Verona—my niece, Miss Chandos."

The young lady looked at Malcolm gravely, and inclined her head an inch or two. Unlike her aunt, her appearance challenged the most critical inspection, and bore, triumphantly, the ordeal of a searching gaze. The shape of her face was perfect, her beautiful dark eyes were merry and intelligent, but the short upper lip was slightly—slightly—supercilious.

"A frightful crowd, is it not?" she observed.

"Yes, and getting worse every moment," declared Sir Horace, taking the remark entirely to himself; "allow me to pilot you out of it," and to the amusement and admiration of his companion, he proceeded to manœuvre madame and her niece far away from their own party. Giving the former his arm up the steps, he said:

"Malcolm, I will leave you to look after Miss Chandos."

"Who is very well able to take care of herself, thank you," she answered. Then, turning to Malcolm as they strolled along in the wake of their elders, she continued:

"Have you come to do the cure?"

"Well, no, I'm merely an outsider—a spectator," he confessed, "but I suppose I must drink something to give me the run of the place. Something to talk about, and to establish a common interest with other people."

"Very well, then," she rejoined with equal gravity, "between seven and eight o'clock, you take three glasses of the Elisabeth Brunnen—with a promenade of fifteen minutes between each. This, with a salt bath at eleven, and a couple of tumblers of the Staal Brunnen at three o'clock, will instantly place you on a proper footing in society. Now"—and she came to a standstill—"where is that dog?"

"Are you his keeper?" he asked in a bantering tone.

"Not exactly; I left him in charge of Prince Allessandro when we went down to the well."

"Proud animal!" ejaculated Captain Haig, "it is not every terrier who has a Prince for dog boy!"

"Dog boy," she echoed, "what do you mean?"

"It is an Indian term. All Europe dogs there keep their servant body to look after them, and accompany them out walking."

"Oh, I see, and the Prince is doing dog boy for me. Well, he is quite devoted to Dog Darling. You were going to say something?" and she looked at her companion interrogatively.

"I was," he admitted, with a laugh, "but second thoughts are best."

"But I should like to hear your first thought. I insist on your telling me; it is sure to be far more entertaining than its successor."

"Oh, well, I was merely going to quote an old saw!"

"Yes?"

"Love me, love my dog!"

"A decrepit saying, and entirely out of fashion. Love me, and loathe my dog, is far more up to date, especially since these lap dogs are the rage. Then why not hate me, and love my dog! There are one or two people—whose dogs I adore. Oh, dear me! just look at auntie! who cannot be trusted out of my sight. She is eating peaches. That is Sir Horace's doing! He has offered them to her, and she cannot resist, although she is strictly forbidden to touch raw fruit!"

"Would you imply that my respectable uncle is playing the part of the serpent?"

"No, but auntie is here for the cure, in order to get thin, and she won't give herself a chance. She promises and vows all manner of things to her doctor, and breaks her word as soon as she is out of his sight. She sits up late, she eats creams and rich dishes, takes no exercise, and is full of stern resolutions for to-morrow—it is always to-morrow!"

"I gather that between your aunt and the dog your responsibilities are serious."

"Yes, very serious," she answered with a gay little nod.

As they loitered along together, Captain Haig was sensible of the many admiring eyes which were turned towards his companion, and of certain envious scowls which fell to him. Half glances, whole stares, beaming smiles, and impressive salutes attended the lady's progress. Yes, for sheer, blazing, aggressive admiration Miss Chandos received the palm.

After all, he asked himself, what was she to be thus acclaimed? A tall girl, with a pair of wonderful dark eyes, a brilliant complexion, a radiant smile!

"I suppose you come abroad every year?" he questioned, after a pause.

"Oh, no," she replied, "we live abroad. And you?"

"Yes; but my abroad is Asia; yours, I conclude, is Europe. My abroad spells duty, and yours pleasure."

"Not altogether," rejoined Miss Chandos. "We live out of England as a duty to an animal. We roam the continent because of the dog!"

Captain Haig looked at her with a puzzled air, then gave a short incredulous laugh.

"But, I assure you that it is quite true," she continued, "Auntie is devoted to Dog Darling, and owing to these dreadful new regulations he would have to go into quarantine in England for six months; either that, or be left at Calais. Such a separation would break his dear heart—and be the death of auntie."

"And so you remain an exile as long as he lives."

"Yes."

"Is he old?"

"About nine; but he comes of a long-lived family, and has a fine constitution."

"If I were you, I should administer some of the waters," suggested Captain Haig.

"If you mean with felonious intent, I repudiate your heartless advice. I am sincerely attached to Toby."

"But are you not also attached to home?"

"Well, you see, we have no home. When we were in England we lived at hotels—and I am thoroughly at home on the Continent."

"And know it well?"

"Yes, some places, such as Paris, the Riviera, and Aix. I've also been to Rome and Venice. We always winter in the South."

"Possibly on account of Toby," suggested the young man. "I absolutely decline to call him Darling."

"You have made a sort of half-guess," she answered with a smile. "I will not conceal from you that a certain chemist at Nice is a celebrated dog doctor, and once, when Darling had bronchitis, auntie stayed on a month longer, on purpose to be near him, although we had taken our rooms at Venice. Is this your first visit to Germany?"

"Yes, I only arrived yesterday. I had no idea Homburg was such a charming place—partly garden, park and forest. My uncle never prepared me."

"I don't fancy the beauties of nature would appeal to Sir Horace."

"No, he is a practical man. If he were shown the mountains of the moon in a strong telescope, he would immediately wonder if there was grouse on them!"

"Then he and auntie would thoroughly agree. Are you remaining long?"

"I'm on my way back to India, worse luck, and sail from Marseilles in ten days."

"Ah, so you don't like the East?"

"No, I suppose because I'm nailed out there by duty. Just as you are held fast by the dog. Of course, it's the best country for soldiering—lots of room to manœuvre and turn round."

"I've always cherished a wild wish to see India," she said. "Auntie lived there for years, but she abhors it, and has not one single good word for the country. Other people rave in its praise. What do you say, Captain Haig—speaking unofficially?"

"Well"—and he took a long breath—"I admit that, like the curate's egg, parts of it are good. But where I am stationed it is all cotton soil, sugar cane, and sun."

"No antiquities?"

"Nothing more venerable than the oldest resident! Of course, your aunt was born out there?" he rashly ventured, then could have bitten his tongue in two. He glanced at his companion, but she appeared to be serenely unconscious of any faux pas, the exquisite pink in her fair cheek had not deepened in shade, as she answered with an air of cool reflection.

"I'm not sure. I don't think so. But I know that she was married out there!"

"Ah!" he ejaculated, "then, perhaps, that is why she dislikes the country?"

Miss Chandos gave him a quick look and made no reply. Captain Haig again regretted having spoken unadvisedly, and on this occasion he felt distinctly snubbed.

"Do you play golf?" asked the lady abruptly.

"No, I cannot say that I play," he stammered, "but my uncle does."

"That sounds exactly like a sentence from Ollendorf. 'I do not ride on horseback, but the sister of our neighbour does.' You really must take to golf!"

"Verona, child," screamed her aunt, "what are you loitering for? Come along, this sun is too hot for Dog Darling. We must be going. Captain Haig," turning to Malcolm, "your uncle has promised to bring you to dine with me to-night, at Ritter's. I have engaged a table—seven o'clock is the hour. So mind you are not late! Good-bye—good-bye—good-bye!"

As she made her adieux, madame—who was decidedly solid in figure—was respectfully hoisted into a smart victoria. Verona took a place beside her. Dog Darling nimbly accepted the front seat, and in another moment a pair of smart bay steppers had borne the trio out of sight.

CHAPTER III

"I flatter myself I managed that rather neatly," remarked the Baronet, as he surveyed his nephew with a complacent grin, "an introduction, a tête-à-têtes, and an invitation, all within half-an-hour."

"You could not have done more, sir, had you been a London chaperone of twenty seasons. I assure you I am duly grateful."

"And I tell you what, young man," resumed Sir Horace, now turning to pace beside him, "whilst you were laying siege to the young lady's heart, I was compelled to listen to a history of her aunt's liver affection, and an alarming account of the condition of her internal organs. Some old women have only three topics: disease, domestics, and diet. Besides these, Madame de Godez has a famous appetite—for compliments."

"Which I presume you were good enough to feed."

"Yes; in my experience, the uglier the old beldame, the more she craves for admiration. I am deservedly well established in Madame's good graces—in fact, in her present frame of mind, I believe she would marry me to-morrow—if I asked her!"

"She is enormously rich, and looks the soul of good nature," urged the young man, and his tone implied encouragement.

"Quite true; but I have lived very comfortably without a wife for sixty-one years, and I'm not going to be such an old fool as to take one now, even if she is worth her weight in gold. No, no, Malcolm, my boy, joking apart, if the dowager favours you, and the young lady accepts you, you can chuck the Service to-morrow, and forfeit your return ticket, for your fortune is made!"

"Don't you think you are going ahead too fast, sir? For all you and I know, there may be twenty Richmonds in the field."

"No," responded Sir Horace, with emphasis, "your only serious rival is young Prince Tossati, the chap she left to mind the dog and carry the parasol. He is one of the five sons of an impoverished Italian duke, who has a palace full of priceless pictures and statuary, which he may not sell—desperately as he is in need of ready money. His pedigree goes back to the Cæsars, but unfortunately that is also non-transferable. I don't believe the poor beggar can lay hands on more than six hundred a year, and the sole chances for the sons—are heiresses. One has married an American girl in Pork, and our friend Allessandro has figuratively marked the fair Verona for his own."

"He is an insignificant little chap! as dark as an Arab," sneered Captain Haig.

"Yes," assented his uncle, "I declare when I see him, I can't help looking for the monkey and the organ! but he has a title—a real one, mind you—and I believe Madame would give one of her eyes, or even go without her dinner for a whole week, to be in a position to say, 'my niece, the Princess!'"

"Oh, but she is not really her niece," objected Malcolm, with a touch of impatience. "Why, Madame is exactly like an old Portuguese half-caste, such as one sees on the West coast!"

"I can only tell you, that the girl has lived with her for twenty years," responded Sir Horace with solemn deliberation, "and no one has ever heard of, or seen, any other relations."

"And how did Madame de Godez get into Society?"

"Possibly because she did not care a straw about it, for one thing; for another, she makes no false pretences, is notoriously good-natured, and enormously rich, and she has also a fair supply of homely honesty and a brusque wit."

"And where did her fortune come from?"

"Ah! now you go beyond me!" said Sir Horace, "from piracy, for all I know!" and he laughed. "Madame is rather like the stock character of a pirate's wife. But one thing is certain, the money is all there. Madame will give us a first-rate dinner to-night, so don't eat a heavy lunch. It will be none of your Homburg affairs, no occasion to bring your purse and ask for the bill at dessert!"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, it's a good old local custom. Friends invite you to dine at their hotel, and you go. They pay for the flowers, and perhaps the coffee—everyone settles for themselves—and there you are!"

"There I should not be," rejoined his nephew, with a laugh of contempt.

"I grant that it is undoubtedly a moderate form of entertainment, but you meet your acquaintance. Of course, there are other dinners, too, the dear familiar kinds. See here—" suddenly coming to a halt in front of a flower stall not far from Ritter's Hotel, and lifting as he spoke a bunch of exquisite roses to his face—"I'll send this to the aunt; the old lady likes little attentions. Do you buy one for the niece. We can leave them with the hall porter as we pass."

"Oh, but I say," expostulated his companion, "I don't like to send a bouquet to a girl I've only spoken to once; she would think it such awful cheek."

"Not at all," replied Sir Horace, "it is perfectly correct here. At Homburg you do as Homburg does. I know my way about, my boy; pay up and look pleasant; four marks, and—oh, you may as well pay for me too. I've no change. I'll make it all right by-and-by."

Captain Haig nodded, as he produced a small gold piece and handed it across the stand, well aware that he was about to present not one, but two bouquets.

"You don't think she'd like a little dog as well?" suggested Sir Horace facetiously, as he eyed some black Spitz puppies, which were being hawked about hard by.

"No, I fancy Miss Chandos finds one dog enough, to go on with."

His uncle gave a loud harsh laugh as they moved away, each carrying a superb bunch of La France roses.

Madame de Godez and her niece were at déjeûner when the two bouquets made their appearance. To be perfectly correct, Miss Chandos had finished and was busy with a pencil and paper; but her aunt was still actively engaged.

"What do you think of Sir Horace's nephew, Verona?" she enquired, as she turned over the flowers and sniffed at them.

"Oh," looking up from her writing, "he is not bad."

"Bad—not bad! whatt a girl to talk so! Why he is very good-looking."

"Yes, I suppose he is; and it is rather a relief to meet with a stranger who has never been here before, and does not know anyone, or even his way about. I declare his ignorance is quite refreshing!"

"O—ah! he will not be long ignorant," replied Madame, squeezing up her eyes, "his uncle is worldly wise. He will educate him!"

"Oh, auntie, you know you promised Dr. Krauss you would not touch fruit and cream, and you have had two helpings, besides macaroni and fish. You really must not be so foolish."

"Now, now, now, Verona," she protested peevishly, "do let me a-lone! Why may I not eat my food? It is all I have to enjoy. You spoil my appetite; you always worry so. Here, Dog Darling! come and taste this lobstar cutlet—so good, dear! Why!" with a gasp of surprise, "he won't touch it!"

"Wise dog," said Verona, "he knows what agrees with him. I'm sure animals are more sensible about their food than we are. I must write out the cards for the dinner table now. We shall be thirty with these two men."

"Their flowers may as well be sent down for the table," suggested Madame (who dearly loved similar small economies). "Let me see, dear, the names," and she glanced over a half-sheet of paper. "Lord and Lady Bosworth, Monsieur and Madame de la Vallance, General Huntly, Prince Tossati—oh, by the way, my dear child, why were you so unkind to him to-day, leaving the poor fellow to carry your things, and lead about Dog Darling, whilst you walked off with a stranger? Better not do so again. He was hurt, I could see, he looked quite white with emotion!"

"Dearest auntie, he never could look white. His skin is the colour of café au lait when he turns pale—he merely becomes sallow."

"He is a handsome young fellow, with the blood of emperors in his veins."

"Maybe so, but he is as swarthy as a Moor. He might be Emperor of Morocco. His hair is lank, his eyes are two ink pools. I am sure he is a most estimable young man, who writes every day to his mother, but if we get up tableaux, I solemnly warn you that I shall certainly invite him to do Othello."

"O—ah, Verona, for shame of you! You prefer the red-haired young officer."

"Red hair—oh, oh!" she laughed. "You know very well, auntie, that I prefer no one."

"Because you are so hard to please—so proud! Pray, what is the difference between Tossati and Sir Horace's nephew?"

"Well, if you ask me, I should say, that one was a black prince, and the other a white man!"

"Oh, my! my! my! whatt things you do say! quite shocking—though you are but joking; you are nevarre in earnest—nevarre!"

"But occasionally I am," retorted the girl, suddenly rising. "For instance, I am in earnest now, when I tell you that your mud bath will be ready in a quarter of an hour." And as she spoke, she rang a loud peal on the bell.

"Oh, no, no!" wailed her companion, beating the air with two little dumpy hands. "I will not to-day, I will—not. These early hours do kill me. I am too fatigued. No, I will go and lie down for a while and be fresh for this afternoon. I will not take the bath, I will not."

"But really, auntie——"

"Really, child, I promised the duchess to go to her bazaar. I know you are going to play golf. No, I will not take this nasty mud bath—you must not insist—you must not!"

"Well, I shall tell Dr. Krauss," said Verona, nodding her head, "you know you are dreadfully afraid of him."

"I will take it to-morrow—really and truly—oh, truly, I give you my word! Look here, dearie, I cannot take Dog Darling to the bazaar. I think you might allow him to go with you to the Golf. Do!"

"No, indeed, he fetches half the balls, then loses them, and disgraces me."

"Oh, well, then I must ask Minette to get a fly and take him for a nice drive round Saarbruck. The air will do him good, poor darling!"

CHAPTER IV

The dinner at Ritter's proved a brilliant affair, but Sir Horace experienced an unexpected disappointment, when he discovered that instead of being a guest at a pleasant little informal meal, he and his nephew were two in a party of thirty. The menu was everything that a Homburg menu could, and should, be; the company were crême de la crême; but the crafty Baronet realised that this kind of entertainment afforded no opportunities to advance his schemes. He and Malcolm might as well have dined at their own hostelry—save that in that case, they would have been obliged to pay for their food.

A long table, carefully screened from public gaze, was decorated with a profusion of roses and silver; the company were smart, and Madame herself was magnificent in black and gold, with touches of crimson—her natural taste was for the primary colours, and many jewels, but this weakness was sternly repressed by a strong-willed French maid.

The hostess was supported by a titled guest on either hand, ate a hearty (and extremely unwholesome) meal, and enjoyed herself prodigiously. Sir Horace sat beside a talkative, elderly dame, a neighbour entirely after his own heart. They were in the same set, and exchanged quotations from letters, highly spiced morsels of gossip, and nodded and cackled, as they consumed various delicacies, and sipped dry champagne.

Malcolm Haig was by no means so fortunate, for he was placed between a deaf man and a plain dowdy woman. Far, far away, on the opposite side of the table, he espied Miss Chandos—and the Prince—the former was more beautiful than ever without her hat; the wealth of her wonderful hair, exposed in all its glory, made a fitting frame for her brilliant face.

She wore a gown of white lace, with long sleeves, a chain of splendid pearls, and to his romantic imagination seemed the dazzling embodiment of a princess in a fairy tale. The Prince, who was eating little, talked to her incessantly, enforcing his conversation with flashing eyes and quick, impassioned gestures.

What was he saying? Malcolm watched and wondered; finally he arrived at the conclusion that he was making love after the most approved Italian mode, and became sensible of a flaming desire to go round and punch his sleek head.

Poor Allessandro! he really was devoted to the lovely English Signorina. He could not sleep, he would not eat, he chiefly existed on cigarettes and her society—and yet he was a little afraid of his enchantress. She was so fascinating, yet elusive; always charming and gracious, but when he became sentimental she laughed with heartless indifference and brushed all his tender compliments aside. And then she was so rich! Mother of Heaven, what a fortune! With this girl, and her money, his existence would be heaven on earth. Good-bye for ever to insolent creditors, to third-class tickets, shabby clothes and undignified poverty.

"Ah, Verona," he murmured, "you are called after one of our most beautiful towns; you ought to belong to Italy."

"Do you think so?" she answered gaily; "then, in that case, you should belong to Turkey!"

"I would ever belong to where you were," he murmured tenderly.

Miss Chandos merely helped herself to a salted almond. She had lovely hands.

"Why were you called Verona?" he pursued.

"I have not the faintest idea. I suppose they thought it more uncommon than Florence!"

"Did you never ask them the reason?" he continued in his soft voice.

"If by 'them' you allude to my father and mother, I am sorry to say I have not even a dim recollection of either."

"Ah! So you are an orphan?"

She bowed her head.

"How sad! How I pity you!" he ejaculated. "Now I have the good fortune to have a charming father and mother—my mother is a beautiful woman. How much I should like to make you known to her. I assure you she would love you as a—daughter."

"It is very kind of you to say so, Prince."

"She lives in a noble old castle. It still retains many splendid pictures and works of art. Perhaps you would visit her there one day? It has such a wonderful view, being high on the top of a mountain—almost in the clouds."

"Almost a castle in the air?" suggested Verona.

"Yes, yes, it is; and I, too, have my real castle in the air," he added with tremulous significance. "Oh, such an adorable one." This speech was accompanied by a long, intense look.

"Don't you think these castles in the air cost a good deal to keep up?" remarked Miss Chandos. "I cannot afford to build them myself." Then she smiled her sweet smile, and turned away to address her left-hand neighbour.

All this time Malcolm was inwardly fuming, although he was eating his dinner critically and carrying on a conversation with the lady beside him, a lady who was blessed with a copious stock of words and laboured under the delusion that she was a brilliant and dramatic talker. She speedily discovered that her neighbour had been in India, and plied him with opinions, suggestions and numerous questions with regard to native life.

At last, utterly wearied by this severe cross-examination, he exclaimed:

"I am truly sorry my information appears so meagre, but the truth is that India—real India—is to the European a closed book!"

"Oh no, surely not!" she protested warmly. "Only stupid, lazy people say so!"

"Well, I have been out in the East seven years, and I know precious little of the natives, although I speak their language. I was born there, too, and sent home as a kid. My father was a judge in the Punjaub for thirty years. Shall I tell you what he said?"

"Oh, pray do!"

"That we Europeans are like drops of oil on a great ocean of water, and will never penetrate or mix!"

"Really! Well, I am afraid I do not share his opinion," declared the listener with a shrug of her round shoulders.

"You have been in the country, of course?"

"No; but I have read about it, which amounts to almost the same thing. Have you seen a book called 'Thrills from the Hills, or The Curse of the Khitmagar'?"

"Yes, as it happens, I have! A fellow on board ship had it, and I looked into it."

"Tell me, how did it strike you?" she demanded, and the lady's key was pitched in the imperative mood.

"As absolutely the greatest drivel and rot I ever read—and that is saying a good deal! It is no more like India than it's like Homburg! I should say that the author took her facts from fiction, her local colour from Earl's Court, and her grammar from her cook!"

There was an unusually spacious pause. Captain Haig glanced furtively at his companion, and noticed that her face had become alarmingly red. Presently she remarked in a repressed, but throaty voice:

"It is a misfortune that the book fails to meet with your approval. As it happens it was written by my sister," and she turned her head away and gave him a view of nearly the whole of her shoulders.

"Well, what was said was said!" reflected her neighbour, apologies were useless. He tossed off a glass of champagne and settled himself to brazen out the situation until a welcome signal should give him his release.

For a considerable time the culprit was compelled to subsist on disjointed scraps of the adjoining conversations. Among the crumbs he gathered were these: "Fancy going 'no trumps' on such a hand! Wasn't it sickening?"

"Oh—I don't know! He had two aces. It was unlucky he was done in spades."

"A lovely piece of Persian lamb. Just enough for the collar."

"No; a man with a beard never takes on the stage."

"So they got the grand slam!"

"I'm sure the Staal Brunnen would suit you."

"But she is so dark—her eyes and hair—you don't think——?" Voice dropped, man's raised in reply, and in the key of D sharp.

"Good heavens, no! What an awful suspicion! Not with that complexion."

Pushing back of chairs, general rising, general exit.

After coffee in the garden the party strolled over to the Casino in order to see the grand fireworks. The grounds were illuminated, and the crowd was immense. The entire scene was delightful, so gay, so exhilarating and so foreign. People of many nations sat about, or promenaded in groups, staring at the brilliant display, and listening to the band.

Some of the members of the late festivity assembled on the terrace, where they paced to and fro, or stood to exclaim at some specially marvellous effect. Miss Chandos was so closely invested by Uhlan officers and other friends that Captain Haig had no opportunity of exchanging a word with her. After several frustrated attempts he turned aside, took a seat apart, and, we may as well admit it, sulked! He watched with discontented eyes the gay throng of well-dressed people, the glitter of diamonds, the bright stars overhead, the bright light around. He saw Verona (as he mentally called her) now holding a little court on the terrace, again strolling up and down with an Austrian field-marshal or a Russian grand duke, and he realised how difficult it would be for him to improve their acquaintance, and what a complete outsider he was. There were too many notable worshippers, all competing for a lady's society and favour, and he was but an impecunious officer who must not venture to claim the privilege of sunning himself in the beauty's smiles.

Nevertheless, Captain Haig had some brief visions of Miss Chandos; for instance, at the Elisabeth Well of a morning, at the opera, or at church, now and then they exchanged a few sentences.

At the annual Battle of Flowers—which was attended by all Homburg and Frankfort—the carriage of Madame de Godez was accorded a coveted banner, and first prize. The landau was entirely covered with pink roses, the very wheels had been transformed into colossal wreaths. Four milk-white horses, caparisoned with roses and silver, were led by grooms wearing pink and silver livery and white wigs. It was the chariot of a Fairy Queen, and was received with shouts of admiration and pelted with a hurricane of flowers.

Enthroned in the vehicle reclined Madame de Godez, arrayed (despite her maid) in a gorgeous pink and silver pelisse, with feathered headgear of the most imposing assumption. ("The blot on the escutcheon," Sir Horace dubbed the lady.) Beside her was seated the Princess, clad in white, her hat crowned with roses; on the coach box was perched Dog Darling, decorated en suite, with an enormous pink bow—glowering at all the world and shivering with shame!

The carriage was crammed with flowers of the most costly varieties, which the two ladies tossed to the crowd with liberal hands.

As the splendid equipage rolled majestically between dense masses of admiring spectators it seemed to represent the triumphal car of Beauty and Mammon.

Captain Haig, posted in a coign of vantage, pelted the occupants with the best of his assortment. He had no eyes, or flowers, for others, not even for the cart laden with sheaves of corn and pretty girls and drawn by oxen, nor for the gorgeous yellow coach, or yet the charming Japanese; his flowers were only for Verona. Once he had the good fortune to catch her eye, and as she passed she smiled and tossed him a rose. This he kissed with fervour and stowed away as if it were some holy relic, for Malcolm Haig was really in love. So much in love, that he actually attended a charity bazaar in the extravagant and foolish hope of finding her within; but unfortunately Miss Chandos was elsewhere, playing golf, and his temerity cost him three sovereigns. His leave was ebbing hourly—his luck was dead out. Sir Horace, too, was selfishly absorbed in his own affairs and the progress of his cure, and had never given his unhappy nephew a helping hand since that first notable morning. At last Fortune smiled! Captain Haig was returning from a sad and solitary ramble in the woods, when to his surprise, and, needless to add, joy, he came upon Miss Chandos and Dog Darling. She was seated on the trunk of a fallen tree with the enviable animal in her lap.

"Oh, this is fortunate!" she exclaimed, "I am in rather a quandary, like the ferryman with the fox and goose and corn. Dog Darling has cut his foot, and I don't know how I am to get him home. I dare not leave him; he might stray, or be stolen, and, much as I love him—I cannot carry him!"

"No, indeed," agreed the delighted lover. "Pray how do you happen to be here all alone?"

"I was driving with Auntie from Nauheim, I got out to walk back the rest of the way, and give Dog Darling a run. He has cut his foot on a broken bottle, poor dear; so wicked of people to leave their picnics loose."

"I see, his poor paw is badly cut," said Malcolm; "shall I bandage it up?"

"I shall be most grateful if you will, but I warn you that he may bite you!"

"And then you'll have to bandage me! Eh, is it a bargain?"

"I will guarantee to hold his mouth quite firmly, and you can please take my handkerchief."

"No, no; mine is the best," said the impromptu surgeon, and in five minutes the business was successfully accomplished.

"I think he has sense to know that I mean well," said Captain Haig, "and now I propose to carry him home; it is not more than a mile."

"But he is so heavy!" objected the young lady. "If you were to go back and send a carriage to fetch us—how would that do?"

Naturally this arrangement did not appeal to her companion, and he replied with deliberate untruth:

"The patient is a mere feather! You lay him in my arms and I'll do nurse as if to the manner born."

Having effected this amicable arrangement without any contretemps, the pair set off, the young man carrying the dog, who proved to be a dead weight and exceedingly irritable and sorry for himself.

"Where did Madame get him?" asked his bearer abruptly.

"Well, the fact is, he belonged to me originally, and is a native of England," replied the girl. "I lived with a family from the time I was eight till I was seventeen, and enjoyed a delightful country life."

"No lessons—all haymaking, jam and holidays, I presume?"

"Any amount of lessons and governesses. The Melvilles' daughter and I shared them. Auntie paid me flying visits, and on one of these occasions she noticed Toby, a young dog, full of tricks and spirits. He was very nice to her (as he can be when he likes), and she simply insisted on carrying him off."

"Precisely as I am doing."

"Oh, no; in a dog-box. It changed his whole career and outlook on life. Instead of living in a barrel, hunting water rats and rabbits, and having a brother in the house, and cousins in the village, he has become a society dog, and a cynical, disappointed person."

"Poor old boy!" exclaimed his nurse, "so he is out of his element like many of his betters."

From Dog Darling the conversation gradually became more personal, Captain Haig walking as slowly as possible, and occasionally coming to a dead halt, would have gladly carried his burden many miles—for the sake of the dog's mistress. But everything, however agreeable, must end, and the delightful tête-à-tête concluded all too soon at the door of Ritter's Hotel. Madame de Godez professed herself to be much touched by Captain Haig's attention to her sweet darling, and, as a suitable reward, the following evening she invited him to coffee on the Casino terrace, which invitation he grasped at, since he had now come to his last hours in Homburg. After the coffee had been served Captain Haig and Miss Chandos instinctively, by a sort of mute mutual consent, descended into the grounds, and strolled there in the moonlight, listening to the superb string band. It happened to be playing "Die Lieben Langen Tag," when Malcolm said:

"Do you know this is my last day here? I'm off tomorrow morning."

"Oh, are you?" she exclaimed, "must you really leave so soon? I am sorry."

"Not a thousandth part as sorry as I am," he responded, with what seemed unnecessary emphasis. "I wonder if we shall ever meet again?"

"I wonder?" she echoed meditatively. "How I should like to see your gorgeous East! but of course I never shall. Please give my love to India!"

"Yes; the instant I sight Colaba light, if you will give me something in return."

"What is it?"

"Your photograph," was the bold reply.

"Oh, but really, I never give that to any one," she answered rather stiffly.

"In Europe, no. But I am going ten thousand miles away. Do grant me this favour—it will be a talisman to summon happy memories in a foreign land."

"But I know you will stick me in a row with forty other girls," she objected, with a smile.

"I will not," he rejoined, with prompt vehemence, "never—I swear it." A pause, and he reiterated his request. "Will you?" he pleaded, sinking his voice to a half-whisper.

"I will see," she replied, "and now I really must return to auntie and carry her off to bed. I am trying to coax her to keep early hours, and she is as fractious as a little girl of six."

Malcolm Haig having mentally consigned Madame to the bed of the Red Sea, reluctantly turned towards the Casino, and as they passed near some great trees he halted abruptly and said:

"I think, if you don't mind, I'll say good-bye here."

"Why?" she asked quickly. Then, as she glanced at him, she noticed in the moonlight that her companion's face was working with some strong emotion, and it dawned upon her for the first time that Captain Haig was in love with her, and struggling to say, with decent fortitude, farewell for ever.

Miss Chandos was startled and not a little sorry, although her own heart was untouched. Auntie need not have been so pointedly careful to exclude Sir Horace's handsome nephew from all her select little parties.

She hesitated for a moment, then murmured "Good-bye" as she held out her hand.

For a second he held it fast; then, suddenly stooping, pressed his lips upon it, and the beautiful princess did not resist. Possibly she was accustomed to such homage!

The following morning, before Captain Haig departed, a large square envelope was delivered to him. He opened it with a thumping pulse to discover (as he hoped) the portrait of his lady love.

Certainly it was a beautiful face. The lips and eyes seemed almost to speak. Across one corner was inscribed, in a clear, fine hand, "Verona Chandos."

Captain Haig was occasionally impulsive; he was stirred by impulse now, and seizing a sheet of the hotel paper he sat down immediately and scrawled:—

"Dear Miss Chandos,—

"Thank you for your gracious gift, I prize it above everything I possess. I am, alas! but a humble soldier, and you are the Fairy Princess; should the princess ever need a champion to do battle for her, I pray that she may command till death,

"Malcolm Haig."

Malcolm Haig was already nearing Frankfort, with his cap drawn far over his eyes, and a curious sensation gripping his heart, when Verona received his note. She read it over twice—the first time quickly, the second with a pleased smile—and somewhat to her own surprise, crammed it away among her unanswered letters.

CHAPTER V

Many months had elapsed since Malcolm Haig bartered his heart in exchange for a photograph; he was once more resigned to the monotonous round of regimental duty in an Indian cantonment, had purchased a promising pony, who ran at small meetings under the mysterious initial of "V. C."—a "V. C." who was gradually absorbing the interest once given to her namesake, and, to tell the plain unvarnished truth, the memory of a certain dazzling princess had become a little dim!

Madame de Godez and Verona were in England. They had no occasion now to dread the Dover Custom House, for Dog Darling was defunct. His death had been a genuine grief to his mistress, who looked as if she too would soon cross the frontier of an unknown land. The old lady was changed, a life of uninterrupted self-indulgence had begun to tell at last. There were deep lines in her face, and pouches under her eyes, her breath was scanty and her spirits were low.

She had come to London in order to consult a specialist, and to confer with her man of business, and for some weeks had been established in the best suite of a well-known private hotel off Piccadilly.

It was a foggy night in March, the lamps across the way were barely discernible, the traffic had almost ceased. In a stately drawing-room, Madame, hunched up in a low chair, was cowering over the fire. As she sat staring into the coals with a far-away, vacant expression, she looked very old, and dark, and sick—despite a splendid satin tea-gown, and the pearl-powder on her face. Verona, her pride and boast, was now transformed from a mere beauty on exhibition to an affectionate and efficient nurse—Madame's unwearied comforter and companion. She had been reading aloud since dinner time, in a clear steady voice, detailed descriptions of fashionable doings and particulars of a great wedding: such news as the soul of her listener loved, until Madame, who had been inattentive for a long time, suddenly exclaimed in a fretful tone:

"There, there, Verona, child, that will do! Turn off the lights, they hurt my eyes, and come and sit by the fire and talk to me."

"Yes, auntie," she answered, promptly putting aside the paper and lowering the lights, "and now"—taking one of the old woman's hands in hers and stroking it softly—"tell me, what shall we talk about?"

"I've been thinking of the Prince," was the unexpected answer. "How I wish you had married him! He was a nice fellow, and if he had no money—what matter for thatt!"

"I could not have married him, dear."

"Why nott?"

"Because he was so effeminate, so sentimental, and, above all, so dark. Why he was like a black-a-moor!"

"Verona, it is awfullee wicked to talk like that!" cried Madame, with unusual excitement. "What harm is a little black blood to anyone? It is a great sin to be so particular—some of the Saints are ink-black in their pictures. Oh, you may yet be punished for such shocking pride!"

"But, dear darling, it is not pride; it is antipathy. I cannot help it, it is born in me. There were two West Indian girls at the dancing class, and I could not endure them for partners. I shuddered when our hands met, their touch seemed so boneless and damp."

"I tell you, you may be sorry for this sinful feeling, some day."

"Yes, indeed, auntie. I'm sorry now, but I really can't help myself. I am afraid you are very tired, dear," she continued, again stroking the old lady's withered hand, "that lawyer, Mr. Middlemass, absorbs too much time; he was here for nearly an hour this afternoon. What were you doing?"

"I was giving him instructions about my will—he was drawing it up."

"But I thought you had made it ages ago."

"Oh, yes, several wills. The fact is, lovey," and here she placed her hand over Verona's, "I am superstitious. I've always thought it so unlucky to make my will. Yet I've done it, because Mr. Middlemass has been troublesome, and 'dicked' me so, for your sake. Then when I feel ill, I say to myself, oh, it's all because of this horrid old will, and so I will burn it! I have burned three"—there was a distinct note of exultation in the confession—"now I am mailing," here she heaved a deep sigh, "another."

"I'm sure you are not fit to do law business at present; do wait a little."

"No, I can not; that Middlemass has been scolding me to-day, and says I ought to settle my affairs, for if I—" she hesitated, and went on—"I were to die, every pice I possess goes to my husband's relations. And then what would become of you, my dearie?"

"Do not let us talk of such things, auntie. At present I have you, and you are much better."

"I tell him a rich girl has always friends!" mused Madame, as if talking to herself. "You have numbers of friends, Verona, but most of them are abroad. So are your admirers. I am sorry now I've stayed out of England these five years. One is soon forgotten, and loses touch with people. At this time of year, too, our acquaintances are in the country, or on the Riviera. When I feel arl-right, I shall take a big house in town, and give dances, and bridge parties, and entertain—and then my old set will soon remember me."

There was a silence, during which the two women sat staring at the fire. At last the girl spoke, with the abruptness of one who has made up her mind to broach a strange topic.

"Auntie! I wish you would tell me something about myself. Do, dear auntie! I am two-and-twenty years of age, and I know nothing of what is called, my forbears. If anyone were to say to me, 'Who are you?' I should be obliged to reply, 'I don't know!'"

"If you say, 'I am the adopted daughter and heiress of Fernanda de Godez,' you will find they are perfectly satisfied," rejoined her companion, in a sharp emphatic key.

"But I am not.—Oh, do forgive me, dearest, I feel sure that no kith or kin could have done more for me than you, and I am a truly fortunate girl; for it is not money only that you have given me, but love. It does seem so extraordinary, that I have no belongings, and that all I know of my past is that when I was a tiny child, and a year old, you adopted me and brought me home from India."

"That is true," granted her listener.

"I must have been over a year old, for I can dimly recall the steamer, and the black faces of the Lascars."

"Ho, ho! there you go! black faces! You were nearly two when you landed."

"They must have died within a short time of one another," resumed Verona, in a low voice.

"What do you mean, child? Who are you talking about?"

"My father and mother."

"Yes, yes, yes, I have allowed everyone to suppose you were an orphan," continued Madame, staring straight before her in dreamy fashion, "but I have never said so."

"Not an orphan!" repeated the girl, sitting erect, and turning quickly to her companion. "Oh, darling auntie, do tell me—it will make no difference to you—is my mother alive?"

Her voice shook for an imperceptible moment, and her eyes glowed with expectancy.

"Now, what nonsense this is!" cried Madame de Godez peevishly. "What would you give to know?"

Verona suddenly averted her eager face, and made no answer.

The ensuing silence was so unusually prolonged that at last the old lady jerked her head round, and glanced interrogatively at her companion. To her amazement and dismay she saw two great tears stealing down the girl's face.

Verona's tears were more than she could endure. Verona, who rarely wept, even as a child; Verona, who had scarcely grieved for the dog.

"Come, come, come, lovey, don't! I cannot bear it. No! since you are so foolish, then I will tell you."

The girl turned to her instantly, her eyes were wet, her lips were parted.

"Your father and mother are both alive—in India—and well, for all I know—there now!"

For a moment her listener remained silent and motionless; she seemed stunned; twice she endeavoured to articulate, but failed. At last she said:

"My father and mother! Oh, thank God! Auntie, isn't it wonderful?"

"No-ah! there is nothing wonderful at all," retorted Madame de Godez, "I knew the family. They were hard up, they had debts, and children, and as I was leaving India a widow, alone, I offered to take you to be my own daughter, and never to see them again."

"And they agreed?" exclaimed the girl, and her words were faint and tremulous.

"Why, of course. It was a fine bargain for them, and you. Oh, you were a pretty child! Just like a little angel on a Christmas card. Now, Verona, I would never have spoken of this, and let you think what you pleased, only—you have worried it out of me!"

"Are my people related to you?" she faltered.

"Never mind."

"Have I any brothers and sisters?"

"It does not matter, for you will never see them," replied the old lady, who was obviously disturbed and displeased. "You will never go to India, make yourself easy about thatt."

"Oh, dear auntie," said the girl suddenly, sinking on her knees, and putting both her arms round her friend's dumpy figure, "you know very well that it is not like you to talk in this way. You know that you can make me very happy. You load me with diamonds and pearls, far more than I want; give me a few precious words—they are of more value to me than jewels. Do tell me something about my father, and above all"—with a sudden impulsive movement—"my mother. Do, darling, please." And the petitioner drew the old woman into a yet closer embrace, and imprinted warm kisses on her ugly, lipless mouth.

"Well, then," gasped Madame, a little breathlessly, "you are such a coax! I suppose I must! Your father is a gentleman, of old, old family—he looks like a duke. He was in the Army long ago, but he was hard up, and so he had to leave. He has now a civil post."

"And my mother?" Verona's lips dwelt lingeringly on the word; there was a strange expression in her eye.

"Oh, no, no! She is not much! She is not a friend of mine. No, no, I do not like her; but she was once a beauty. Now, Verona," suddenly releasing herself, "that is enough. No, but too much. Be satisfied. I am your father and mother, and sisters and brothers. They are Indian people, with Indian notions, and they do not want you. You are not one of them—and never can be one of them."

"No," agreed her hearer, half under her breath. "Gains involve losses"—the saying flashed into her mind with cruel opportuneness, and Verona realised with a pang that she had gained a life of luxurious ease, in exchange for her own people and her father's house.

"Oh, no, no, they do not want you," reiterated Madame, "'the flower returns not to the branch,' as Baptista Lopez would say: she and I were at school together. My! what a girl for proverbs!"

"Do they ever write?" ventured Verona.

"There, now, you see what I have put in your head!" cried Madame angrily. "I am sorry I told you one single word; it is all useless, foolish talk. I am tired. Ring for Pauline, and I will go to my bed." As she spoke she rose from her chair with Verona's assistance, then grasped her arm, and tottered painfully out of the room.

Madame's adopted daughter had led a wandering life, until she was eight years old, and was supremely ignorant of what the word "home" implied. Madame had surely some gipsy blood in her veins (and was not averse to the idea). She drifted about the Continent from one fashionable hotel to another, with a retinue of servants, tons of luggage, a parrot, a poodle, and a child.

This was all very well for the parrot and the poodle, but for the child it was another affair. Her education was of a peculiar description, and undoubtedly resembled a meal, where the sweets are served before the joints. "La petite Verona" danced delightfully, acted with extraordinary intelligence, and sang piquant little songs in her shrill childish voice—such were her accomplishments. She was dainty, and pretty, and graceful; in short, she was Madame de Godez's doll—and idol. But, low be it whispered, she could hardly read simple words, a pen and needle were strangers to her tiny hands; geography and arithmetic were but hideous names, and yet the child could declaim a tragedy, play the mandoline, and converse fluently in three languages.

It seemed a sheer miracle that this petted little creature should have remained unspoiled, but her sense of truth and honour appeared to be inborn and innate, and she had none of the greedy, selfish, elfish ways of solitary and applauded children. In short, her little heart was in its right place, her feelings were deep and sincere. She was attached to her bonne, her auntie, and the parrot; to one of the waiters at the "Hotel Bristol," and to Martin, the concierge at "the Ambassadors" in Rome. But she and Polo, the poodle, had never really fraternised, being performers, public favourites, and necessarily—rivals.

The child was by no means perfect. Her temper was hot, and it must be frankly admitted that her manner to those she considered her inferiors was occasionally haughty and disdainful; her pride was stern and unbending, for, although she had no petty conceit, she took the personality of Miss Verona Chandos with a gravity that was ludicrous.

A sudden and complete change in the child's life may be attributed to one cause, and the name of that cause was, "scarlatina." She caught the complaint, and had it badly, thereby occasioned a serious commotion, as well as much inconvenience, in a certain smart hotel, and subsequent heavy expense to her auntie. A soft-voiced, dove-eyed matron pointed out to this lady that a girl of Verona's age had still a whole gamut of diseases to run through—measles, mumps, whooping cough—this would necessarily lead to continual annoyance, quarantine, and enforced seclusion.

"But what am I to do?" demanded Madame in her staccato key.

"Send her to England without delay. It is fully time she was properly educated, and mixed with other children."

"Oh, but she is so clever!"

"True, in a way, but she cannot read or write. Surely, dear friend, you do not wish Verona to grow up an ignoramus and a laughing-stock?"

"No, no, no," ejaculated Madame, "but I could not send her to school. I hated school myself."

Lady Wallsend stared; it seemed such a singular and grotesque idea that Madame de Godez should ever have been at school.

"And I happen to know a most charming family in England—extremely kind, refined, and well connected. They are looking for a companion, to educate with their little girl Madge."

"Oh, do you think that would answer?"

"Yes, quite admirably. The Melvilles are my own cousins—not wealthy. They would, of course, expect handsome terms, and for these, the child would have every care, the best of teachers, a delightful country home, and a playmate of her own age."

Madame, who was still smarting from exorbitant charges, and penetrated with the dread of measles and chicken-pox, lent a ready ear to Lady Wallsend's not wholly disinterested suggestion; preliminaries were arranged, and Verona Chandos, a Frenchified, dressy, self-possessed little personage, was duly received at Halstead Manor. Here she lived as one of the family for nine happy years, sharing all the joys and sorrows, games and lessons, of her friend Madge; and being an orphan, was from the first adopted into the motherly heart of Mrs. Melville.

Madame de Godez did not lose sight of her protégée. During the London season she travelled to England, and carried off Verona for a sensational holiday; but when the girl was seventeen, and gave promise of remarkable beauty, her adopted mother promptly claimed her, loudly announcing that "life was no longer possible without her adored child." Here was the first serious trouble in Verona's life. She felt almost heartbroken as she and Madge went round, arm in arm, paying farewell visits in the village, the stable yard—not forgetting the seagull, and the tortoise in the garden. Their tears flowed fast as they separated their respective treasures in the old schoolroom, but Madame de Godez laughed at their sorrows, and believed that she had stifled every regret when she presented each of the mourners with a fine pearl necklace.

In spite of Madame's mock sympathy and real pearls, Verona found it a painful wrench to bid good-bye to her beloved country home, with all its happy associations, and to go forth into the blare and glare of the great world, and the fierce white light which beats upon a beauty, and an heiress.

When Verona had assisted Pauline to put her mistress to bed—a lengthy and intricate process—when she had put everything in the way of salts, lozenges, and refreshment, within the patient's reach, lit a night-lamp and turned off the electric light, she returned to the drawing-room and sat down before the fire. Here she remained in one thoughtful attitude for a long time. As she leant her cheek on her hand, the firelight on the wall made a clear-cut silhouette of her graceful, motionless figure.

As the girl sat thus, she was staring, not at the coals, but into the dim past, yearning to recall some face, urging her torpid memory to send her even one sign. But, strive as she would, all that emerged from the veil which concealed those far-away days was a little painted toy! A wooden figure with a yellow turban, and a scarlet body covered with gold spots. She remembered it perfectly, her anguish when it had fallen overboard, and how she had wept. It was marvellous that such a paltry item should remain fixed in a child's brain, and that yet she could not recall the face of her parents. No, as far as they were concerned, her memory was a hopeless blank.

Her heart was full to bursting, her thoughts were moving and strange. At last she sprang up and began to pace the room, with subdued silken rustlings and a quick light tread.

Once she stood still and, stretching her arms to the irresponsive London fog, whispered in tones of the most exquisite tenderness, "Oh, mother, mother, mother!"

CHAPTER VI

The morning after this unusual conversation Verona awoke with the sensation that something extraordinary had happened; awoke to a vague sense of disaster—a loss of something out of her life, a loss of birthright and inheritance; and in spite of an imperious voice which clamoured in her ear of auntie's affection and indulgence, she was aware of a feeling of dissatisfaction and disquiet. Instead of rising as usual when her maid brought in her bath and tea, she lay for a long, long time, staring vacantly at the wallpaper and entertaining a succession of unfamiliar thoughts. She was endeavouring to become acquainted with the personal meaning of the strange words father, mother, brother, sister, and home.

There was a sudden improvement in the weather, a capricious change which flooded the city with sunshine; bright blue skies stared down upon the leafless parks and hinted at approaching Spring.

Madame de Godez, who was painfully sensitive to climate and constantly referred to herself as "a true child of the sun," now declared that she felt much better—almost well; and instead of cowering over the coals, with her head enveloped in a shawl, her feet encased in fur slippers, she roused up, made a toilet, ordered a carriage, and drove about to milliners, house agents and restaurants. "The child of the sun" was no longer a shivering, ailing old woman, but the bustling and jaunty Madame de Godez of former days. The transformation was astounding; she angrily refused to follow the doctor's orders, flouted the idea of a régime, and her appetite for the pleasures of the table and the pleasures of society was, if anything, keener than ever.

The convalescent, in spite of eloquent expostulations, returned to her favourite menu of spiced meats, rich entrées, champagne, and caviare, and boastfully assured her adopted daughter that "she was the best judge of her own health. London doctors were quacks and alarmists, and all she required was a complete change; a couple of weeks at Brighton would transform her into another woman." Madame was self-willed and strong. For twenty-three years no one had ventured to oppose her, and for some little time her own prescription—to eat and drink and make merry—seemed unexpectedly efficacious.

One afternoon, after enjoying a hearty lunch on prawn curry (with hot condiments), roast hare, plum cake, and bottled stout, she sat down to write to a house agent, and when in the act of signing her name, was seized with an apoplectic fit, and before a doctor could be summoned, became insensible, never recovered consciousness, and died that night. Thus Madame de Godez had experienced a change, and one that she little anticipated—the great change of all.

There was the usual amount of startled confusion succeeding a sudden death. Verona was shocked and grief-stricken; all Madame's little peculiarities were forgotten, her good qualities remembered, as she gazed through her tears on the still, dark face, contrasting so sharply with the sheets and pillows, and clothed in all the dignity of death.

Mr. Middlemass, a wooden-faced family lawyer, was soon on the spot, and undertook all correspondence and funeral arrangements. Verona's good friend, Mrs. Melville, hurried up to town at once, in order to be with her, and she proved a comfort and tower of strength. Soon after her arrival Mrs. Melville had a long conversation with Mr. Middlemass, who said to her with alarming gravity: "I am sorry to inform you that Madame de Godez has not signed her will."

"Oh!" exclaimed the lady, rather blankly. "Has she not?"

"No. I have urged her repeatedly to settle her affairs, in common justice to Miss Chandos. She intended her to succeed to almost all she possessed. I have drawn up her instructions. This is the fourth will I have executed; the former three she destroyed. I had it prepared and ready for her signature, but she postponed the appointment, day after day, and now"—throwing out his hands—"she is gone——"

"Then it will make a great difference to Miss Chandos?"

"The greatest in the world. If the will had been duly signed—just two words written—Miss Chandos would come in for fifteen thousand a year—she would be an heiress. Now she is, I may say, penniless. It's one of the worst cases of procrastination I've ever known."

"And what becomes of all the money?" asked Mrs. Melville.

"It goes to the next-of-kin—the Gowdys. They can claim everything, under Mr. Gowdy's will, which states that, if his wife died intestate, his fortune was to go to his brother and his children, the heirs at law."

"And who are they?" she inquired, after a pause.

"Scotch farmer folk. I understand they have deeply resented the fact that the whole of their uncle's estate was left to his widow. James Gowdy was an indigo planter in the big days, and spent forty years in India. Madame disliked the name of Gowdy and transformed it into De Godez; it pleased her, and did no one any harm. Of course her business papers are signed in her real name."

"This is terrible news for my poor young friend," exclaimed Mrs. Melville. "Then she has no claim, and was no relation to her mother by adoption?"

"No more than I was."

"And is left penniless?"

"Yes, as far as Madame's money is concerned. Of course, the Gowdys may do something. I shall bring the matter strongly to their notice, and urge them to be liberal. I have wired, and written, and requested them to come down immediately, and I have postponed the funeral until their arrival."

"Well, I must go and break all this bad news to my poor child," said Mrs. Melville. "You know she is almost like one of my own; it is dreadful to think of her being left alone in the world."

"Oh, there you are misinformed. She is not an orphan, as has been generally supposed. Her father and mother are alive out in India. Madame adopted her, and cut her off from her family; she allowed no correspondence, as she was exceedingly jealous of the girl's affections. Now, no doubt, Miss Chandos will return to her family."

"With all the ideas, refinements, tastes and habits of a girl who has been brought up in England on an income of thousands. How cruel!"

"Yes, but from what I know of Miss Chandos, her tastes appear to be simple, and her ideas are not extravagant. I think she will adapt herself to circumstances. She seems a sensible girl."

"All you say is perfectly true, Mr. Middlemass. She lived with us for nine years. Her own people are not rich, I gather?"

"No, very far from it."

"And is she to have nothing? Nothing whatever?"

"Her personal effects, clothes and jewellery—that is all that she can claim, by the letter of the law."

"How inhuman the law is! I really think Madame has behaved in the most shameful, selfish way. What a cruel old woman!"

"Only a superstitious old woman," amended Mr. Middlemass, "who believed that a will was a reminder to the Angel of Death. She would be more heart-broken than anyone, at the present state of affairs, and she could not bear the name of the Gowdys. You may be satisfied that I will do my utmost to secure some provision for Miss Chandos." And with this friendly assurance Mr. Middlemass took his grey suède gloves, his glossy hat, and his departure.

CHAPTER VII

Mistress Jean Gowdy was the tenant of a sheep farm on a moor, north of Perth, where by rigorous economy and unwearied industry she and her two sons and daughter contrived to make the rent, to live frugally, and to put by a bit.

Jean was a hale, active woman of sixty, with a fine handsome face, but no figure to speak of—a hard-headed, hard-working, God-fearing Scotch woman.

She had not married over young, but was five-and-thirty years of age, a sensible and settled person, when she bestowed herself and her savings on Andy Gowdy, a small farmer body, with a little money, and a keen desire to better his position.

The couple had taken a long lease of Ardnashiel sheep farm, because being twenty miles from a railway it was cheap; there was plenty of water, fair grazing, and a comfortable stone house on the moor. Here for several years they struggled on bravely, through terrible winters and wet springs, and were at last beginning "to see their way." Unhappily, one dark morning, when the river was coming down in spate, Andy, in endeavouring to ford it, with his horse and cart, was drowned. The fierce mountain torrent turned over the cart, amidst the boulder stones, as if it were a child's toy, and despite of the desperate struggles of the fine young horse to effect a landing, he and his master were swept away to their death.

The body of Andy was recovered three miles down the glen. There was loud lamentation for him among the neighbouring farmers and shepherds, and a great concourse from afar attended the funeral, when he was buried in an almost forgotten churchyard among the hills. The loss of a fine young horse, the marks of whose frantic hoofs were imprinted on the banks for years, was almost equally deplored. He had lately cost thirty pounds in Perth, and the tragedy was never related without due mention of his fate.

Andy Gowdy was drowned, and his widow Jean reigned in his stead. The poor woman found it no easy matter to carry on the farm, and to give her children a bit of schooling; what with minding the bairns, the housework, and the sheep, she was often on the point of breaking down under her burthen, and it is a fact that only for the exertions of three notable collie dogs they might almost have starved. But Jean Gowdy, a woman of true Highland tenacity and indomitable courage, struggled on bravely. Her children throve, thanks to the keen mountain air and the good porridge and milk. The boys, Andrew and Jock, were now able-bodied men, and Maggie, their sister, was a fine sonsie lassie of two-and-twenty. She had received some sort of an education, for their mother had sent them by turns to an aunt in Stirling, and they were all great readers—what else was there to do in the long winter nights? even when their mother drove them to bed at eight o'clock and reminded them that their grandmother, who talked only Gaelic, had always retired at dark. But these were different days, they declared, and no Scotch folk would now consent to pass three-quarters of their time in bed—in order to save lamp oil!

Oh, those winter nights! when the wind swept down through the glen, and they could hear the starving deer stamping outside in the snow and dragging at the wood stack. On these occasions, Mrs. Gowdy knitted stockings, and did curious sums in mental arithmetic; the lads read the paper and such books as they had borrowed from the minister. Jock's shock-haired red head was bent over Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations." He was clever and ambitious, and had long resolved that he was not going to waste his life in herding sheep, milking cows, and dragging up and down the weary road to the town for coal and groceries. No! Jock had heard the history of his uncle Jamie, and he was educating himself with painful, but continuous, effort, in order that he might also go out into the world and do something—something that would bring him in money and applause. To begin with, he was going to the University of Glasgow, and was reading for a bursary. His family tacitly acquiesced; they respected his ambition and agreed that Jock was to be somebody—some day. He was, therefore, allowed the largest share of lamplight and first claim on the ink bottle. His sister had also her dreams, as she sat with a collie at her feet. Maggie Gowdy hated the hard rough life. It was aye fine for her grandmother, or even her mother; but times were changed; there was no fun or stir beyond a rare jaunt to Stirling or Glasgow. All the other girls in the glen were a thousand times better off than she was. It was easy for her mother to say "bide a wee"; she might bide at Ardnashiel till she was old and toothless. Young Campbell of Lussie used to come up the valley, by way of fishing, and spier for her, and have a crack, but her mother found it out, and made an awful row, and threatened to lock her in her room. The kirk was full six miles away, and a desperate rough walk, and there was no one there foreby some old shepherds, their wives, and a few farming folk. Aye, when she read beautiful stories in the paper penny books she bought with her knitting profits, she felt wild to be away in the big world, to see people—and be seen. She had overheard Mistress Murray tell her mother that it was an awful pity such a bonnie lass should be shut away up the glen. Maggie was a tall, broad-shouldered young woman, with a pair of fine bold eyes, a fresh complexion and ropes of coarse dark hair, and felt perfectly confident that, if she only had a bit of money, she would get a match.

Mrs. Gowdy too had her own schemes and wishes. She was surely and secretly putting by money, and intended Maggie to marry a minister, and if Jock went out in the world, and Andy took a wife, she had made up her mind to end her days in Glasgow, and in peace; leaving the young ones to carry on the farm. Ardnashiel was paying well; they had only lost five sheep that winter; they were getting good prices; she had no shepherds to pay, and no wages; it was little going out and most coming in. Of course, it was main dull for the bairns, puir bodies, but they were young—and could wait.

The moor surrounding the grim blue-grey home of the Gowdys was celebrated for an historical past, and a certain wild beauty peculiarly its own; the romantic winding glen, guarded by steep mountains, was watered by a capricious and picturesque river, which received many tributaries. A rough cart track connected the glen with a high road, which was seven miles distant, and in winter time the farmers and cotters of Ardnashiel were frequently cut off from the outer world for weeks. No wonder Maggie Gowdy dreaded these dark, dour days, the leaden skies, the vast outlook on snow—snow, nothing but snow. Her heart sank within her when, late in October, she watched the tenants of a neighbouring shooting lodge pass down the rutty tracks, with their servants, and luggage, and dogs—a long and imposing procession. As the last cart turned the corner and was lost to sight, Maggie had known what it was to rest her head between her knees and sob aloud.

Oh, winter was cruel to all the world, and especially to her; but her mother was a woman of extraordinary force of character, and kept everything going—the lads at the sheep-feeding and their books, and herself at sewing and knitting. Summer and Autumn made some amends; the streams ran merrily, the curlew called, the sheep bleated, the swallows and the shooters returned, and the white mountains were clothed in purple. When the day's work was over, the cows milked, the fowls fed, Mrs. Gowdy would repair to her parlour in order to add up her accounts. This was her period of mental refreshment, and if the lambs had sold well, and fleeces were heavy, her heart was light. Jean Gowdy lived meagrely below, in four rooms, a kitchen and three bedrooms. She and Maggie washed at the pump, and shared one bed and a sixpenny looking-glass.

But, like most self-respecting Scots folk, they had a sacred place apart—a parlour, where they received company and entertained the minister. This parlour had been handsomely plenished when Jean had come to the glen a newly-wedded wife. She was proud of it then—she was proud of it still. There was a green and red carpet, good mahogany chairs, and a shiny sofa in horsehair, a variety of framed photographs, two dyed sheepskin rugs, held down unnecessarily in the corners by large foreign shells, some oleographs of Rome and Naples, and a large picture of Queen Victoria; it was here, in a locked bureau, that Mrs. Gowdy kept her business documents, her bank book, and her will. Sitting there in her every-day gown and blue apron, with her bare arms and toil-worn hands, she looked more like a servant who was poking through her mistress's papers than the proprietor of the apartment. These were her moments of delicious relaxation. Her daughter's diversion took the form of a stroll as far as the next farm gate in the faint hope of meeting someone, or else she climbed up to the old churchyard, which commanded a magnificent prospect, and sat on a tombstone, building castles in the air, and railing at her fate. Her thoughts frequently turned to her father's brother Jamie, who, fifty years before, had gone to the East Indies, and got on from one thing to another, had owned hundreds of black men, and, it was even reported, elephants, and had died as rich as a duke, leaving thousands and thousands to his widow, but not one blessed bawbee to his own folk. Certainly, it was true that her father and Uncle Jamie had had high words and a bitter quarrel before he sailed, folks said, over a five-shilling piece, but they might be wrong. Anyhow, her mother allowed they had no good will to one another; but that was an old story, and she and her brothers were his near kin. He had married a foreign woman, had no family, and had made his home in the Indies, and never once came back to Scotland. His widow had, so they heard, adopted a baby, and brought her up like a princess; and there was she, his own flesh and blood, living on porridge, and working and washing like any common woman. What a scandal!

When Maggie thought of this other girl, set out in silks and jewels, and getting a grand education, and "chances," the blood fairly boiled in her veins. She was far more embittered and furious against this intruder than against her Uncle Jamie, or even his foreign wife. Here was she, Maggie Gowdy, imprisoned and held fast within these glens by poverty and a strong-willed mother, and she, though well enough looking and educated and young, would never have a chance to be anything but a drudge. She dared not throw off her mother's thrall; she had once talked of service, but it was to deaf ears, and here she was, nigh three-and-twenty and, as Jock had cruelly reminded her, "getting past her market." Oh, she felt mad-like—to think of the wasted years!

When Maggie's mind dwelt on these matters and on the remorseless monotony of her life, she felt distracted. She recalled how young Joe Macdonald used to come up the moor, by way of looking for a stray sheep, and how he had appeared at their chapel two Sundays running, and met her once in Perth; and then, all of a sudden, he cooled off, and took up with Allie McCrone, a yellow-haired girl, with a fortune of three hundred pounds! Her mother had said, "Never you mind, my lass, you shall have a fortune, too, as well as Allie. I was up for forty when I got married, but I brought your father four hundred pounds. It went to stock this place, and where we had one sheep then we have a score the noo. You have plenty of time yet—you wait."

It was late on an April evening in the glen, the snow had melted, and swelled the river far above its banks, the waterfalls were pouring down the hillsides, the small burns were noisy and boisterous, and Andy Gowdy, who had been to the town with the cart for coal and a bag of flour, was not sorry when he came to the last gate of all. As soon as he had "loused" the pony, he carried into the kitchen a sack of flour, a small parcel of tea and sugar, and a letter. This he brought to his mother, who was frying something over the fire.

"There's a letter for you," he drawled.

"Leave it there—it can bide. It's about the sheep wash and tar."

"I'm no so sure of that, it looks out of the ordinary, and the postmark is London."

"Land sakes—it's for the keeper above."

"Nay, it's for Mrs. Andy Gowdy, Ardnashiel."

"Then give it here. No, my hands is black—you read it, Andy."

Andy at once opened the letter and began:

"Lincoln's Inn Fields."

"Aye, didn't I tell ye it was aboot the farm!" interrupted his mother.

"No—no—listen here—to what it says," rejoined Andy, with heightened colour.

"Madam,—I have to acquaint you with the sudden death of Mrs. James Gowdy, which took place yesterday at the 'Beaufort Hotel' in Dover Street, Piccadilly. I am her solicitor, and aware that her will, though drawn up, is unsigned. Therefore, I believe, the fortune of her late husband devolves upon his next-of-kin, who I assume to be your children. I am making all arrangements for the funeral, which I propose should take place at Kensal Green on April 30. I fixed this date presuming that you and members of your family will be present. Kindly write instructions at once, or telegraph. Miss Chandos, Mrs. James Gowdy's adopted daughter, is at present at the Hotel. I beg to add that my firm, having conducted the business of Mrs. Gowdy for twenty years, are conversant with all its details, and we shall be happy to place our experience at your service.

"I remain, Madam,

"Yours faithfully,
"George Middlemass.

"To Mrs. Andrew Gowdy."

When Andy had finished reading the foregoing, he drew a long loud breath and looked around him. There was a dead silence. Mrs. Gowdy straightened her back, and still holding a sausage on a fork, stood staring hard at her son. Then she turned about, and snatching the pan off the fire, exclaimed:

"Well! to think of that! Losh me! It's ten thousand a year coming among ye. It's hard to credit!"

Maggie, who had been washing rubbers in the scullery, stood in the doorway with cold wet arms and crimson cheeks and eyes like two flames.

"What shall we do?" she asked, hysterically. "What shall we do?"

"First of all, thank God," rejoined her pious mother, "and then have a bit of supper before we begin to talk and make plans."

"I could not taste a mite!" cried Maggie, in a strange hoarse voice, "let us talk now, if we ever talked. We are not dumb beasts. Let the supper bide."

Mrs. Gowdy gazed at her daughter fixedly. The mere name of money had transformed the girl into another creature; a woman with an imperious countenance and a loud tongue.

"Well, well," she agreed, and she sat down and stared out of the window reflectively, whilst her children stood around in a dazed silence, momentarily speechless.

"We mun go to London in the morn," announced Mrs. Gowdy at last. "I see that plain. This is Thursday, and the letter has lain two days. Jock, the pony canna stir to-morrow; you mun run over and borrow Duncan's bay horse, and bring it back with you. We will start at daybreak, there's no call to be keeping the good money waiting, and we will just take a few bits of things and my papers. I have a ten-pound note above in my desk; Andy and Maggie will come with me, and you, Jock, mun mind the place."

"No, no, I'm not for agreeing to that," rejoined Jock, sullenly. "Why should I stay behind more than Andy or Mag. Have I no share in the fortune? I'm going!"

Here were a son and daughter defying her authority for the first time in their lives. And being a prudent and far-seeing woman, Mrs. Gowdy instantly realised that she was no longer dealing with children and dependents, subject to her thrall, but with the heirs of Jamie Gowdy's fortune, who, should she stand in their way, would cut themselves loose from her control. So much for money. In less than ten minutes it had occasioned a domestic revolution.

"Well, then, have yer way," she agreed. "I'm thinking of who's to mind the cows and the chickens—forby the sheep. You might cry in to Alec Macnab on yer way for the horse, and ask him and his son to give a look to the place, and he'll need to be here at streak of day. I'll make it worth their while. I'll give him a good fee."

"All right," agreed Jock, "I'll bring Alec back with me."

"Aye, and don't let on but what we are going to Glasgow on a bit of family business. No use giving out the news before we are well up in it ourselves."

"Aye, I'll mind that."

"Oh, won't the Flemings be wild," cried Maggie, "when they know it. Ten thousand a year—and maybe more! Ten thousand a year!" As she spoke, she hammered on the table with her wet red hands.

"Now go off like a good lad," urged Mrs. Gowdy to her son, "and bring over Alec and the bay horse. Mind ye, the train leaves the junction at ten o'clock the morn."

There was little sleep for anyone in Ardnashiel that night, and sunrise saw Jean Gowdy and her bairns clad in their Sunday clothes, driving through the dew-soaked glen, en route to establish their claim to a fortune.

CHAPTER VIII

The Gowdy family was jogging slowly down the valley, which looked brilliant in the early morning. The impetuous river raced alongside its companion, a steady, rutty road, twisting and swirling, foaming and flashing, rippling under rowan-beeches and tossing between great boulders its white locks on high. Maggie and the river had one impulse in common: they were both eager to escape from the glen; one drawn by the world—the other by the sea. Halfway to the highway the party encountered a boy with a telegram in his hand, which he held up as he announced:

"It's for Mistress Gowdy."

A horrible idea instantly occurred to the four travellers—it might contain something to put an end to their prospects! Telegrams in their experience invariably brought tidings of ruin, accidents or death.

"Give it here," cried Mrs. Gowdy in a hoarse key.

"There'll be six shillings to pay!"

"Yer daft!" screamed the thrifty matron, "yer telling a lee."

"It's no lee—it's the post-office, and I came awa' at six this morning. If yer going yonder ye can ask. But ye mun pay me the noo."

"Then giv it to me," said Mrs. Gowdy, and with tremulous fingers she tore open the envelope and read aloud:

"Hope you received letter respecting Mrs. James Gowdy's death and are coming to London immediately. Telegraph reply.—Middlemass."

"Oh, well"—with a sigh of relief—"so it's all right. But sax shillings—to think of it!" and to tell the truth, for the remainder of the drive (such is the force of habit), those poor six shillings had a more prominent position in Jean Gowdy's thoughts than the splendid prospect of thousands of pounds.

The very next forenoon a four-wheeled cab drove up to the office of Middlemass and Son, and from it descended the Gowdy party—who, after a long and protracted altercation with the cabman, dismissed him routed and grumbling, and then proceeded to enter the office, and present themselves to their man of business.

The widow in her decent black, her sons, with clever Scotch faces and the hands of hard-working men—clad in homespun and embarrassment, the daughter gay and complacent, with sparkling eyes and red cheeks, arrayed in a sailor hat and a gown of hunting tartan. Yes, they had all come with one consent to enter on their inheritance. Their papers were duly produced, and found to be in order—marriage and baptismal certificates had been registered in proper form, but the family were not prepared for the law's delays, and certain irritating formalities which must ensue before they could seize upon the Gowdy fortune. Mr. Middlemass soon realised that in Mrs. Andy Gowdy he had to deal with a sharp and capable woman of business. Her mind was clear; her questions were to the point, and she soon laid bare the fact that Miss Chandos was, to all purposes, now living luxuriously in a grand hotel, at their expense!

"She will, of course, leave after the funeral to-morrow," explained the attorney in a tone of apology, "I believe the suite was taken by the week."

For the Gowdys themselves, rooms were engaged at a temperance hotel—a sum of money was advanced for present expenses and mourning, and that night, for the first time in their lives, they dined under the glare of electric light, and were waited upon by brisk Germans.

The funeral of Madame de Godez was a pitiful affair for a woman who had such an immense circle of notable friends. There were only three mourning coaches, three private carriages, and about a dozen cheap wreaths.

The heirs-at-law occupied the first coach (and had never before driven behind a pair of horses). Verona and Mrs. Melville occupied the second vehicle, the doctor and man of business the third; the private carriages were empty!

At the cemetery the Gowdys for the first time beheld Miss Chandos. She was tall, and wore a long, black veil, and really appeared to be in grief!

They stood at opposite sides of the open grave—the penniless adopted daughter, with her air of refinement and delicate breeding, and the rough-looking farmer folk who were now so wealthy. The same afternoon Mrs. Gowdy and her family made a formal call upon the girl they had so unexpectedly supplanted, and were shown into a luxurious sitting-room, for which, whilst they waited, Maggie remarked, "they were paying good money."

In a few minutes Miss Chandos entered, unveiled. Her personality was so striking that Mrs. Gowdy so far forgot herself as to stand up and drop a half-curtsey, but Maggie never moved, merely sat and stared impassively. What was it, she wondered, that made this girl so different to herself? Her low voice, her long white throat, the delicacy of her hands, the natural dignity of her movements! Miss Chandos had something that she could never possess, and that never could be taken from her! Maggie realised the fact, with an increasing degree of stolid hatred.

"It is very kind of you to come and see me, Mrs. Gowdy," said the girl gently.

"Oh, well, we thought we would just call for you, as we are idle folk the noo—and see what like ye wer! It will be a sore change for ye, I'm thinking," she added.

"Yes, it was very sudden."

"And she made no will—nor left you a penny piece."

"No; but she meant to do so."

"There's justice in the Lord's sight!" declared this daughter of the Covenanters with a lifted hand, "and He cut her off before she could will the whole of my children's heritage to a stranger!"

This was not a gracious speech. Her listener coloured vividly, but made no reply.

"I'm real sorry for you, but you have had a good day and a fine education, and I suppose ye have gran' acquaintance?"

"Yes, I have some friends."

"And ye have plans, maybe?"

"Yes; I shall remain with Mrs. Melville for a time, and then join my own family in India."

"Oh, so you are an Indian!" exclaimed Mrs. Gowdy. "Well, to think of that, now, and you so fair! Mrs. James, I've always heard, was awfu' swarthy."

"My parents are English. I was brought home when I was quite small."

"Aye, aye; so ye were," assented her visitor. "I mind it all. Mr. Middlemass has been talking to me, and he wants us to make you an allowance. But you have your own folk, and I see no call to that!" Verona was about to speak. "Whist, now," interrupted her visitor, "of course your clothes and jewels and presents are your own." Then she paused and added: "Mrs. James Gowdy had gran' gowns and laces and diamonds, and her belongings will be coming to me." Verona assented with a bow. "I've agreed to pay your passage out, and give you three hundred pounds."

Verona could not immediately trust her voice. She would have rejoiced to decline this liberal charity, but was keenly aware that it would be her sole means of joining her parents.

Should she refuse the dole? "No," urged common-sense, "accept the crumb." And again she bowed in acquiescence.

Maggie, who had never once opened her lips, sat glowering at this English girl with a gaze of hard enmity, endeavouring to impress on her memory her manner of doing her hair, of moving, speaking and looking. Yes, she might for all the world be some great lady, and yet she was nothing but a beggar, on whom her mother had just bestowed a fortune.

"And now I think we must be going," said Mrs. Gowdy as she rose stiffly, shook out her gown, and offered a large, black-gloved member, the fingers of which were at least an inch too long.

Jean Gowdy was a kind-hearted, motherly soul, and as she held Verona's hand she squeezed it and said:

"Good-bye, miss; I know it's an awful come-down for you, and an uprise for us. You have a lucky face, and I wish you well."

Maggie merely bestowed a quick nod of condescension, the two men a couple of admiring stares as they shuffled out of the room in the wake of their women-folk.

Exit the Gowdys! Their accession to wealth, their sudden emergence from obscurity to social prominence, the success of Jock and the marriage of Maggie would fill a volume, and this history is exclusively concerned with the affairs and fortunes of another family.

CHAPTER IX

Her clothes and personal possessions—such as music, books (and [last, but not least] jewels)—were all that the deposed heiress carried away, when she left London with Mrs. Melville. The entire wardrobe of the late Madame de Godez was confiscated by her sister-in-law, who subsequently made a brave display in various gorgeous garments; whilst Maggie, in a red "creation," by Worth, was a sight for men, and gods! Oh, the purchaser of these superb confections, little, little dreamt who was to flaunt in her plumes, and to stand in her shoes!

Miss Chandos experienced the first effects of her change of circumstances when she travelled down to Halstead second class, looked after the luggage and secured seats, whilst her friend took the tickets and paid the cabman.

Her reception at the Manor was warm; from the old coachman's "Welcome back, miss," to the parrot's screech, "Verona, kiss me!" She once more occupied her own bedroom, in which nothing had been changed since she quitted it, five years previously, in order to follow her adopted mother into fashionable life. Here were the same old samplers, the paintings of Venice and Vesuvius, the dimity curtains in the windows, the hideous china dogs on the mantelpiece, the well-known writing table and cosy armchair. There was the same familiar bright outlook on the garden—and the unfamiliar quiet of the country. It was like returning into harbour after an extensive cruise, in order to refit for yet another voyage. She was about to refit and make a fresh departure; to begin life with her own people; to visit long-desired India!

The years with Madame de Godez had flashed by in a succession of splendid scenes, and kaleidoscopic views of strange countries, and strange faces. Now it all seemed singularly unreal. And when Verona sat in the bow window of the drawing-room, and watched the brown pony grazing on the lawn—saw the spaniel chasing his mortal enemy, the kitchen cat, out of the garden, whilst the jackdaw flapped applause—it seemed as if she had only been absent a few weeks. Those glittering scenes at Monte Carlo, and Aix, and Paris, were all so many dreams—merely dreams! Her old friends and neighbours, the folk in the village, were delighted to welcome her back among them, the only change she felt was the absence of Madge—who six months previously had married an officer and departed to Malta. Verona was thankful that in her day of prosperity she had had it in her power to delight Madge with diamonds. Auntie had been generous, and had bestowed on the bride a set of superb sables.

Now she could no longer indulge in what had been one of her chief pleasures—buying gifts. There was her own jewel case; she unlocked it and exhibited the contents to Mrs. Melville. It contained various proofs of madame's wealth, and eye for effect. A long chain of pearls, a variety of rings and bangles, brooches, a watch set in brilliants, and several ornaments, including a magnificent diamond bow for the hair or corsage.

"Well, no, if you take my advice, you will not sell them," counselled Mrs. Melville. "They are worth a great deal of money, and if you must part with them, I believe you could get a better price in India; some native nobleman might purchase the pearls. Of course, dear, if you like to dispose of them here, and invest the money, do; but I expect you will only get half of what they are really worth. You say the pearls cost nine hundred?"

"Yes, and auntie was always begging me to have diamonds, and rubies, and emeralds, but I always said 'No.' Even as it was I had far too much jewellery. This diamond and emerald pendant is exquisite—is it not?" and she held it up to her throat.

"It is; and I wish, since this represents your entire fortune, you had accepted madame's offer; for after all you have not such a wonderful supply!"

"More than ample—to wear, or to sell—and I will take your advice and keep them. I—I should like"—here she lowered her voice and coloured a little—"my mother to have the diamonds."

And with this generous wish she closed the jewel case.

Verona had written to her mother immediately after the death of Madame de Godez. Mr. Middlemass informed her of her address (and he had also despatched a few lines on his own behalf).

Her letter said:

"My dear Mother,

"I cannot tell you with what intense happiness I write these three words; for until a month ago I believed I was an orphan. My kind adopted mother is dead. She died most suddenly of apoplexy, and, meaning nothing but love and kindness to me, left her will unsigned, and all she possessed has passed to her husband's next-of-kin—a family of Scotch farmers. These people dislike me because they consider that for many years I have enjoyed their uncle's money. They have taken possession of everything, but intend to defray my passage out to India, and give me three hundred pounds. I have no ties in this country, and am longing to go to my own people. Amidst much trouble and worry, and a great change of circumstances, I have one indescribable joy, the prospect of soon seeing my father, and you. Madame de Godez had, until a month ago, kept me entirely in the dark respecting my birth and parentage. I was her child, and no more information would she divulge; but not long ago I contrived to break down her reserve, and she informed me with great reluctance, that you and my father were alive, and that I had brothers and sisters. More than this she would not disclose, and never spoke of the subject but once. I gather that my father is not wealthy, but you will find that I can adapt myself to circumstances, and I hope to be a useful addition to the family. I have had an excellent education; I have a strong constitution and can work hard. I have always wondered why I felt so drawn towards the East, but now I understand at last. I am staying with Mrs. Melville at Halstead Manor, where I once lived for nine years, it was here I was educated and brought up. I would start off at once, so anxious am I to see you, but Mrs. Melville advises me to wait for a reply to this letter, and also until the monsoon has broken. She suggests my leaving England in July. Dearest mother, I am counting the very days till we meet. You will spare a little love for me, will you not? I am always picturing you to myself, and I have made up my mind that you are like someone I know, and who I have always wished were my mother.

"Ever your most loving and happy daughter,
"Verona Chandos."

It would take (so she had calculated) about five weeks to receive an answer to this letter, and during these five weeks Verona renewed her friendship with people and animals: became a delightful deputy daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Melville, busied herself in making preparations for her passage, and buying suitable gifts for her unknown relations. It was near the end of June, when a letter, with an Indian stamp, in an unknown, somewhat shaky writing, lay beside Verona's plate at breakfast time. She opened it tremulously. It was written on cheap thin paper, and at the top was stamped:

"Manora Sugar Factory,
"Near Rajahpore.

"Dear Verona,

"I am writing in reply to your letter, to assure you that we shall be glad to see you, although we have not much to offer, except a welcome. I fear, after what you have been accustomed to, that you will find our mode of life an uncomfortable change, but you are young and full of hope and courage, and everything will be a novelty.

"I am sorry Madame de Godez is dead, and that she had made no provision for you. At the same time, we shall all be pleased to welcome you into what is your real home, and will look for your name in the passenger list of the steamer leaving London the second week in August. Write again, and tell us your plans.

"I am, your affectionate father.
"Paul Chandos.

"P.S.—Your mother sends her love."

This epistle was a little disappointing to Verona, the echo to her appeal seemed so faint, but after all it was a letter from her father. They were all ready to welcome her, and if not so eager to see her, as she was to see them, she remembered that they were accustomed to family intercourse—they were many living together—she alone out in the darkness, looked towards their hearth as the beacon of her happiness. Verona reflected for a short time, and then decided to show her father's letter to Mrs. Melville, who for her part found it both kind and sensible, and said so, greatly to Verona's relief, and that same day she wrote and engaged her passage by a steamer which sailed in three weeks' time.

As she went singing about the garden, culling roses, and accompanied by the dogs, Mr. Melville—a good grave man, with a spade-shaped beard, and a taste for archæology—said to his wife—

"Lucy, I wish we could keep that child with us."

"So do I. She has always been one of ourselves, almost ever since she came here, a little decked-out, Frenchified doll, speaking broken English. But her heart is set upon her own people."

"Yes, and she knows nothing about them, nor, for that matter, do we."

"We know that her father is a man of good family—one of the Chandos of Charne."

"And the black sheep for all you can tell," interrupted Mr. Melville.

"Come, don't make the worst of it, Joe!"

"Yes, it's bad enough as it is. This girl, brought up with a taste for everything money can buy, and left without any provision. I call it a most shameful, abominable business. Verona will never understand shifts and scraping. She will have to put up with a vile climate, and to adapt herself to a new life. Now Madge is away, and Robert is at sea, I think she might remain on as our adopted daughter. She does the flowers for you, and mends my gloves, and cuts my papers, and plays picquet, and sends back my books to the London library—we shall not be able to spare her."

"My dear Joe, I'm afraid we must, sorely as we want her, and much as I believe she loves us. Her heart, as I've already assured you, is with her own people. If we kept her with us, she would be continually pining to fly away, like a robin in a cage."

"I sincerely hope her expectations may be realised, but I think it is a risky experiment, attaching oneself to a hitherto unknown family."

"She will be an acquisition anywhere, so lively and so sweet tempered, and entirely unconscious of herself. Her great social success never made the smallest difference to us; she wrote to me as regularly as Madge. I believe she had no end of offers of marriage—including one from a prince!"

"Oh, well, I cannot exactly credit that. And anyway, I can assure you, she will never have a chance of becoming a princess in India. Joking apart, I'm really anxious about the child. Do you have a good talk to her, Lucy, and try once more, if she will not accept the bird in the hand, and remain with us, for the birds in the bush may be of doubtful plumage."

"I will see what I can do," assented Mrs. Melville, "but in return for your half proverb, I will give you a whole one."

"What may it be?"

"Far off hills are green."

Joselyn Melville made no attempt to argue the question further, but merely resumed the Guardian with a grunt.

In three weeks' time Mr. and Mrs. Melville accompanied their charge to Tilbury, and when they saw the Arabia leave her moorings, waved good-bye to Verona with as much emotion as if she had been their own child.

CHAPTER X

At four o'clock in the afternoon the chief event of the day, the Bombay mail, was due at Rajahpore. The railway station was crammed, not merely with passengers, but idlers and loafers, who attended this train in order to see the people who were going North, and to gather jokes, scraps of gossip, and news. Soldiers were present in considerable force, as well as the local police, and numbers of Eurasians and natives, all assembled with the harmless object of enjoying a slight break in the monotony of their existence.

It was on a platform seething with strange faces, strange costumes and a strange nationality that Verona Chandos alighted and looked about her, with a vague, bewildered stare. She glanced hurriedly around in quest of her father, mother and sisters—her own people. Surely they were somewhere among this crowd! Her heart beat in rapid jerks as she noticed a tall lady in grey and a lad, who were peering into the carriages, evidently in search of friends. Yes—and had discovered them! This soldierly man in riding kit, with erect figure and alert eye—no! A young officer in khaki had come forward and carried him off, and Verona realised with a painful sensation that no one appeared to be awaiting her. The crowd hustled, and pushed, and clamoured by—sweetmeat sellers, fruit hawkers shouted their wares, porters rattled their trucks and excited parties of newly-arrived natives chattered together like a flock of parrots.

At last the scene began to clear and her attention was attracted by one solitary figure—a tall, elderly man, standing aloof in the background. In spite of a shabby sun hat and a suit of shrivelled white drill he had the unmistakable appearance of a gentleman. His features were finely cut, he wore a grizzled moustache, but the face was marked by that indefinable expression presented by life's failures, and his air was timid, even apologetic, as if he felt that he was an intruder in the throng.

Verona had surprised him looking at her with a quick, furtive glance, instantly withdrawn. Oh no, the shabby gentleman, with the saddest eyes she had ever encountered, could not be anything to her, and strangling the thought at its birth, she turned away to claim her luggage.

Boxes and belongings, each marked "V. C.," had all been duly collected, and for this service she was thanking the guard, when, in reply to his nod of indication, she turned about and found the man from the background at her elbow.

"Pardon me," he faltered, lifting his hat, and his voice though well bred was tremulous, "is your name—Chandos?"

"Yes," she answered quickly, but the colour had left her lips, "and—and—you are my father!"

His face grew livid as he murmured "Verona," and for a second he seemed so overcome with agitation that he was unable to speak. Then he took her hand—she felt his own tremble—and brushing her cheek with his wiry moustache, murmured:

"My child, you are welcome."

As she looked up into his face she read amazement, incredulity, awe.

"Oh! am I so very different to what you expected?" she asked with a little breathless laugh.

"God knows you are!" was the startling reply. Then, pulling himself together, he added:

"I've a man here who will take charge of all your baggage," beckoning to a Peon with a large brass badge on his sash.

"The victoria only holds two—so I came alone. Let me carry your wrap and bag."

"Is it far to Manora?" she inquired.

"About four miles."

"Because I am so thirsty. May I have a glass of water?"

"Water—no!" he rejoined with unexpected decision; "But come along and have a cup of tea. I ought to have thought of it before; you must be choked with dust. I've got out of the way of—of——" The remainder of the sentence was inaudible, as he opened the door into a lofty, white-washed room, where several men were lounging at a long refreshment bar.

Verona received an impression of quantities of bananas and buns; swarms of flies and staring faces. As she stood sipping some hot weak tea, from a very thick cup, a dapper little man, with a shiny face and prominent blue eyes, approached and accosted her father in an off-hand manner.

"Hullo, Chandos! I've never seen you here before. What has brought you out of your shell?" he asked with an air of lofty condescension.

Mr. Chandos looked momentarily embarrassed, and then replied, rather formally:

"How do you do, Major Gale. I came to meet my daughter."

"Your daughter!" and in the echo there was a note of incredulity, bordering on derision, but the little officer accepted the half introduction and bowed profoundly as he said:

"Charmed to make her acquaintance."

Verona resented his air of free and easy patronage, and met the stranger's full, bold gaze, with a pair of cold, unchanging eyes.

There was a chilling pause, during which the little officer quickly summed up the new "Spin"; her grand manner, dainty linen costume, expensive travelling case and ruffled wrap.

As the result of this inspection he turned abruptly to Mr. Chandos and exclaimed:

"I say! I'd no idea you'd been married before!"

Whatever reply was forthcoming it proved unintelligible, for Mr. Chandos was searching and fumbling in his pockets, and there was a hint of colour in his worn face as he turned to the waiter and said:

"I've no money with me. I'll settle with you next time I'm in—you know who I am!"

"How much is it? I'll make it all right," volunteered Major Gale.

"One rupee, Saar," said the turbanned kritmetgar.

Here Verona interposed, authoritatively:

"Thank you very much; I will pay for my tea," and promptly produced the necessary coin.

"No one carries money in India," explained Major Gale; "we all go on tick or borrow, as you'll soon find out. Just arrived?"

"Yes," assented the lady. The "yes" was like a hailstone.

"From England?"

"Yes." Another hailstone.

"I'm afraid you'll find Manora a bit slow! Eh? We are having our sports on the twentieth. I hope you all come in. Eh——?"

Verona set down her cup and glanced interrogatively at her father. She was anxious to depart.

"Oh, no use asking him," resumed the other, with a jocular air. "He buries himself alive. Lots of people don't know of his existence; awful mistake to cut the Service and take to sugar—eh, Chandos?"

"It suits me all right," he answered in a quick, troubled voice. Then as an afterthought:

"I will give your invitation to my wife, thank you. Now, Verona, if you are ready?"

"Quite ready," and with a slight inclination of her head she took leave of her new acquaintance, and walked out of the refreshment room.

Mr. Chandos piloted his daughter into a wide space at the back of the station, where a victoria was in waiting, with a showy bay arab in the shafts and a man with a gigantic red turban and blue and red coat on the box. His feet were bare, which struck Verona as peculiar.

"We can start at once," said her father, handing her in as he spoke; "Hassan will see to the baggage," and he indicated a long, clumsy conveyance, drawn by two water buffaloes, into which primitive concern her boxes were already being hoisted.

In another moment they were whirled away from the station along a flat, white road—indeed, the whole country seemed as flat as a billiard table. They trotted through a narrow bazaar, full of customers, domestic animals and gaudy little shops; occasionally they were obliged to pull up until a recumbent cow or goat saw fit to rise and suffer them to pass. From the bazaar the road led to a steep bridge, and as they crossed it Mr. Chandos pointed out various objects.

"There is the city," he said, "this side of the river. Two hundred thousand inhabitants. Where you see the spire and trees, is the cantonment. We live farther out in this direction."

"And have you no neighbours?"

"Oh, any amount. We are a community of our own. The factory employs some hundreds of natives, and about thirty English and Eurasians."

"Eurasian!" she echoed; "Oh, what a pretty name! What is a Eurasian?"

A spasm of pain seemed to contract her father's face, but he appeared not to have heard the question. It was evidently his habit to occasionally ignore or misunderstand what was said to him.

"Had you a good passage, my dear?" he asked.

"Only pretty good. Hot in the Red Sea and rough off Aden."

Here several passing coolies salaamed to her father, and he acknowledged their greeting with a jerk of his hand.

"What a charming salutation!" she exclaimed; "I like it so much better than our nodding and scraping."

"I'm afraid it's the only thing you will like," he remarked with a sigh. "Our life will be irksome, I'm afraid. We are real Anglo-Indians, and have made our home out here."

"I shall like my home, you may be sure," she declared, "my home and my people. How long is it since you were in England, father?"

"Twenty-eight years."

"Oh! almost a lifetime. How is my mother?"

"As usual."

"And my sisters—what are their names?"

"Blanche, Dominga, and Pussy—her real name is Bellamina. Blanche is married to a young man in the telegraph department. She has a little boy."

"My nephew! How delightful."

Mr. Chandos gave a curious little laugh, and resumed:

"Pussy is nearly twenty-four; then you come; then Dominga—she is twenty, and Nicky is seventeen."

"Oh, I do hope they will all like me," said Verona, as she turned a beautiful enthusiastic face on the shattered man at her side.

He glanced at this refined English girl, with her reposeful manners and air of culture and elegance. It was like gazing through an open window on some former state of existence, when all the world seemed young and gay and he had life before him. Well, he was now a grey derelict, expiating his follies in exile. He found it impossible to realize that the lovely eager girl at his side was his very own daughter; the little Verona that twenty years ago they had, much against his will, consigned to Fernanda Gowdy.

She had come back again—as what? To curse him—or to bless?

"Your sisters are not the least like you," he remarked in a harsh, abrupt voice; "they are uneducated girls—simple and emotional. They have only seen life from a sugar factory, and their ideas are cramped and circumscribed; you must make allowances for them. Whatever they are—I believe they mean well."

"Of course they do, and you need not ask me to make allowances for my own sisters. I am only too happy and thankful to think that I shall be with them always—and my mother."

As this conversation took place, the carriage was passing along a winding road, fenced with dusty cactus and an occasional row of acacia trees, but generally running between high standing crops of dense sugar cane. The old bay Arab stepped out well, and before long a square, high tower came into view; then gradually the outline of factory and bungalows, all thrown into sharp relief by a deep crimson sky. Suddenly the victoria rolled into a wide shady avenue, lined with thick trees and bushes, which ultimately widened into a little park, bordered with a number of picturesque bungalows, each standing apart. At the far end was a fine imposing abode, with a great verandah and sloping lawns.

"That is Mr. Lepell's house," explained Mr. Chandos. "He is manager of the factory."

"Why, father, I thought you were manager?"

"I!"—in a tone of ironical scorn. "No; I'm a mere bottle-washer, a subordinate, and will never be anything else."

They now dashed by a group of people who were playing tennis with screams and shoutings; and paused abruptly in their game to stare; and drove on to a bungalow half-concealed from the road by thick bushes; the porch and verandah were entirely screened with lattice work.

As they approached Verona's heart beat fast, and she was aware of several white figures—which had hitherto been stationed like outposts—flying within to give notice of her arrival.

But when the victoria came to a standstill under the porch there was no one to be seen, and the girl was conscious of her father's long indrawn breath, as he handed her out and said:

"I think they are all a little afraid—a little shy, of their English sister. Come into the house and I will fetch them."

The drawing-room opened directly into the verandah, and on first entering it seemed dark; but Verona soon groped her way to a sofa and sat down to wait, whilst her father departed in order to summon the family.

CHAPTER XI

As Verona waited alone in this dim, unfamiliar room, her heart throbbed quickly; more than once she caught her breath with an involuntary gasp, for she realized that she was on the threshold of the most momentous event of her life; within the next few seconds she would be face to face with her mother.

Picture the situation! For twenty years this girl had lived with strangers, moving among friendly family circles, but belonging to none; secretly envious of home and blood ties. Although she bestowed her affections generously, an enormous reserve fund was stored up in her heart, ready to be lavished on someone near and dear, and someone near and dear was coming now. As she gazed with eyes grown deep with longing towards the curtained doors, her feelings were indescribable; in spite of the close, airless atmosphere, she was icy cold, and her clammy hands trembled in her lap.

Half unconsciously she contemplated her surroundings, the imposing grand piano, blackwood carved furniture, upholstered in red damask, marble-topped tables, Indian rugs, and three high doors, corresponding with the French windows. The room resembled a salon in some foreign hotel; no flowers, photographs or books were to be seen, much less a cat or dog, a rumpled newspaper, or scrap of work; but there was a curious unfamiliar odour, a mysterious combination of musk and coffee. To judge by their bungalow and the smart victoria, her parents were in easy circumstances—the standard of wealth in the East presumably differed from that in the West; poverty in England meant luxury in Manora. It was true that her father's clothes were shabby, but she was aware that some elderly men despised their personal appearance; and had not her father administered a shock? A sharp unexpected disappointment? Angrily she drove away the fact, but like an irritating insect, it returned with determined persistence.

He was undoubtedly a gentleman, his features were finely cut, his voice and manner unimpeachable, but there was a hidden tragedy in those weary eyes and timid deprecating air. What was the experience which had crushed all the light out of his face? and why did he look as if he abode day and night with the giant Despair? Was his haggard expression merely the result of ill-health, or, in consequence, of the doom of exile? Then her thoughts sprang back to that central figure—her mother. Oh, when would she come? What was detaining her?

Presently Verona became aware of a stealthy hustling and scuffling outside one of the curtained doors; her relations were evidently in her immediate vicinity. There was a sound of half-suppressed squeaks, of giggling and tittering, then a voice, in a well-known accent, cried:

"Oh, goody me! Pussy, Pussy, come along!"

Instantly the reply in breathless jerks, like a double knock, "No! no! no! you go!—you go!"

And now the drapery over another entrance vibrated—was briskly whisked aside, and someone came into the room. Verona was so agitated she could hardly rise, as she saw approaching a little elderly woman, with a frizzy fringe, eager black eyes, and a girlish figure. She noticed that she wore a buff-coloured cotton dress with dark spots and a wide scarlet necktie; and even by the diminishing light the girl discerned that the stranger was dark; oh, much darker than Prince Tossati—or even Madame de Godez!

"Well, Verona, child," she began in a high staccato key as she advanced and took her hand, "so you have come! My goodness, how tall you are! You must stoop for me to kiss you."

Verona paused for a moment, irresolute, wondering who this person might be? but bent her head as requested, in order to receive a salute.

"My! you are a great big girl," continued the little woman; "but tall girls are the fashion—so the papers say!"

As she noticed that Verona's eyes were still gazing beyond her, and fixed intently on the door, she cried:

"Whatt are you doing, child? Why are you staring so?"

"I am expecting my mother; is she coming soon?" she faltered, in a low tone.

"Soon," repeated the little dark woman, with a scream of hysterical laughter, "why, she is here, child! Don't you know that I am your mother? Whatt a funny girl! My! whatt a joke!"

"You," stammered Verona, in a faint voice; the room was whirling round, as she hastily put out her hand to support herself by the table.

"Why, of course, and who else?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, in a sharp challenging key. "You are astonished because I am so small; I am astonished because you are so big, so we are quits. No?"

Verona could not speak; she felt as if a rock had fallen upon her heart and was seized by a choking sensation that threatened to strangle her. It was the crucial moment of her life. A thunderbolt had shattered her personality; her very identity seemed dissolved, who was she? What was she? Vainly she struggled to realize that she was the daughter of this half-caste woman! Yes, she, with all her delicate fastidiousness, her uncontrollable antipathy to black blood—her invincible pride of race.

Poor old Madame was indeed prophetic, when she had talked of "punishment." What a sentence! It was worse than death.

Fortunately the light was dim, the sudden Indian twilight had invaded the room, for Verona's face was fixed and frozen in an ecstasy of horror.

"You don't seem to have much to say for yourself," began Mrs. Chandos, in a querulous, complaining tone, but before she had completed the sentence her husband entered, closely followed by two young women, and a slouching youth in a gaudy red blazer.

"Ah, you and your mother have met," he observed in an unnatural muffled voice. "So you have seen her?"

"Who could see anyone in this light?" cried his wife. "Here is the lamp," as a bearded servant entered, carrying a large argand, which he placed on the table.

"Now I'm going to have a good look at Verona," announced Mrs. Chandos, as she seized the girl's wrist in a fierce claw-like clutch—her tiny hand resembled the paw of a marmoset—and led her nearer to the light. The scrutiny proved to be critical, it was more—it was cruel; the hard, eager eyes that stared into hers, were keen as sword points, and the unhappy girl realized that no love lay within that searching gaze.

Releasing her daughter with a little contemptuous push, Mrs. Chandos turned to her husband, and said, "She's like no one I've ever seen; I suppose you think Verona takes after your family," and she laughed, as if this idea embodied an excellent joke.

"Yes, I believe she does," admitted Mr. Chandos, as he glanced at the white, set face with a look of anxious deprecation.

"Well, now we must introduce Verona to her sisters and brother," pursued his wife; "this is Dominga," as she led forward a tall, slim girl of twenty, with a bleached complexion and masses of splendid red hair; her eyes were long and narrow, her nose delicately cut, her lips were full; as she pressed them on Verona's cheek they were dry and burning like two coals.

"And here is Pussy; her real name is Bellamina." Pussy, who was shy, approached wriggling and giggling. She was dark and plump, but had a sweet good-tempered face, and her eyes were magnificent. She looked up timidly at her pale English sister, and in another second Pussy had flung her arms around her neck and given her her first really cordial embrace.

"Oh, my goodness, Verona!" she gasped, "you are a beautee, just like a picture. I shall love you, I know."

"And here is Nicky," continued Mrs. Chandos, dragging up a reluctant youth, with his long lank wrists bare of cuff, his wiry hair on end, his sunken eyes twinkling and mischievous. Nicky grinned from ear to ear, but made no attempt to salute his relative.

"So now you have seen them all except Blanche, and she will come to-morrow," said Mrs. Chandos. "Oh, my! how funny it is, to have one great big, new daughter, just like a stranger, is it not, Verona?"

"Yes," she acquiesced, mechanically, scarcely aware that she had spoken. Was this scene really happening, or was it not some hideous dream?

"If old Fernanda had not been so weecked we should never have seen you at all. No?" Mrs. Chandos concluded most of her sentences with a staccato-like note of negation.

"Which would have been our misfortune," supplemented Mr. Chandos, with unexpected force. "We are all glad to claim Verona."

As he spoke his eyes rested on this mute newcomer with a look of melancholy pride. Here was the only one among his children who was a true Chandos in bearing and breeding; the little fledgling who, twenty years previously, had, despite his remonstrances, been thrust out of the nest. What a difference her companionship would have made to him!—an ever present reminder of his home and youth. Would she be a comfort to him now? or would she hate and despise him (he cringed mentally at the thought) for having given her such a mother?

"And now you have seen us all, what do you think of us?" demanded Mrs. Chandos.

Verona was still too stunned to speak; her sole reply was a sickly smile.

"You know all about Blanche."

"And she doesn't count now she's married," protested Dominga; "she made such a bad match; he is only in the telegraph at one hundred and twenty rupees a month. Oh, she was a mad girl!"

"Come, I wonder what you think of us," reiterated her mother, who seemed determined to extract some reply to her question. "My! how white you look! You are tired; better have some tea, it is arl ready."

"No, thank you," faltered Verona, "I had some at the station."

"Whatt," wheeling sharply on her husband, "thatt was just waste, and must have cost one rupee; but you always have these grand lord ways when you are alone, and you forget your big family and small pay. No?"

Verona listened, mentally benumbed; her eyes seemed too large for her face; she looked white and worn, and years older than the girl who so eagerly alighted at Rajahpore an hour previously; but of all the gazing group, the wretched girl's father alone comprehended her sensations; his heart ached for her cruel disillusion. He had intended to drop a word, a little, little hint on their way home—but cowardice had laid her finger on his lips!

"I am sure your sister is tired," he said, glancing hurriedly at Pussy as he spoke; he dared not meet Verona's eyes, tragic with misery and pain. "Take her away, like a good girl, and show her her room." Oh, thrice, thrice blessed escape! Pussy, the ever impulsive, instantly flung her arm round Verona's waist, while Dominga held aside the purdah, and the three sisters passed forth.

"Of course, it is all strange to you at first," began Dominga, leading the way with a swaggering gait and the heavy trail of some sickly perfume, "but you will soon seem like one of the family, you will see, and just as if you had lived here arl-ways."

What a prospect!

CHAPTER XII

The apartment into which Verona was formally conducted proved large and airy—somewhat of the barn-like type.

"And you're to have it to yourself!" announced Dominga, with an impressive gesture. "Father made an awful fuss, and had it newly matted, and white-washed, and see! it opens on the back verandah." As she spoke she unfastened a glass door and admitted a splendid Eastern moon, which illuminated the whole country and displayed a wide river within a few yards of the bungalow. The room was furnished in simple Indian style; a small cot, large wardrobe and bare dressing-table, on which stood a bowl of exquisite roses. Dominga indicated with increased complacency a rickety little Davenport. "Father had it put in; he said English ladies write letters in their bedrooms."

"It was very thoughtful of him," murmured Verona, and oh, how devoutly she wished that these two girls would go away and leave her to herself. But no! having been cut off from her society for so many years, her sisters were anxious—not to say determined—to enjoy it now. They fidgetted round the dressing-table, talking incessantly and together, devouring her all the time with their eyes. "My! what wonderful hair you have!" cried Pussy, when Verona removed her hat, "and every bit as much as Dominga. Just look, Dom."

Dominga nodded acquiescence as she stroked it with a patronising touch, and declared:

"Oh, yes—it is theek." Then she glanced into the mirror, which was large, and portrayed two faces—nay, three—for Pussy now leant forward, and added herself to the group.

Verona, in the middle, was the tallest of the trio; her two Eurasian sisters beamed triumphantly on her reflection and their own.

"Oh no, no, no; we are not one bit a—like!" announced Pussy with a giggle, "who would suppose we were relations?"

"But she has a great look of me," proclaimed Dominga; "her hair grows in the same way, her nose is the same shape. We must certainly dress alike! although I am so fair and you," glancing at Verona, "are so very dark. What do you say?"

Verona nodded assent; she could not have uttered a word were it to save her life.

Her sister's remark enforced a terrible and tragic truth—she was very dark. On the other hand, Dominga was more of a Chandos than a Lopez, and her appearance was not altogether out of keeping with a long line of patrician ancestors. Her head was small and well set on, and her air was distinctly imperious. Besides these advantages she had magnificent hair, and a thin delicate profile. A tinge of colour in her cheeks and lips would have transformed Dominga into a beauty; unfortunately her skin was as white and dead as any sunbleached bone.

As she stood gazing into the glass the mirror reflected three faces, and of the trio, her own, in Dominga's opinion, was infinitely the fairest. It was possibly the most uncommon: being instinct with a peculiar fiery vitality. A striking—but scarcely what is called "a good face"—the jaw was a little square, the lips were a little cruel, the brilliant grey-green eyes were a little hard, a countenance that could look animated, alluring, impassioned, or implacable, reckless and grim. Like many red-haired women Dominga generally wore green—it was her favourite, and she believed, most flattering colour. On the present occasion her white cambric gown was enlivened by a vivid shade of emerald in belt and tie, and she surveyed her reflection with affectionate complacency as she remarked:

"Still, I daresay the same colours will suit us—we are both so pale! I am longing to see your dresses. Now I wonder if your boxes have come? I'll just go and ask if there's any sign of that bandy?" and with obliging alacrity the fair Miss Chandos quitted the room.

"Dominga is mother's favourite," announced Pussy. "Mother is awfullee proud of her hair and her dead-white skin and her figure. She is sure to be fond of you too; you are so pretty. But when she first heard you were coming—my! but she was mad! She said she would not have you, and she would not write. You see," and Pussy's soft dark eyes became apologetic, "we are so many girls, and Blanche was, oh, such a trouble! I'm afraid"—stopping short—"you have a headache. You look so seedy."

"Yes," assented Verona, "I have a dreadful headache."

"It is the horrid train; you will be better after dinner, I know. I will go and hurry it."

What a relief, if only for a moment, to get that ceaseless chatter out of her ears! To have a little breathing space in which to realize her position! Verona was conscious of a sick buzzing in her brain as she sat down, closed her eyes tightly, and endeavoured to collect her thoughts, and lay hold of her self-possession. Truly, she had found her own people; she was one of them now—always and for ever! No wonder she had felt drawn to the East, since its blood ran in her veins! Her outlook on life must be entirely re-focussed; her former aims and illusions lay shattered around her. The unhappy girl sat there, as it were, among the very ruins of her hopes. But solitude and meditation were luxuries far too valuable to be enjoyed for any length of time. A loud thumping on the door aroused Verona from a sort of stupor, and a voice called: "Rona, Rona, dinner! Come a—long!" Outside in the passage Pussy was waiting in ambush, and when her sister appeared, literally fell upon her, and led her triumphantly into the dining-room.

Mrs. Chandos was already seated at table, soup ladle in hand. She had made no change in her dress, but her husband—who hurried in with a muttered apology—wore a white open coat, white shirt and red silk cummerbund, the lingering instinct of the English officer and gentleman. A yellow shaded lamp in the middle of the table was supported by two dishes, one of custard apples and the other of butter cakes. The meal itself was solid and plentiful, and consisted of river fish, baked kid, curry, and cocoanut pudding. Most of the menu was absolutely new to Verona, but although she had not tasted food for hours she was unable to eat; her throat felt constricted and her head burned. Mrs. Chandos viewed such a poor appetite as a direct personal grievance, and—despite her daughter's almost tearful protestations, hinted at "airs" and "pride." The other young people ate heartily, not to say gluttonously, and devoured the hot curry and butter cakes with a relish that was amazing. Beyond a little wrangling among themselves (Verona caught such expressions as "You get out!" "You don't talk to me like thatt!"), they contributed nothing to the general conversation. The head of the house wore the rigid look of a mask and scarcely opened his lips; he was far more taciturn than during the drive from the station, but his wife made ample compensation for all deficiencies by continually scolding the servants and plying Verona with sharp questions—questions respecting money, accomplishments, acquaintances! questions resembling a series of darts shot by a sure hand. She could scarcely trust herself to speak of the Gowdys; when she touched on the subject her voice became shrill and hysterical. Mrs. Chandos appeared to be bitterly disappointed that her daughter had no acquaintances in the regiment at Rajahpore—or, indeed, as far as she knew—in India, and she had made no "nice friends" on board ship.

"But whatt is the use of the P. & O., but for making useful friends?" argued Mrs. Chandos; "you might as well have come out in a cheap line. The Finlays, of the railway, came out in the Peninsula with people who asked Tilly up to Simla. Of course, they did not hear that old Finlay was once a platelayer, but Lizzie Finlay is a clever girl; oh, she is a sharp one! No? Now, boy, whatt are you about?"—turning fiercely on a servant who had upset some gravy—"whatt a stupid pig you are! Yes! you did see! Whatt do you go telling lies for? Look at the cloth! When first we were married"—addressing Verona—"Mr. Chandos was so particular he would always have two clean tablecloths a day, and now we have two a week; it is all habit! He has got used to things, and to being poor and a nobody."

"But father may have a great fortune some day," proclaimed Dominga, in a loud, exultant key, and as she spoke she planted both elbows firmly on the table.

"You don't know what you are talking about!" muttered Mr. Chandos into his moustache; "I have never said so."

"Oh, but he may! A beautiful place in England; Mr. Chandos always goes on like that; we don't mind him," declared his wife with a toss of her head.

"And then you will see where we come in!" resumed Dominga; "you will see what carriages and clothes we will have. Oh, there will be no more of this dirty sugar work then!"

"Ah, but 'Delhi is still a long way off,'" quoted Pussy, with a sly laugh.

"Oh, you choop! do," cried her sister; "you shut up; you are as bad as Nani with your native proverbs. We must take Rona into Rajahpore. Goody me, how the people will stare! They don't know of our new sister."

"I say, I wonder what they will call her?" growled Nicky, speaking with his mouth full of custard apple, and staring reflectively at the recent arrival. "Dom," indicating his sister with a spoon, "is called 'Red Chandos'; Pussy is 'Black Chandos,' father is 'Old Chandos,' I am 'Inky Chandos,' and mother——"

"Now you be quiett!" shrieked his mother, "telling such stories! For shame of you!"

"Well, I'd like to know what they call mother?" demanded Dominga, with the face of a fury.

"I'll tell you thatt when we're by ourselves," he answered with a wink. Nicky had a way of investing his insolence with a surprisingly matter-of-fact air.

"Verona, you will make quite a stir, I think," interposed Pussy; "you look so ladylike, and hold your head so high; you are far more genteel than Mrs. Captain Tully or Mrs. Major Barrwell, who won't know us: none of the officers' wives ever call here, although they go to Lepell's, and yet father was an army man, and in the cavalry, too."

"See, now I have an idea," announced Mrs. Chandos suddenly, as if struck with an inspiration; "since last comers call first, why should not Verona make a round of the cantonment? It is quite etiquette, and I can wait outside in the victoria, and then we shall have all the nice people coming out here instead of railway and contractors, and such like trash."

"The army people will never come out here," declared Dominga, "no, not even for Rona; they are a nasty, sneering, low, stuck-up lot, and I hate them."

"Only the women," corrected Nicky, who had finished his meal, and now felt at leisure to converse. "You don't hate the officers. Oh, ho! Dom, you like them! You are awfully keen to go into tennis and badminton and bands and church. Dom,"—addressing himself especially to Verona—"has had no end of cases! She is a tremendous flirt; she even tried her hand on Salwey, but he didn't seem to see it—did he, Dom?"

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." There must have been some tiny grain of truth in Nicky's rude chaff, for the face Dominga turned on him was fiendish in its expression.

"Will you choop? Will you be quiett?" she screamed, half-rising from her chair, her voice choked with rage.

"Now, do not tease your sister, for I will not have it," remonstrated Mrs. Chandos. "Verona does not know that no one minds one single word of what Nicky says. Oh, he is a shocking liar!"

During the above altercation Mrs. Chandos had been studying her pale English-bred daughter, and had arrived at the conclusion that she was either, like the officers' wives, "stuck-up," or else a dumb, inanimate fool.

"I see you have no tongue," she remarked, "and so"—with a withering glance at her husband—"you are like him. Oh, you will be just to his taste—a real Chandos!"

"I am a little tired to-night," replied the unhappy girl, in a faint, apologetic key, and tears were very near her eyes.

"Oh, it is not so very tiring, sitting in the train," retorted Mrs. Chandos, and her expression was not agreeable as she pushed back her chair with a jerk, and rose from the table.

Dinner had now concluded; of the butter cakes or custard apples not a vestige remained. Her father had retired to smoke on the verandah; her sisters were just about to seize upon Verona, and drag her away, when her mother interposed, saying:

"No! no! no! do let a—lone! Verona is coming with me. She has yet to see her grandmother."

CHAPTER XIII

Was there a lower depth than she had touched? Her grandmother! Verona heard the word with dismay. Had she not yet reached the bottom of the abyss? Once upon a time she could claim no relations, but now their number was seemingly legion. With this thought in her mind, she followed with a beating heart and instinctive reluctance her mother, who, beckoning with the quick, supple motion peculiar to her class, led the way across a passage and verandah and down some steps at the rear of the house. Here, facing them, was a large square building or bungalow, its high roof thrown into sharp relief by the white moonlight. Mrs. Chandos paused for a moment and explained:

"Our house was once the manager's; that was before the Mutiny year, but it was not grand enough for the Lepells, so we got their leavings, and it suits us, being large. This," pointing to the building, "was the Dufta in old days. Of course, you don't know Hindustani? 'Dufta' means office. Your grandmother prefers it to the house."

As she concluded she had pushed open a door, and Verona found herself in a low bedroom, lit by a flaring wall-lamp and reeking with heat and oil. Two women were engrossed in a game of cards—(oh, such greasy black cards!)—a little grey-haired ayah, who squatted upon the floor, and a fat old person, who was seated in a battered cane-chair; She had a large, brown, good-humoured face, from which her reddish hair was tightly drawn back and fastened in a knob. Her features were small and well formed, but disfigured by several dark warts; that on her left eyebrow, taken in connection with one on her upper lip, gave a comical, interrogative expression to her otherwise placid countenance. She wore a turkey-red petticoat, a Kurta—the short-sleeved jacket affected by native women; over her shoulders and bare, wrinkled arms was thrown a strip of embroidered muslin; heavy gold ear-rings and a massive necklace completed the costume of Mistress Baptista Lopez. "Aré, so this is the girl," she exclaimed, as she put down her cards and extended a dumpy hand. For a moment she stared at the visitor in expressive silence, then turned to her daughter with a wheezy laugh, and said, "Aré, Bapré Bap! Now who would think she was my grandchild?" (Who, indeed!)

Her little black eyes considered every item of Verona's appearance, from the crown of her dark head to the tip of her neat shoe.

"What do you think of her, Nani?"—(Hindustani for grandmother.)

"She looks like a Burra Miss-Sahib; and is awfully handsome. Soon, soon, she will be married, and you will be glad of that!"

As Mistress Lopez uttered this prophecy she again looked up at her daughter and laughed. Her laugh resembled the sound emitted by a pair of broken bellows.

"I'm sure I wonder she was not married long ago!" rejoined Mrs. Chandos in an aggrieved tone.

"Oh, but Fernanda would not let her," explained the old woman. "I know her ways! And so you lived with Fernanda Gowdy for years," now addressing herself to the girl. "She and I were cronies together at the Kidderpore school; the Kidderpore was such a big place, and stood in a great park, and now and then the lady in charge gave a great ball to the officers and people. Anyone could choose a bride. Fernanda was a beauty, my! such a figure! You might blow her away! That Scotchman only saw her twice before he made an offer of marriage. She was just sixteen. I was married at eighteen. My! my! my! whatt a long time a-go; and Fernanda is dead! Did you like her?"

"Yes," replied Verona, "she was good to me always. I was very fond of her."

"But left you no money, no-a—not one pice. Eete was too bad! Aré, it was a shame! Yet she never was a mean girl!"

"She intended to provide for me, and she gave me a first-rate education."

"Ah, that is so; and you have learnt to speak and look like some big swell. Oh, oh, yes! you are a beautee; you will cut out Dominga."

At this point Mrs. Chandos brusquely interposed, speaking in Hindustani, and mother and daughter had a loud altercation, which lasted for some minutes.

"Well, well, well! let a-lone, let a-lone!" exclaimed the old woman, who had evidently had the worst of the argument.

"Verona, child, I hope you may be lucky. Some day I must try your fortune in the crystal; this is not a good day, it is the twenty-fifth."

"Your Nani is taken up with signs, and tokens, and cards, and spells," grumbled Mrs. Chandos, "just like any old bazaar woman. Oh, you will be surprised at her ways!"

"I hope she will get used to all our ways, for some of them are funny," rejoined Mrs. Lopez good-humouredly, and she nodded her head till her three chins shook again.

"Yes, you will, miss, oh, so many fine things; but there is no other home for you, and you cannot live in the river, and be at enmity with the crocodile!"

Verona stared at the speaker with an expression of complete bewilderment.

"Pah! it is only one of mother's silly proverbs," explained Mrs. Chandos; "here, sit down," pushing a cane stool towards her. Her daughter gladly accepted the morah, and while her two relatives once more discussed her in voluble Hindustani, her eyes wandered languidly around the room.

The floor was covered with soiled matting and one handsome Persian rug. The walls were ornamented with gaudy-coloured prints; in a corner was a low charpoy, or bed, with red-lacquered legs and heaped high with pillows; a press, an ancient bureau, a card-table, and a cooking-stove completed the furniture. Nani's shoes, which were small, an umbrella, which was large, occupied a prominent position; a dress on a peg still retained the voluminous outline of her figure: there were also her domestic pets. In a rude tin cage on the bureau dozed, as Verona subsequently discovered, a peculiarly rude green parrot. The empty fire-place, instead of exhibiting the usual paper frills, made a comfortable cot for a huge black cat. In an angle beyond the press lay some larger animal, and Verona received a distinct shock when she discovered that the object of her curiosity was a full-sized goat.

"Ah!" cried Mrs. Lopez, as she caught her eyes. "The go-at! But she is so tame—tame as the cat; I keep her for my coffee; I make it myself fresh, fresh every three days, and see it roasted and ground—just what fills three bottles. Oh, it is awfully good! You shall have some to-morrow, when I will tell your fortune."

"And your Nani will stuff your head with nonsense and proverbs," said Mrs. Chandos.

"No-a, indeed! they all feete," protested her mother. "Verona is sensible, thatt I can see, and now she is in her father's house she will be content, and will stretch her feet to the length of the sheet. Won't you, child?"

"I am not looking for riches and luxuries, ma'am."

"Yes. But hitherto you have had five fingers in the ghee. You do not know what it is to be poor."

As this was true Verona remained silent.

"And you are so handsome!" resumed the old woman. "You will be arl-right, I see it in your face. You will be lucky. You know the saying, 'Who eats sugar, will get sugar.'"

Then turning sharply to her daughter, she said:—"Rosie, this girl is not like any one of you, no! she is different to all. It is another face!"

"And how do you account for it, Nani?" inquired Mrs. Chandos, with a sneering smile.

"Oh, it is quite plain! Oh, thatt is easily done!" rejoined Mrs. Lopez with delighted alacrity. "She takes after my mother. Yes; she must inherit from her; for, although she was only a Temple girl who danced before the gods—a Naikin from Goa, where my father first saw her—yet she was celebrated as the most beautiful woman on the whole West coast!"

"And you think Verona beautiful, and like her?" cried her daughter, bursting into a peal of derisive laughter. "Whatt a joke! Well, Nani, you must be blind! She is well enough, but no beauty."

"Pah! pah! pah! you are no judge, Rosa! You have only eyes for that red cat of yours; and I tell you this child," and she pointed to Verona, "has a face that will make her fortune; it may be, arl your fortunes."

"And that reminds me of the money," said Mrs. Chandos, with a sudden start—"the three hundred pounds fortune. Did you bring it in sovereigns, Verona, as we wished?"

"Yes, it is all in my dressing bag."

"Ayah, ayahjee!" and Mrs. Chandos went screaming to the door. "Go, fetch the Missy's big leather bag, and bring it here, quick, quick! quick! Or, wait! I go myself," and she darted into the moonlight.

"She is wonderful, your mother," remarked the old woman; "so sharp about money! Such a manager! Great show outside, and pinching in the belly; but she will have it thus, since there are so many to feed, and young girls to marry. Her wishes are high."

"Yes," assented her daughter mechanically.

"Arl-day she works so hard in the office next door, doing figures and accounts. She owns a few little houses in the bazaar, and adds on to the pay. It is not much, two hundred a month."

"Pounds?" suggested her companion.

"No! rupees—that is to say, shillings. But she is a manager."

"Well, here it is," panted Mrs. Chandos, pushing open the door with her foot, and entering bag in hand; "now let us see the money."

As Verona hastened to produce her keys, and proceeded to unlock the bag, Mrs. Chandos continued:

"I will invest it for you, child; it will bring in good interest; as much as one hundred and fifty rupees a year, which will buy you clothes."

"No, no! it is all for you and father," protested the girl. "I only wish it were more! I really do not want it."

"Yes, that is what I said," agreed Mrs. Chandos, with astonishing animation; "but your father does not agree; it is your little dowry, he says, and is to be put by for your use alone. He will not touch one pice. Sometimes he can be as obstinate as a rock, and I have given him a promise not to accept one rupee from you. No! even should you offer it on your knees!"

While she was speaking Verona had unearthed a green silk bag, which she was now about to place upon the table, but Mrs. Chandos seized it from her, drew the string and emptied out the gold into one shining mass. How her eyes glittered and her cheeks blazed as she bathed her hands in the sovereigns, and let them dribble through her claw-like fingers. She appeared completely transformed, her complexion glowed, the hard lines on her face relaxed into smiles.

Verona, as she stared in wonderment, no longer disbelieved the tale that her mother had once been a beauty. How strange that the mere sight of gold should thus transfigure her countenance—for a second it was illumined with the colour and sparkle of her long lost youth. At this moment there was a sudden sound of crushed gravel without: the door was opened unceremoniously, and a tall, obese old man stood on the threshold. Verona's heart failed her as she beheld him, and asked herself the desperate question if here was yet another relation?

This time a pure native.

CHAPTER XIV

The visitor wore a long, blue cloth coat, belted with leather, a huge white turban and a venerable white beard. His air and expression of benevolent dignity recalled to Verona the pictures of the prophet Abraham.

"Why, it is Abdul Buk!" exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Abdul, what a man you are! I believe," laying her hand over the gold in front of her, "you smell money."

"Nay!" and he salaamed as he spoke; "I have come hither on a little business; I know nought of smell, but the sight of money is ever good." He grinned broadly at his own pleasantry and displayed several yellow stumps.

"Behold my new grandchild, Abdul," cried Mrs. Lopez, indicating Verona with flattering complacency; "is she not well grown?"

Once more he salaamed, and the girl slightly bent her head in acknowledgment of the salute.

"He manages your mother's little property," continued the old woman, "and has doubled her income. Oh, he is very clever!"

"I hope he will double this gold," said Mrs. Chandos, piling it up into neat rows. "See, Abdul, three hundred English sovereigns; it belongs to my daughter; it is her fortune," and as she spoke she filled both hands with the coin and held them towards him with a playful air. "Don't you wish it was all yours?"

"Money, in a woman's hands, won't last; a child, left in the hands of a man, won't live," quoted Mrs. Lopez with impressive solemnity.

"But Abdul will invest it for Verona, and get her good interest—won't you, Abdul?" said Mrs. Chandos; "say one hundred and fifty rupees a year." As she spoke she turned towards him, and their eyes met in one long, fixed look.

"Oh, yess; certainly," he answered, "I can promise thatt. Oh, yess."

"Then you will invest in sugar?"

"Oh, yess."

"Had you better take it now, or another time?"

"No time like the present," he replied; "delays are dangerous. See," to Mrs. Lopez, "I have the English proverbs at my fingers' ends. My carriage is here, and I will take the money. In this big house it is not safe."

"That is true," acquiesced Nani. Meanwhile Mrs. Chandos, who seemed to be feverishly excited, gathered up the sovereigns with hot, tremulous fingers, and returned them into the green silk bag, which she handed to Abdul with a nod of mysterious significance.

"Of course, he will give a receipt," said Mrs. Lopez in a sharp business-like voice; "better take receipt."

"Oh, yess; I will go into the office and write it, and Mrs. Chandos will lend me one stamp," and he tramped out with ponderous creaking footfall. Whilst Abdul was absent the crocodile travelling case attracted Mrs. Lopez' curiosity, and she requested an immediate introduction to its further contents. One by one these were gradually presented, a tiny gold watch and jewelled chain, a case of valuable rings. As each was exhibited Mrs. Lopez and her daughter joined in a harmonious duet of "Oh, mys!" But a turquoise and diamond necklace, and a splendid emerald pendant, set in brilliants, reduced them to a condition of gasping silence. Subsequent silver-mounted brushes, mirrors and bottles and even a gold shoe-horn appeared in comparison but very small deer. Had that gambling old card-table, imported in the early days of John Company, ever exhibited as much money's worth? The ayah had crept in stealthily; so had Pussy. Were they drawn by some inexplicable instinct, or by the mere, careless chance of pure coincidence? Abdul, too, had returned, paper in hand, and stood silent in the background, admiring, and possibly appraising, the jewels. What a scene for an artist! The hot, squalid room, the dark faces, the staring, greedy eyes; in the midst the little old table loaded with jewels, and the pale, indifferent English girl to whom they all belonged.

"What think you of these, Abdul?" demanded Mrs. Chandos, pointing with a tremulous finger.

"That," advancing two steps, with creaking boots, "the wife of the Viceroy hath no better."

"And their value?" she asked, sharply.

"Nay, I am ignorant. I deal in sugar cane and gram, not precious stones. It were wise to put them in some place of safety, and here is the receipt for the money," he continued, holding out a sheet of paper on which was inscribed: "Manora, September fifth. Received, to place at good, safe interest, as I may find occasion, the sum of three hundred sovereigns, English money, from Miss Verona Chandos, the interest to be paid every six months into her hands by me, Abdul Hamid Buk."

"There! that is all right and stamped," he said, "and now I will take the gold and depart. I would advise the Missy Sahib to be mindful of her jewels."

"Thank God the money will be out of the house!" said Mrs. Lopez, piously; "this, as is well known, is an awful district for robbery and murder."

"Only among natives," corrected Mrs. Chandos, with a fearless toss of her head.

"It has a very bad name," argued her mother, "that you know, and that is why Salwey is in charge of the police; truly the last man was an old woman."

"And this one is a young devil!" cried her daughter with startling vehemence.

"Come to the office once more, Abdul. I want a word with you about my rents," said Mrs. Chandos.

"Certainly," he replied, and, money in hand, and having executed a general salaam, the benignant patriarch tramped out of the room in the wake of his employer. Pussy assisted her sister to collect and put away the jewellery, uttering, as she did so, many flattering adjectives.

"Now you must go to bed, children," announced their grandmother; "it is after nine o'clock. The travelling girl is dead tired," and at last Verona escaped to her own quarters, kind Pussy carrying the dressing-bag, and affectionately anxious to help her to undress, and, above all, to brush her hair. Her good offices were set aside with the greatest difficulty. Being naturally a little dense, it never dawned upon Bellamina Chandos that her sister did not require assistance, or would prefer her own company.

At last her simple mind accepted the novel idea, and her entreaties ceased.

"Dom," she whispered, as she embraced her, "is not quite sure; but I know—that I shall love you."

With one vigorous hug she vanished, and Verona was left alone.

As soon as she had closed and carefully bolted the door on Pussy's pretty entreating face, Verona turned down the smoky lamp and sat for a considerable time in the dark, alone with her own thoughts. Presently these thoughts became so terrible—so unbearably painful, like some intense physical agony, that she rose, unfastened the window and wandered into the verandah and down a path by the bank of the river. The river was wide and swift, being swollen by the recent rains; on the further side it was bordered by a high jungle of reeds and rushes, and beyond it, as seen through a filmy veil of gauze, lay the spreading moonlit plain which seemed to stretch away into the infinite, which was also India! Behind rose the bungalow, large and straggling: on the left towered the factory; to the right lay the office, with the light still burning in the window. Verona noticed these details as she paced the pathway, flitting to and fro like some distracted spirit on the banks of the Styx; and was she not a creature suddenly transported to an unknown world? She was no longer Verona Chandos, who had fared delicately all her life, who had a carefully cultivated taste in music and literature, definite ideas respecting bindings and coloured prints, who collected book plates, was discriminating in her choice of associates, dainty in her tastes, a much-desired partner for golf, bridge or cotillon, a girl who had found her world a pleasant place to live in, and had tried to share with others some of the sunshine which had fallen to her lot. And she was not a bad girl—though she might have been better; was inclined to be quick-tempered and a little supercilious, but she had endeavoured to be sincere, to be kind to the sick and poor, and to champion dumb animals. Well, that Verona was dead; she had passed away for ever, with all her little vanities and tempers and love of pretty clothes and interesting pursuits.

And here was the other, the real original Verona, a poor half-caste, whose life and thoughts must be confined to the limits of her parents' purse and wishes, who must keep in step with her two sisters and look for nothing beyond the horizon of her home. And what had she in common with her relations? Nothing beyond the mere fact of her existence and name. Apparently their aim in life was to climb into station society; and her aim in life?—what was her dearest wish at the present moment? Her dearest wish—she scarcely dared whisper it even to her inner soul. Verona was making acquaintance with the truth, the hideous, hard-hearted truth, and her thoughts were so disordered that she did not realise what time of night it was, or even that it was night! But at last her tired body refused to co-operate with her restless mind, and completely exhausted, she was compelled to drag herself to her bed—where sleep immediately claimed her.

Though dreams visited the worn-out traveller, her slumbers were almost as profound as if she had really passed away. Once she awoke in the still night; the moon streamed full into the room; there was a faint sound of flowing water. Where was she? Her drowsy brain failed to recall the great events of yesterday.

Suddenly a strange, weird sound pierced the silence, the wild, horrible howl of a pack of hunting jackals as they swept across the plain beyond the river, and for a frantic moment the wretched girl believed herself to be listening, in some dim region, to the agonised wailing of lost souls.

But no; it was only a hideous nightmare! She turned on her side with a sigh of relief, and again relapsed into slumber.

In the morning when Verona opened her eyes, it was to gaze vacantly about her. She was at a loss to remember how she came to be lying in this great bare room. Where was she? Was she in Spain, or some out-of-the-way French town? She strove to summon her scattered thoughts, and all too soon they came trooping back and assured her that she was at last at home—yes, in her real home, among her own people! She was sensible of a feeling of repulsion and absolute despair, and yet another self—which must have been her original baby self—cried shame on her for her hard heart and unnatural, wicked pride. Why should she be proud? She was nothing more nor less than a well-educated half-caste, who had been foolishly removed from her proper sphere, her own particular class. Her father—oh! why had he married a woman of such a race? Now, she understood his constrained manner, his ashamed silence and his downcast air, why he seemed to shun his former associates and to withdraw from society like some social outlaw. And she, who had never had one hint of her own origin, had acquired the ideas, refinements and prejudices of a high-bred English girl. What was to become of her?

She sat up in bed, holding her hands to her throbbing head, and endeavoured to individualise her relations. Her father—the broken-down gentleman, lethargic and dumb; her mother—she shrank from the subject as a flame; her sisters—uneducated, emotional, shrill; given to cheap scents and greasy sweetmeats; her grandmother—but one degree above the ayah; and her own good looks complacently attributed to an ancestress, a Temple girl who danced before the gods!

It all sounded like an Opéra Bouffe, a transformation scene of wild, topsy-turvy comedy, instead of which it was the sharp, agonising truth; no burlesque, but a heart-breaking tragedy—the tragedy of her life. How was she to endure this existence? What could she do? Where could she go? Where hide herself? For the first time in her existence, a longing for death surprised her.

There was a loud rattling and calling at the door, which she opened, to discover (as she half expected), Pussy, in a tattered pink dressing-jacket and bare feet, bringing her her morning Chotah Hazri. Here was an end to silence and self-communion; she must rouse herself, summon her self-command and confront her fate. Meanwhile a cup of fragrant Indian tea, some slices of curious grey bazaar bread and peculiarly white butter seemed delicious fare to a girl, who had scarcely tasted food for four-and-twenty hours.

The long hours of the morning were devoted by Verona to unpacking her boxes and distributing gifts, such as books, fans, little ornaments and knick-knacks; her sisters and Nicky were enchanted with their presents; her mother only, accepted her share with a doubtful and ungracious air, nor did she attempt to disguise her opinion that she regarded such outlay as a sinful waste of money.

In the afternoon, when tiffin was over, it was the custom of the entire family to repair to their several lairs in order to enjoy a long siesta; and Verona, thus released, now set about unpacking her own personal effects; but Pussy, for once, dispensed with her nap and clung to her sister with an offer of her society and assistance; it was impossible for her to comprehend that any one could endure to be alone.

She artlessly believed that Verona was as anxious for her company as she was to accord it. Her co-operation being politely declined, instead of taking her departure—as hoped for—Pussy merely kicked off her shoes and flung herself at full length on the bed, where she lay in an attitude of voluptuous ease, lazily contemplating her sister's exertions.

"My, my, my! how neat you are!" she exclaimed in admiration, as she watched her busy relative emptying boxes and putting away linen, "and how quick; the ayah would have taken hours! What heaps of stockings, petticoats, and books—none of us read, except father and Dom—you see, we've not had much schooling. Nicky is as ignorant as a coolie boy; only for that, he would get into the works. I am just as bad. Dominga is our clever one; she writes a good hand, and she sings splendidly."

"Oh, does she?" said Verona; "where was she taught?"

"She learnt at the school; we were both at school in Nani Tal. They say her voice is extraordinary, you can hear it half a koss away. She plays tennis and badminton better than any girl in Manora. Mother is so proud of her! Mother is clever too, especially at writing and figures; she loves accounts. Yes, mother loves two things, Dominga and money! Father loves silence and smoking. Nani loves coffee and news."

"And Pussy?" looking up with a smile.

"Loves you, Verona."

"Thank you, dear."

"And also someone, oh, so much! but I cannot tell you yet; it is a secret," and Pussy turned her face away and hid her blushes in the pillow. However, her blushes and emotion were of transitory duration, for in a few seconds her sprightly voice was saying:

"Of course, you have a thousand lovers, Verona?"

"I? Certainly not!"

"Oh, but—it cannot be true; why there is Dominga, not a quarter so pretty, and she has had dozens. Even Lizzie Trotter has a young man in the commissariat."

"And I have not, even what you call one young man, in anything."

"You are so pretty, you will get millions of offers; mother wishes us all to marry. Even when Blanche went, and it was such a poor match, she was glad. She expects Dominga to marry an officer. Ah, Rona, you are not even listening," she protested in a little piteous wail, "and I thought you might like to hear all about it."

"Of course I am listening," replied her sister, from the interior of an open box over which she was stooping; "you were saying something about Dominga and an officer."

"Yes, and we hardly know one. Father was in the army himself, the 51st Hussars, and yet he will never call on the mess, although friends of his have been in the station. Father is so odd—nothing will make him go near a regiment, not even mother, and she can generally get him to do whatever she chooses; he has given in to her about everything, except about you."

"What about me?" asked her sister, quickly raising her head; "but no, don't tell me—it is better not."

"Oh, mother will tell you herself; it is no secret! She has told everyone in Manora that she did not want you to come out. It was another girl to marry, she said, and no money! She declared you could get a nice situation at home; and you were a stranger, a black stranger, and would ruin us with your bad example and silly English notions. Even Nani said you were like the Dhoby's donkey, for you neither belonged to the house, or the river! You know how she talks in proverbs?"

"Yes," assented Verona in a faint voice.

"But father swore you should come, and he wrote himself—he who never writes. Do you know, when mother got your letter she screamed for three whole hours! She always does that when she is awfully angry. Oh, she is not angry now she has seen you; no, no, no, she is proud! I heard her this morning talking over the wall to Mrs. Trotter, and boasting of your air and figure. But still I think Dominga will always be first."

"And why not? My mother has had her with her since she was born, and I am, as you know, a stranger."

"You won't be long so," declared Pussy; "you will soon be at home, I can see. Just look how you've put away your things and arranged this room. Now, I must tell you something about the people all round before they come to call—so you will know. First of all there are Mr. and Mrs. Lepell in the big bungalow; he is the manager of the factory, and draws two thousand rupees a month; he is nice and friendly, but we never get to know her any better. Oh, she is not exactly proud, but she keeps us off. Her father was a big swell, and she has a fortune. She is not at all young; mother says she must be five-and-forty, but she dresses beautifully, and gives such fine parties; they entertain the whole station like a king and queen. Yess, she is quite the Burra Mem Sahib, and only asks us to her small affairs, when we meet just the other factory people. Mother hates her—oh, goody me!—like poison, but is always awfully pleasant to her, and sends her her best mango jelly and chutney, because she hopes she may take up Dominga. She did ask Dom once to sing, and if Mrs. Lepell would chaperon Dom into society, her fortune would be made. Oh, my, yess!"

"I see," assented her listener, "and it is with this hope that mother sends her mango jam?"

"Of course. Then there are the Trotters," resumed Pussy, with an air of complacent narration; "he was only a sergeant in some regiment, and he is the engineer here; they say he is very clever—just a common, rough man, with such a pushing family. There is Mrs. Trotter and Amelia and Georgina, Louisa and Tom. Tom is in the works. He and Dominga used to be pals; but she threw him over long ago. The Trotters are always looking down on us, because we have never been home, and they were born in England; but they are coolie people, and our father is an officer and a gentleman. Sometimes we are awfully friendly with the Trotters, and in and out ten times a day; sometimes we don't speak for months. Last time we quarrelled was about a bottle of anchovy sauce which they never returned.

"Then there are the Watkins, a newly-married couple, out from Manchester. He is secretary; she is awfully prim, and afraid to know any one, and dresses for dinner when they are quite alone, and talks of her father keeping two gardeners. There are the Cavalhos; they are just half-castes; oh, so dark, and yet not bad. I like them; they are awfully good natured. When anyone is in trouble they all run to Mistress Cavalho. Also, there are the Olivers—gone home on leave—very nice people and not stiff, though they are gentry folk. There are some young men clerks—Raymond, and Smith and Mackenzie. We all meet at the tennis three times a week and play together, whether we are friends or not. Then there is Salwey——" She paused.

"Who is he?" inquired Verona, feigning an interest which she was far from feeling.

"The police officer, a nephew of Mrs. Lepell's; he lives in cantonments. He is so strict and severe. Oh, mother does hate him—I believe she is afraid of him!"

"How can he possibly affect mother?" inquired Verona, as she sorted out some gloves.

"Of course, not at all, but he gives you the horrid notion that he can read your thoughts, and knows every single little thing about you. Whenever he looks at me, I can't help wriggling like an insect on a pin, and mother declares that he has the evil eye!"

"The evil eye!" repeated Verona; "you don't really believe in such nonsense?"

"Well, perhaps not. Salwey's eyes are bluey-grey, like steel. He is not bad looking, and once—now I'll tell you a secret——"

"No, don't! Please!" protested Verona, throwing up her hands.

"Oh, but I must; I do like talking secrets," pursued Pussy with breathless volubility, "I think Dominga used to be crazy about him, and sent him notes by Nicky."

"What!"

"Yes; but I don't believe he ever gave them. Salwey and Nicky are great friends. He lives near the river and has a boat, and comes up to the Lepells that way when he is in the station. He gave Nicky a pup, and books and advice, and taught him to row. We have a boat, too. Nicky's awfully fond of Salwey, he just worships him; but he can't bear Dominga, and I don't believe he ever gave the letters. You must know that in this house there are two factions: it is Dom and mother against Nick and me. Oh! oh! oh!" suddenly sitting erect, "you are getting out your dresses! how lovelee!" as Verona unfolded and displayed a white crêpe de chine, a green foulard and an exquisite white and silver ball dress.

Pussy clapped her hands excitedly, and screaming, "Oh, I must call the others," leapt off the bed and ran shoeless out of the room.

Verona was a girl who wore her clothes well in every respect; not only had she the knack of investing them with her own grace and individuality, but they still seemed dainty and fresh long after they had passed their first bloom. There were no tea or coffee stains on the front breadth (that every-day misfortune), frayed seams or ragged edges in the gowns she was taking from her boxes or ranging round the room for the promised exhibition. Here were tailor costumes, evening dresses, muslins, laces and many dainty frocks which had been worn at Homburg, Aix and Cannes, and some had cost what is figuratively termed "a small fortune."

The apartment now resembled the atelier of some fashionable milliner, the stock was so choice and extensive. In a surprisingly short time the "others" had assembled. These included Mrs. Chandos, her hair in curling pins, spotted dressing-jacket and short striped petticoat—she had very neat feet; Dominga, in ragged déshabille; the ayah, attracted from her hookah; last, not least, Granny Lopez, clad in a loose garment that was really an old tussore silk dust-cloak, a scanty petticoat and a pair of discarded tennis shoes, carrying under her arm a reluctant black cat—all come to behold and gloat over the great show. Nani was accommodated with a chair, and Verona, by special request, held up and exhibited separately the most elegant items of her wardrobe.

What little screams of admiration greeted the sight of some garments; what a chorus of "Oh, mys!" attended the display of others. By the end of half an hour every possible epithet of admiration had been exhausted, and Verona was exhausted too.

"Well, in all my life, I never did see such beautiful clothes," confessed Mrs. Chandos.

Which statement was no doubt true.

"They must have cost hundreds of pounds."

This was also a fact.

"Oh, my! Oh, my! what advantages you have had, Verona, child, compared with these poor girls," she continued as she flitted about the room in a condition of extraordinary excitement; "you must share your fine feathers with them now. If Dominga here were set off in that blue and white, she would look every bit as well as you; all she wants is to be dressed up in good clothes—eh, Nani?"

"That is so," agreed the elder with her wheezy laugh, "for who can row without water?"

"Now I shall divide some of these things," declared Mrs. Chandos, as she hovered about; "Verona could not wear half of them."

Verona, who had made up her mind never again to mix in society, and had originally brought out this large outfit with the intention of sharing it with her sisters, would nevertheless have preferred to have bestowed her garments to her own liking, and not to stand by passively while her mother distributed her wardrobe. The choicest articles were shamelessly selected for Dominga—for instance, a magnificent white satin gown, a pale blue crêpe de chine, an elaborate lace costume, a mauve and silver tea gown. Then Pussy was endowed with various frocks and hats (Verona helping in the selection), and the possession of a certain pink feather boa had made her completely happy. Verona also chose a pretty chiffon cape, which she spread over her grandmother's ample shoulders. It was a very orgie of millinery, among which Mrs. Chandos hovered, picking out a toque here, a sash there. At last, when the supply had become somewhat low, she said:

"Well, that will do for the girls; I will take these blouses and the pink satin for myself; it will alter, and I will wear it for the Volunteer Ball. Eh, Nani, what do you say?"

"I say that if you wear such a frock you'll be more celebrated than the devil!"

"Ah, bah!" cried her daughter. "You funny old woman. Is that all you have to say?"

"No," she responded, and turning to Verona with a nod of her head at the different piles of her property which had been distributed, "they all like you very much now, Verona, child—'he who holds the ladle has everybody his friend.' But let me tell you one thing more—your mother has a pocket like the crop of a duck—you can never fill it!"

"And you are a curiosity and should be put in a museum," retorted her daughter in great good humour. "Come, come, it is now half-past four o'clock; Blanche and Montagu will be here soon; let us clear away and dress," and swooping down upon a heap of her spoils, Mrs. Chandos hurried out of the room, followed by Dominga, Pussy and the ayah, each bowed down and nearly hidden by their loads of new finery.

But Mrs. Lopez was slower to move; having extricated herself from her chair with considerable difficulty, she stood for a moment gazing at Verona, and said, in an impressive voice:

"You have given me a nice present; you are a very generous girl and do not despise your old crannie grandmother, so I will tell you one good proverb to cheer you! Now listen."

"I am listening, Nani."

"'Our past is ourselves, what we are, and will be,'" quoted Mrs. Lopez, and she continued to look fixedly at Verona with a significant expression in her little dark eyes. "Do not trouble, child—you will never be of us," then hitching the black cat under her arm, she waddled away to her own quarters.

CHAPTER XV

There was a sudden commotion in the front part of the bungalow—barking, running and calling. Dominga, in a breathless condition, burst in upon Verona, and gasped out:

"Oh, my goodness, here is Blanche! and none of us are dressed! Do go into the drawing-room, you are ready. Go, go, go!"

Thus exhorted, Verona hastened into that apartment, barely in time to see a gharry, drawn by two wretched ponies, rattle underneath the porch.

The first person she descried was a stout ayah, who descended backwards, carrying an infant over her shoulder; an alert, sharp-looking creature, in a gay hood, with eyes like two jet beads, and a dusky skin.

The next to appear was, no doubt, Blanche herself; a little, dark, wiry woman, closely resembling her mother, wearing a smart pink cotton, a picture hat and a profusion of bead chains. She sprang up the steps, suddenly stopped short, stared helplessly at Verona, and exclaimed:

"Hul—lo! I suppose this is the third Miss Chandos?" Then she giggled immoderately, and proceeded to kiss her, adding:

"I am Blanche. Blanche Montagu Jones, you know, and here," turning and dragging forward her husband, "is your brother, Montagu."

Montagu was a lank, narrow-chested Eurasian, showily dressed in a blue and white striped suit; he wore a red satin tie, a gilt chain and several rings. He had well-cut features, a simple, amiable expression, and a pair of pale grey eyes, which seemed peculiarly out of place when contrasted with his dark face, and ink-black hair.

"Come, you may kiss her; I give you leave," declared his sprightly wife, pushing him forward with both hands.

But however willing he might have been to accept this permission, there was an expression on the face of the third Miss Chandos which constrained him, and he merely sniggered and offered a limp hand.

"What! not kiss Monty, your own brother?" cried Blanche, in a tone of affronted amazement, "then all I can say is—I'm sorry for your taste!"

Meanwhile Monty consoled himself by saluting his mother-in-law—with whom he appeared to be on terms of unnatural affection.

"And here," resumed Blanche, now waving forward her offspring, "is your dear little nephew, Chandos Montagu Jones; he is ten weeks old to-day. Kiss your new auntie, sweetie king."

From this embrace there was of course no escape; for the ayah promptly handed the child to Verona with an air of gratified relief. If Verona had been informed that it was the woman's own infant, she would have accepted the announcement without demur, the little thing was so dark; its olive face was bright and cheery, and she dandled it, kissed it, and carried it about with a secret presentiment that she would like it better than either of its parents!

"Well, now there is so much I want to know," began Blanche, as she threw herself into a chair; "when did she come?" nodding at Verona, "for we all went to the train and could not see her anywhere. We took the De Castros, and the Jenkins, and Mr. Bott, and those two young fellows from the cantonment office. Oh, my! they were all dying to get the first sight of Verona, and she was not there. She must have come by the four o'clock, and we went to the half-past two."

"Dios!" suddenly interrupting herself with a loud shriek, for here entered, with mincing and self-conscious gait, Dominga and Pussy, attired in two of Verona's most elegant casino costumes. The former in pale green (her particular colour), veiled with white lace, and garnished with black velvet; the latter, in a superb hand-painted muslin. They wore hats and ruffles to correspond, and an air of overwhelming complacency.

"Why, why, what is this, what is this?" screamed Blanche, backing towards the verandah with uplifted hands and an expression of awe and bewilderment.

Without delay it was volubly explained to her by three voices, all gabbling together, that these were the garments of Verona, who had more smart clothes than the room could hold. Then Dominga and Pussy sat down, each on a separate sofa, spread out their skirts, fanned themselves languidly, and proceeded to imagine that they were fine ladies. Gradually Blanche's gaze of awed admiration faded into a scowl of envy.

Montagu stared and sniggered, and twirled his moustache, whilst Verona stood in the background, holding the little dark child, who apparently liked her, and clung to her neck like a very crab.

"Oh, but you shall have your share, too!" said Dominga, in a soothing tone, as she recognised the storm cone—for Blanche had inherited her mother's temper.

"There is a lovely toque for you, and such a dress piece of white alpaca, and you shall have one of my parasols. There now!"

"Parasol, cha—a—h" (native expression of scorn)—"you put me off like that! Why shouldn't I have a smart dress? How sly and greedy you all are, keeping the grand things to yourselves—just like pigs. One thing you forget," as she straightened herself and glared from Dominga to Pussy, then back from Pussy to Dominga, "I am the eldest!"

"Oh, yes, but that does not count now," was the bold retort, "you are not one of us; you are married. Oh, my!" with a change of key. "Here is Mrs. Lepell, what shall we do?"

During this interesting altercation a slim little lady, with a clever piquant face, had walked on to the verandah totally unnoticed.

She wore a simple linen gown and a large garden hat, and her hair, which was turned off her delicate careworn face, was touched with grey.

"How do you do, Mrs. Chandos?" she said, coming forward, then gave a perceptible start as her eye fell on the two Paris models.

"I've just walked across to call on your daughter, the new arrival," and she nodded to the rest of the company.

"Oh, thank you," stammered Mrs. Chandos, "you are so kind, there she is," and she beckoned to Verona, who stood in the background, still holding the child; this its grandmother snatched from her with irritable haste, and said as she thrust it into the ayah's arms:

"Verona, here is Mrs. Lepell, she has been so kind as to ask for you."

If Mrs. Lepell had been amazed by the brilliant toilettes of the Misses Chandos, she was more astonished now, when a girl of her own class came slowly forward: a beautiful dark-eyed creature, with an air of unaffected distinction.

At first she could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses. Here, indeed, was a dove in the crow's nest.

"So you only arrived yesterday?" she managed to articulate at last.

"Yes, last evening."

"Shall we sit over here?" said Mrs. Lepell, indicating a settee a little apart. Her visit was to the stranger, whose acquaintance she was now really anxious to make. She particularly disliked Mrs. Chandos, and if there was one young woman who was more obnoxious to her than Dominga, it was Blanche Montagu Jones. The family accepted the hint with obvious reluctance, and stood aloof in a group, whispering, giggling and wrangling.

"I believe you have never been in India since you were a small child," continued Mrs. Lepell, addressing her companion.

"No, I do not remember it; I have lived in Europe for twenty years."

"Ah, I wonder what you will think of us all!"

Verona raised her eyes to her visitor, then dropped them hastily, but not before Mrs. Lepell had caught their look of unspoken despair.

"I am quite an old Anglo-Indian," she continued briskly. "I loathed the country at first, now I am much attached to it; the cold weather will be here in another few weeks. You will enjoy that, it is our gay season."

Here it seemed to Mrs. Lepell that her companion gave a slight involuntary shudder.

"I am sure you will wonder at the way these mad girls are giggling," said Mrs. Chandos, with a would-be jaunty air, as she approached and indicated Dominga and Pussy. "They are awfully smart, and have been trying on their sister's kind presents."

"Why, mother," interposed Blanche (who had no fear of Mrs. Lepell, her husband not being in the factory), "Pussy tells me that besides the beautiful presents she brought out, you divided all Verona's best gowns between her and Dominga!"

On such occasions as the present Mrs. Chandos hated her eldest daughter, who had a sharp and utterly fearless tongue.

"Oh, you do not understand," she began excitedly.

"I see I've come in for a dress-rehearsal," observed Mrs. Lepell, hoping to smooth matters.

"Borrowed plumes! secondhand clothes. Ch-a-ah!" sneered Blanche, in a shrill, discordant key. She breathed so hard that all her beads jingled, and her husband retreated precipitately into the verandah.

Was Blanche going to have a row with her mother?

Oh, she was so fond of rows! Rows commencing with shrill vituperation, screaming abuse, and concluding (in cases of defeat) in hysterics and collapse.

"I think you must have come out with the Trevors," continued Mrs. Lepell, as she turned to Verona, "I see they were in the Egypt."

"Yes, and I met them before; we were at the same hotel in Cannes for three months."

"Then you know the Riviera?"

"Yes, we generally spent the winter there—or in Florence."

"You seem to have travelled a good deal."

"We lived on the Continent ever since I grew up. This time last year we were at Homburg."

"I wonder if you met my cousins, Sir Ellis and Lady Byng? They go there every season."

"Oh, yes, I used to go motoring with them, and played golf with their daughter Eva; she is such a nice girl. We were great friends."

For the moment Verona had forgotten herself and her surroundings. She was no longer a Eurasian, patronised by the wife of her father's employer, but one English woman talking to another on an agreeable equality.

"I'm sure you had happy times at Homburg," said Mrs. Lepell, "and of course you went to the Opera at Frankfort?"

"Yes, constantly; we used to rush over on a motor car."

"And here you come down to bullock carts! Well, if we're not progressive, we're at least picturesque. I hope you brought out a few of the last new books, as well as the last new fashions?"

"Yes, I've a fairly good supply, and all this month's magazines."

"Then I shall certainly come and borrow from you; I am a ravenous reader, and find it difficult to keep myself going in books. At present I am starving and reduced to back numbers."

"I shall be delighted to supply you."

"Very well, then," said Mrs. Lepell, rising, "you have no idea how rapacious I can be. I hope you will come and see me as soon as you are settled. I am always at home, from three to five."

This was the warmest invitation the stiff-necked little lady had ever accorded to a Chandos; she had never told Dominga she was "at home from three to five." But, then, she neither admired nor pitied Dominga, who was not an interesting acquaintance, merely an emotional, empty-headed half-caste, with a fierce craving for pleasure, and a powerful soprano voice.

This new arrival was a totally different person, well-educated, refined, reserved. Alas, poor child! fresh from congenial English society and many agreeable friends, to be cast into the midst of this squalid Eurasian family. What a fate!

CHAPTER XVI

Mr. and Mrs. Montagu Jones remained to dine with their relations, and Nani Lopez joined the party, invested in the rich satin purple gown which she had purchased for Blanche's wedding; or, more correctly speaking, she wore the flowing skirt, but had substituted for the bodice an easy white jacket, and had coloured her face white to correspond. Verona surveyed her venerable relations with reproachful eyes. How could people, who were naturally dark, imagine it possible to change their skin by merely covering it with layers of pearl powder?

"Granny always comes in when we have Blanche," explained Dominga, in a whisper, "because she hears the news. All the same she and Blanche were never good friends. She calls Blanche a silly little bazaar cat."

Mr. Chandos, who seemed to spend his entire day in the factory, appeared shortly before dinner and received with surprise the little gifts offered by his English daughter.

"Books," he muttered, "now I wonder how you guessed at what I liked best? Books, and a tobacco pouch. My two resources are reading and smoking."

"Oh, yess, he is arl-right when he has his pipe and his books," remarked Nani Lopez in her soft fat voice. "He thinks he gets away from his cares; but it is not so. Go to the wilderness, you cannot escape fleas."

During dinner conversation was loud and animated. Blanche and Dominga, who were seated opposite to one another, leant their elbows on the table, and screamed across the board in their thin ear-piercing trebles. Dominga volubly related the particulars of a recent social outrage on the part of Mrs. Watkin, whilst Blanche, whose feelings were chiefly on the surface, gave a highly coloured description of the death of a kid and the illness of a bosom friend.

"I went to see Lucia Mendoza this morning. She looked so, so sick. Well, I declare I was so struck, I fell down on her bed and I cried, and I cried. If anything should happen to thatt girl, I shall die; I know I shall."

"What nonsense you talk, child!" protested her grandmother. "Such foolish grief might have frightened the poor creature to death."

"And," broke in Nicky, "though you and Lucia Mendoza are such grand friends now, it is not a month since you came out here very mad, and talking of going to law, because she had called you bad names."

"If Lucia were to take curdled milk and coriander seed she would soon get arl-right," resumed Mrs. Lopez, "but she should begin it on a Wednesday, it is a lucky day. Mind you tell her," and she looked over at Blanche, and nodded her head impressively.

"Isn't Nani a funny old woman?" said Blanche, suddenly addressing herself to Verona. "Did you ever see anyone like her in England?"

"Now, you don't talk like thatt, Mistress Blanche Jones," interposed the old lady good-humouredly. "Anyhow, I know more of drugs, and cures, and charms, than any old woman she has ever seen. Do you tell us some news!"

Thus invited, Blanche readily poured out all the latest intelligence respecting the forthcoming theatricals, and the race meeting which was to be held after Christmas. A long altercation ensued respecting the prices of tickets, in which Monty, Pussy and Mrs. Chandos took part. Even Granny Lopez threw in a word or two, but Verona and her father remained silent; his thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and as far as the family were concerned, his body might have accompanied them; evidently they were accustomed to his attitude of remoteness. Verona looked at his hollow, expressionless eyes, and wondered what manner of man he might be? His stolid, inert silence had an almost paralysing effect, but she struggled bravely against the sensation, and ventured several remarks on the climate, the wonderful beauty of the surrounding trees and shrubs, the war in South Africa; but to all these efforts the sole response was a brief, monosyllabic reply. She felt repulsed, painfully disappointed, and shrank into herself and silence.

Meanwhile Blanche was retailing to her delighted grandmother the most recent and reliable "cook-house" gossip. She learnt that Mrs. Cotton had had five ayahs in a week, her temper was so furious, and she had got an awfully bad name in the bazaar. The Coopers of the railway had always bragged of their cook, and now he had run away with a lot of money, four fat ducks, and the new water filter.

Then there was a rumour of the other half of the regiment coming from Bhetapore. The colonel's lady and the major's lady did not speak, they had quarrelled about a dirzee. There were going to be theatricals in Rajahpore in race week, a big ball in Lucknow for charity; anyone could go who paid ten rupees.

"But for my part," added Blanche, "now I am married, I don't care for dancing. Give me my evenings at home!"

"Oh, wait till the dances begin in the cold weather," rejoined Mrs. Lopez, "and all the other women go. Oh! I know you! 'The cat is a Dervish—till the milk comes'!"

Blanche merely shrugged her skinny shoulders and giggled, then leaning half across the table, said:

"Mother, is it true that the Trotters are always asking that young Smith out, and making a fuss with him and having him to dinner? Do you think Mrs. Trotter wants to marry him to Lizzie?"

"Mrs. Trotter told me yesterday," announced Nani Lopez, resolved not to be thrust out of the conversation, "that it is all foolish talk, and there is nothing in it; but I do not believe her. There is two hundred rupees a month, and free quarters in it; we can all see her plan and the meaning of her good dinners. It is a mountain behind a straw!"

"You will notice your grandmother has a proverb for every occasion," said Mr. Chandos, at last turning to Verona and addressing her. If they were the silent members of the party, they were also to all appearances—the sole Europeans present.

Mrs. Lopez, Mrs. Chandos, Blanche, Pussy, Monty, and Nicky were dark. Even Dominga, for all her white skin, had a peculiar foreign look; there was something alien in the cast of her features, and the shrill tone of her voice.

Monty made little conversation, but an excellent meal; indeed, most of the family ate heartily of mulligatawny, stewed beef and stuffed bunjals, concluding with a quantity of mysterious-looking sweetmeats.

"You must come in and stay with us, and we will show you off," said Blanche, accosting Verona. "I will take you to church, and to the club; you will cut out all the officers' wives. My, how they will stare! Oh, goody me!"

"But you cannot have Verona!" protested Dominga, "you have never been able to have Pussy, or me; you know you have no room."

"Oh I can make room if I want to," rejoined Blanche, meeting her sister's gaze with a bold stare.

"Truly you are paid a fine compliment by Mistress Blanche," put in her irrepressible Nani. "She does not care for guests. She likes, as the proverb says, 'Talk in my house—a dinner—in yours.'"

"I will introduce Verona to the railway and the telegraph people," resumed Blanche (wisely ignoring this disagreeable interruption). "We will get up some parties and have lots of jolly fun. Now we will go into the drawing-room, and Verona must hear Dominga sing."

As she spoke, Blanche hurried forward and opened the piano with her own hands. It was a fine instrument, which Mrs. Chandos had picked up a bargain at some sale. Candles were lit, and there was a good deal of bustle and chattering before Dominga trailed over in the new tea-gown, and took her place at the instrument with an air of a prima donna.

She played the introduction to Tosti's "Good-bye" with somewhat uncertain fingers, and in another moment the room was ringing with her voice. It was a powerful, elastic soprano, clear and strong, and ill-taught. Undoubtedly a wonderful organ, but it had a strange metallic ring—a native ring; the note of her great-grandmother, who poured forth to the gods her shrill Marathi songs. Whilst Dominga sang, her mother and three sisters sat wrapped in ecstasy. The ladies of the family were unaffectedly proud of the performance, but Mr. Chandos and Monty had disappeared out into the verandah, where they smoked together in guilty company, for Dominga's gift did not appeal to them.

"Well, you've never heard finer singing than that?" and Mrs. Chandos turned to Verona with a challenge in her eye.

"It is indeed marvellous," she assented, "and would, I think, make her fortune if it were trained."

"Trained? Why she has had lots of lessons at school, and practises often an hour a day. I suppose"—with a little sniff—"your voice has been what you call 'trained'?"

"Yes, but mine has so little compass; it is very different from Dominga's."

"But you sing, of course?" said Blanche, who was now busily doing the honours of her mother's house. "Dom, you get away from the piano"—pulling her sister by the arm—"Verona will take your place."

"Does not Dominga look splendid?" murmured her mother, gazing at her in rapture as she stood up and looked towards them. "Oh, I have always said she only wanted dress. Now you go and sing."

"I feel so diffident about coming after you," said Verona, as she approached the piano, "but they want to hear me."

"Yes, and so do I; I daresay I have some of your songs," replied Dominga, with an air of gracious patronage, and then turning aside, she began to root among a quantity of tattered, old-fashioned music.

A few songs that were clean and new, Dominga kept exclusively apart, and on one of these Verona noticed that the name of "Dominga Chandos" was inscribed in a bold masculine hand by someone named "Charlie." Finally, failing to discover anything to suit her mezzo-soprano, she sat down and sang from memory the "Sands of Dee."

Verona had an exquisitely sweet, haunting voice; every note was clear and full, and told. When she had removed her hands from the piano, instead of applause, there ensued strange silence. Monty and his father-in-law were standing inside the door and the face of the latter was working with some irrepressible emotion.

"Whatt a nice little song," exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Why," with a sudden start, "here are the Cavalhos," as she descried two figures mounting the steps. "Oh, my goodness, whatt a bother."

"May we come in?" inquired a high, chirrupy treble, and without waiting for a reply, an elderly woman, wearing a white dress and a black apron, walked forward, followed by her husband, a very stout, clean-shaven man with a round bullet head. They were both decidedly dark, but had kind, good-tempered faces, and indeed, in Mistress Cavalho's sweet dark eyes there lingered traces of a once renowned beauty.

"We heard Dominga singing," she announced, "so we knew you must have the lamp lit in the drawing-room, and we came over in a friendly way to see"—here she glanced incredulously at Verona—"is this your daughter?" She pronounced it "da-ter."

"Yes."

"Oh, how do you do, Miss. I hope you will like Manora."