Major North threw himself luxuriously into a long cane chair, and held out his hand for the bundle of envelopes and papers which his wife gave him. “Anything from Mab?” he asked.

“Just a little scrap. Dick, I am getting dreadfully worried about her—her letters have been so strange for such a long time, and now the writing is so queer. She always seems as if she hadn’t a moment to spare, and yet she really has nothing particular to do now. Do you know, I am beginning to be afraid that the strain of your uncle’s illness, and the shock of his death, have been too much for her. I am sure she oughtn’t to be living all alone in that big house. I asked Cecil Egerton to look after her, and I hoped to hear from her to-day, but there is no letter. Aren’t you getting anxious yourself?” Major North, deep in his correspondence, grunted assent. “What do you think we had better do? Dick!—why, Dick!”

The letters went flying as Dick sprang up from his chair. His wife was staring incredulously at a young lady in a grey riding-habit who was cantering up the rough track, called by courtesy a drive, leading to the house from the gateway of the compound. Catching sight of the two figures on the verandah the new-comer pulled up her horse suddenly, flung the bridle to the magnificent elderly servant who ran out from the hall-door to meet her, and slipping from her saddle, mounted the steps with a run.

“Oh, Dick! oh, Georgie! oh, my dear people, it is so good to see you again! Don’t tear me in pieces between you.” Her brother and his wife, dumb with astonishment, were both kissing her at once. “It is my real self, you know, and not my astral body. Now do say you are surprised to see me on the Khemistan frontier when you imagined I was in London! Don’t rob me of the gratification I have come so far to enjoy.”

“Surprise is no word for it. We are utterly amazed, completely flabbergasted,” said Dick slowly. His sister heaved a satisfied sigh.

“Thanks, Dick; I’m so glad. I did want to surprise you.”

“But, Mab, are you really only just off your journey?” cried Georgia. “You must have a bath and a rest before you talk any more.”

“I come untold thousands of miles to see my only remaining relatives, and they don’t think me fit to speak to until I have had a bath and a rest!” cried Mabel. “No, Georgie, we only did a very short stage to-day, so that we might arrive clean and comfortable. You don’t think Mr Burgrave would omit anything that would enable him to make a more dignified entrance into Alibad?”

“You don’t mean to say that you came up with the Commissioner?” cried Dick and Georgia together.

“Rather!” A glance passed between husband and wife, and Mabel caught it. “Now, why this thusness? I had a chaperon, I assure you. I’ll tell you all about it. And the Commissioner has been most kind—and patronising.”

“Probably,” said Dick dryly. “And was it Burgrave who escorted you to the gate here?”

“Oh no; it was that nice boy who went to Kubbet-ul-Haj with you eight years ago.”

“Boy!” cried Georgia. “My dear Mab, Fitz Anstruther is one of the most rising young civilians in the province.”

“And he said,” went on Mabel, unheeding, “that he would look in again after dinner. Well, Georgie, he is three years younger than I am, at any rate. Now, Dick, don’t be rude and say that that wouldn’t make him so very young after all. I know I’m in the sere and yellow leaf. The fact was borne in upon me when I heard an angry woman on the voyage informing her cabin-mates that I was ‘no chicken.’”

“What!” cried Dick. “Then the celebrated smile has been doing its deadly work as usual? How many scalps this time, Mab?”

Mabel smiled gently. It might be perfectly true, as other women were never tired of saying, that she had no claim to be called beautiful. The most that could be said of her was that she was nice-looking, and the effect of that (it was often added spitefully) was spoilt by the singular and most unpleasing combination of fair hair with dark brown eyes. But when the ladies had said their say, Mabel knew that she had but to smile to bring every man in the neighbourhood to her feet. There was a peculiar fascination about her smile which made a slave of the man upon whom it shone. It called forth all that was best in him, roused all the chivalry of his nature, and compelled him to devote himself to Mabel’s service. Various irate London cabmen, an elderly guard on the Caledonian Railway, and the magistrate who found himself obliged to fine Mabel for allowing her fox-terrier to go about unmuzzled, were among the victims. The magistrate was currently reported to have apologised privately for doing his duty, and to have been abjectly desirous of paying the fine out of his own pocket if Mabel would have allowed it. It was commonly understood that General North, Mabel’s late guardian, had found his life a burden to him owing to the multitude of her suitors, and that he would scarcely allow her to go out alone lest any unwary stranger, thanked with a smile for some slight service, should be impelled to propose to her on the spot.

“Well, Mab,” said Dick again, as his sister did not answer, “the voyage was the usual triumphal progress, I suppose? Any casualties?”

“No duels or suicides, Dick. The days of chivalry are gone, you know. But every one was very nice. I don’t count the officers—it’s their business to make themselves pleasant—but the captain took me into his cabin and showed me the pictures of Mrs Captain and the little Captains, and I was told he didn’t do that for everybody. The ladies were not quite as friendly as—well, as I should have liked them to be. They talked me over a good deal, too. Once they asked a rather nice boy why he and all the rest thought such a lot of me. He couldn’t think of anything to say but that I was ‘so awfully feminine, don’t you know?’ When he thought of it afterwards he was rather pleased with himself, and came and told me. It wasn’t bad, was it?”

“Oh, Mab!” said Georgia reproachfully.

“But, Georgie, you wouldn’t have me unfeminine, would you?”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Dick. “Well, Mab, as you have got here safely, I suppose your friends were as helpful as your friends generally are?”

“They were perfectly delightful. When we got to Bombay they helped me about my luggage, and told me the right hotel, and where to get an ayah and a servant, and how to go to Bab-us-Sahel. To crown all, they found me the chaperon I told you about—who turned out to be the elderly lady who had disapproved of me most frankly of all on the voyage. Her name is Hardy, and she was coming to join her husband here. She is devoted to you, Georgie.”

“Dear old Mrs Hardy? I should think she was. It’s mutual.”

“Well, tastes differ. She is quite certain that I shall come to a bad end. We didn’t speak very much on the way to Bab-us-Sahel, and when we got there I was horrified to find what a journey we had still before us. I knew the railway hadn’t got to you yet, but I thought it would only mean perhaps a day in a palanquin, with tigers and interesting things like that jumping out of the jungle every few minutes, and brave rescuers turning up in the very nick of time to save one. I never imagined there would be days and days of riding through a desert, with no jungle and no tigers at all. Happily we fell in with Mr Burgrave when we left the railway, and as he was coming here he invited us to travel with his party in royal state, which we did. Mrs Hardy quarrelled with him most days on some pretext or other for your sakes, which I didn’t think nice of her when she was enjoying his hospitality. She seemed to be convinced that everything he did was bound to bring the province to destruction.” Again Dick and Georgia exchanged glances. “Dick, what is wrong between you and Mr Burgrave? I insist on knowing.”

“It’s unusual to find two men absolutely agreed on questions of policy,” said Dick shortly.

“Well, just at present he has a grudge against you on my account. He considers you guilty of culpable negligence in leaving such a delicate and valuable piece of goods to find its way to Alibad unassisted. I tried to point out that the blame was entirely due to the wicked wilfulness of the piece of goods in question, but he still thinks you sadly callous.”

“We haven’t heard yet what has brought her Majesty Queen Mab to Alibad at all.”

“No, that’s another story. (Don’t you admire my local colour?) Here followeth the confession of Mabel Louisa North. I had a great idea, Georgie, a splendid idea, when uncle died and I was left alone. I thought I would become a Medical, so as to come out in time and help you. I knew you would jeer, Dick, and try to dissuade me, so I decided not to say a word until I was fairly embarked on my triumphal career. I was going to take the London Matric. in January, and when I was entered at the School of Medicine I meant to burst out into sudden blaze and wire you the astonishing news. But the whole thing missed fire horribly. You may laugh, Georgie, for I dare say you have kept your mind supple, like that old man who said he was always learning; but you don’t know how frightfully difficult it is to bring your mighty intellect down again to lessons when you haven’t done any for years and years. Would you believe it?—I broke down under the stress of the preparation—for the Matric., mind—and my eyes gave out. No, it is nothing really bad”—as Georgia uttered a horrified exclamation—“Sir William Thornycroft pledged himself that they would soon be all right again if I gave up work and took to frivolling.”

“But if there’s nothing the matter with them, I can’t think why he didn’t tell you to rest for a month or so, and let you go on again with glasses,” said Georgia.

Mabel looked a little ashamed.

“Well, the fact is, I made rather a baby of myself. I couldn’t wear glasses, Georgie—think what a guy I should look! And you can’t imagine how disappointed I was. I knew that the loss of a month’s work would mean that I should fail, and I was feeling very miserable altogether, after weeks of awful headaches, and my eyes hurt so, and—and—I wailed a little. Sir William was most sweet, and asked me all about it; and then he said that he really didn’t think the Medical was what I was best fitted for, and he advised me to travel for a little while and forget all about it.”

“And not give up to medicine what was meant for mankind,” murmured Dick softly.

“And she comes out here, where we have an eye-destroying glare all the year round, and dust-storms two or three times a week, to cure her eyes!” cried Georgia.

“My beloved Georgiana, I came here that you might minister to a mind diseased. When once the thought had flashed upon me, I simply couldn’t stay in England. I just flew round to the shops and bought whatever they showed me, and started as soon as I could settle matters at home and take my passage. I went on writing to you up to the very last minute. I shouldn’t wonder if the letter I posted on my way to the docks travelled in the steamer with me. Is that it there? Well, have I explained matters?”

“It was an awful risk, Mab,” said Dick in an elder-brotherly tone. “We might have been both ill, or out in the district, or touring in Nalapur, or anything.”

“But you weren’t, you see, so it’s all right. I had an inspiration that you’d be in your own house for Christmas. What time is dinner? Lend me a warm tea-gown, Georgie. How cold it gets here when the sun sets, and yet we were nearly roasted this morning! My belongings were to follow in a bullock-cart or two, but I haven’t heard them arrive. Oh, it is sweet to see you two again, and looking so thoroughly happy and fit, too.”

She bestowed a kiss on the top of Dick’s head, remarking as she did so that he was getting disgracefully bald, and rushed away to lavish a series of hugs on Georgia in the privacy of her own room. Her toilet did not take long when she was left alone, and she threw over her head the white shawl Georgia had left with her, and stepped out on the verandah. There was only a faint gleam of moonlight, and a sense of the vastness and dreariness of the desert around crept over her as she tried to distinguish in the blackness the lights of the Alibad cantonments, through which she had passed in the afternoon. The wind was chill, and gathering her wrap more closely round her, she turned to find her way back to the drawing-room. As she did so, the sound of a horse’s footsteps struck upon her ear. Some one was riding past the house at no great distance, riding at a smart pace, which caused a clatter of accoutrements and an occasional sharp metallic ring when the horse’s hoofs came in contact with a rock.

“How horrid it must be riding in the dark!” said Mabel to herself. “Dick,” she cried, meeting her brother in the hall, “are you expecting any one to dinner? Some one is coming here on horseback.”

“Oh no, it’s no one for us,” he answered shortly.

“But where can he be going, then? I thought this was the last English house on the frontier? It’s a soldier, I’m sure, for I heard his sword knocking against the stirrup, or whatever it is that makes the clinkety-clanking noise.”

“I can’t tell you who it is, for I don’t know, but the natives will tell you, if you are particularly anxious to hear. They say it’s General Keeling.”

“Georgia’s father? But he’s dead!”

“Exactly.”

“But do you mean that it’s his ghost?”

“Don’t talk so loud. I don’t want Georgia worried just now, and she may not have noticed the sound. The natives say that whenever there is going to be trouble on the frontier St George Keeling gallops from point to point to see that things are all right, just as he would have done in his lifetime.”

“Oh, but they don’t believe it really?”

“You shall see. Ismail Bakhsh!” The old chaprasi who had met Mabel at the door came forward, gorgeous in his scarlet coat and gold badge, and saluted. “Tell the Miss Sahib who it is she hears, out beyond the far corner of the compound.”

The old man drew himself up and saluted again. “Sinjāj Kīlin Sahib Bahadar rides to-night, Miss Sahib.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” said Mabel, turning to her brother with a blanched face. Ismail Bakhsh understood her words.

“Nay, Miss Sahib, it is well, rather. When the day comes that there is trouble on the border, and Kīlin Sahib does not ride, then the reign of the Sarkar will be ended in Khemistan, and it may be in all Hindustan also.”

“That will do, Ismail Bakhsh,” said Dick, when he had interpreted the old man’s words. “Come into the drawing-room, Mab.”

“But, Dick, it can’t be true? Isn’t some one playing a trick?”

“We have never been able to bring it home to any one if it is a trick. Anstruther and I have watched in vain, and most of the fellows from the cantonments have had a try too. We heard just what you hear, but we could never see anything.”

“Dick, I think you are most awfully brave.” Mabel shuddered as she pictured Dick and his friend approaching the sound, locating it exactly, perhaps—oh, horror!—hearing it pass between them, while still there was nothing to be seen. “Does it—he—ever come any nearer? How fearful if he should ride up to the door!”

“Why, Mab, you don’t mean to say you believe in it?” Dick looked at her curiously. “It’s quite true that the sound is heard when there’s going to be trouble, for I have noticed it time after time; but I have a very simple theory to account for that. When the tribes living beyond this stretch of desert intend to make themselves disagreeable, they send mounted messengers to one another. The desert air carries sound well, and I’m not prepared to say that these rocks here may not have some peculiar property which makes them carry sound well too, but at any rate we hear, as if it was quite close, what is actually happening miles and miles away.”

“Oh, do you really think so?” Mabel was much cheered. “But then, why should Georgia be frightened if she heard it?”

“Because of the trouble it foreshadows, which is a sad and sober reality, not on account of the supernatural story the natives have taken it into their heads to get up.”

Georgia’s entrance and the announcement of dinner banished the disquieting topic, and Mabel’s creepy sensations vanished speedily under the influence of the light and warmth and brightness encompassing the meal, so eminently Western and ordinary in its appointments save for the presence of the noiseless Hindu servants. Old times and scenes were discussed by the three, and family jokes recalled with infinite zest, in momentary entire forgetfulness of the turbulent frontier and the haunted desert outside. Shortly after a move had been made into the drawing-room, however, the flow of reminiscences was interrupted by the entrance of Dick’s subordinate, the handsome young civilian who had escorted Mabel to her brother’s door. He walked in unannounced, as one very much at home.

“With Dr Tighe’s compliments to the rival practitioner,” he said, handing a copy of the Lancet to Georgia. “I shall pass the Doctor’s quarters going home, Mrs North, so I can leave your British Medical for him if you have done with it.”

“I will put it out for you,” said Georgia. “You have seen Miss North already, I think?”

“Yes, indeed. It was this afternoon that I had the astonishment and delight of learning that the Kumpsioner Sahib had atoned for all his sins against this frontier.”

“What, does Burgrave climb down?” cried Dick.

“Not a bit of it, Major. He’s on the war-path, and seeing red. But he has escorted Miss North safely here.”

“Oh, is Mr Burgrave anxious for war?” asked Mabel. “I suppose that’s the trouble which is coming on the frontier, then?” She stopped suddenly, with a guilty glance at Georgia.

“Never mind, Mab; I heard it,” said her sister-in-law quietly.

“I should think so!” cried Fitzgerald Anstruther. “The old joker—beg your pardon, Mrs North—the old ch—General—was riding like mad. No, Miss North, war is the last thing that our most peaceful-minded Commissioner desires. He is coming to bring this benighted province up to date, and assimilate it to the well-governed districts he has known hitherto.”

“After all, we can’t be sure of his intentions,” said Georgia. “What we have heard may be only rumour.”

“No; he is on the war-path, Mrs North, as I said. Young Timson, of the Telegraphs, who came up with him, was in with me just now, and says that he talked quite openly of his plans.”

“I don’t mind the man’s intentions,” cried Dick hotly, “if they are founded on an honest opinion. What I do mind is his talking of them to outsiders as if they were accomplished facts, before he has said a word to the men on the spot.”

“Oh, but you forget that the Commissioner’s intentions are as good as accomplished facts, Major,” said Fitz. “‘Is it not already done, Sahib?’ as my old villain of a bearer says when I tell him to do something he has no idea of doing.

“‘For the Khans must come down and Amirs they must frown

When the Kumpsioner Sahib says “Stop”!

(Poor beggars!—we’re here to say “Stop”!)’

aren’t we?” he added dolefully. “Timson says that Burgrave is particularly strong on cutting loose from Nalapur.”

“Oh, do explain these technicalities a little!” pleaded Mabel. Her brother took up the task promptly, seeming to find in it some sort of relief to his feelings.

“I suppose you know that Khemistan has always been governed on a plan of its own? When it was first annexed Georgia’s father was put in charge of this frontier, which was then the wildest, thievingest, most lawless place in creation. He raised the Khemistan Horse, and used them indiscriminately as troops and police. Small parties were stationed all along the frontier, and they were ready to march in any direction, day or night, at the news of a raid or a scrimmage. Within a few years the frontier was quiet, and General Keeling kept it so. He had his own methods of doing it, and the Government didn’t always agree with them, wherefore he ragged the Government, and the Government snubbed him, horribly. However, he held on to his post, and died at it, and then the bad old days began again. That was just before I came up here, and I found that the people looked back to Sinjāj Kīlin’s days as a kind of Golden Age——”

“Oh, Dick, they do still,” cried Mabel. “It makes poor Mr Burgrave so vexed. He told me that whenever an old chief comes to pay his respects, the first thing he asks is always whether the Commissioner Sahib knew Sinjāj Kīlin. He got so tired of it at last that he said he would have given worlds to shout, ‘Thank goodness, no!’”

“Don’t doubt it for a moment. Well, they tried to govern Khemistan on the lines of the province next door, which has always been in the hands of the opposition school. Result—confusion, and all but civil war. Most of St George Keeling’s young men gave up in disgust, and the Amir of Nalapur, just across the frontier, who had been the General’s firm ally, was goaded into enmity. That was the state of things five years ago.”

“And then,” said Georgia, “dear old Sir Magnus Pater, who was Commissioner for Khemistan in my father’s time, used all his influence to get Dick appointed Frontier Superintendent. It was the last thing he did before he retired, and we were thankful to leave Iskandarbagh, and to get back to our very own country.”

“And in less than no time,” put in Fitz, “the frontier was quiet, thanks to a judicious revival of General Keeling’s methods, and the Amir of Nalapur was assuring Major North that he was his father and his mother. Mrs North’s fame as a physician of supernatural powers, and the Major’s military discipline, have worked wonders in crushing the proud and extorting the respectful admiration of the submissive.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” cried Mabel. “Georgie, do you write Dick’s reports for him? Mr Burgrave really believes you do.”

(“Oh, Miss North, what an injudicious question!” murmured Fitz, sotto voce.)

“Certainly not,” returned Georgia briskly. “Do you think I would encourage Dick in such idleness? We write them together.”

“But,” objected Mabel, “I can’t see why Mr Burgrave should come to disturb all you have done if you have got on so well.”

“O wise young judge!” said Dick. “That’s exactly what we can’t see either.”

“Because he is tired of hearing General Keeling alluded to as the best feared, and loved, and hated man in Anglo-Indian history,” said Fitz. “Because to see your next-door neighbour succeeding where you have failed, by dint of methods which you regard with holy horror, is distasteful to the natural man. But let me tell you a little story, Miss North—an Oriental apologue, full of local colour. The ruler of many millions was glancing over the map of his dominions one morning, when his symmetry-loving eye lit upon one province governed differently from all the rest. To him, imperiously demanding an explanation, there enters Eustace Burgrave, Esq., of the Secretariat, C.S.I. and other desirable things, armed with a beautifully written minute on the subject, and points out that the province is not only a scandal and an eyesore, but a happy hunting-ground for firebrand soldier-politicals who know better than viceroys—a class of persons that obviously ought to be stamped out in the interests of good government. Any remedies for this atrocious state of things? Naturally, Mr Burgrave is prepared with measures that will make Khemistan the garden of India and a lasting memorial of the ruler’s happy reign. No time is wasted. ‘Take the province, Burgrave,’ says the Great Great One, with tears of emotion, ‘and my blessing with it,’ and Burgrave accepts both. Hitherto he has been reforming the course of nature down by the river, now he comes up here to teach us a lesson in our turn.”

“And do you mean to let him do what he likes?” cried Mabel.

“Nonsense, Mab! He is supreme here,” said Dick.

“Besides, Miss North,” Fitz went on, “the Commissioner’s imposing personality puts opposition out of the question. You must have noticed the condescending loftiness of his manner, springing from the assurance that his career will be in the future, as in the past, a succession of triumphs. Failure is not in his vocabulary. He is born for greatness. Who could see that cold blue eye, that monumental nose, and doubt it? Nothing short of a general convulsion of nature could disturb the even tenor of his way.”

“Well, I am not quite sure of that,” said Mabel musingly.

“Oh, I’m afraid there’s no hope of him as a lady’s man, if that’s what you mean, Miss North. It is understood that he’s by no means a hardened misogynist, but neither is he looking for a wife. He is simply waiting quite dispassionately to see whether the feminine counterpart of his perfections will ever present herself. Year after year at Calcutta and Simla he has surveyed the newest young ladies out from home and found them wanting, and their mothers go away into corners and call him names, which is unjust. His fitting mate would scarcely appear once in a lifetime, perhaps not in an age.”

“I think Mr Burgrave needs a lesson,” said Mabel.

“But consider, Miss North. It is no obscure future that the favoured damsel will be called upon to share. In time she will clothe her jampanis at Simla in scarlet, and by-and-by, if she does what he tells her, she will sport the Crown of India on a neat coloured ribbon.”

“I think it will be well for me to take him in hand,” Mabel persisted.

“For goodness’ sake, Mab, don’t make matters worse by importing the celebrated smile into the affair!” cried Dick.

“Worse? Dick, you are ungrateful. When Mr Burgrave has found himself mistaken in one matter of importance, he will be less cocksure in others.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Georgia. “And take care, Mab. It’s dangerous playing with edged tools.”

“Then I will take the risk. Reverence your heroic sister, Dick, willing to sacrifice herself for the sake of your career.”

“And if the worst come to the worst, the prospective glories of the viceregal throne will gild the pill,” said Fitz.

CHAPTER II.
“LIFE IS REAL; LIFE IS EARNEST.”

“Oh, Georgie, I do so want a good long talk.”

It was the morning after Mabel’s arrival, and she had settled herself on the verandah with her work, a laudable pretence in which no one had ever seen her set a stitch. After Dick had ridden away, she yawned a good deal, and looked out more than once disconsolately over the desert in search of entertainment, which failed to present itself, and Georgia had her household duties to perform before she could devote herself to amusing her sister-in-law. Mabel had several distant glimpses of her laying down the law to submissive servants, and paying surprise visits in the compound, but at last she mounted the steps, threw aside her sun-hat, and bringing out a work-basket, spread a little pile of delicate cambric upon the table before her.

“Talk, then,” she said, with a pin in her mouth.

“But you are sure we shan’t be interrupted? Have you quite done?”

“I think we are safe. I have visited the cook-house and the dairy, interviewed the gardener, arranged about the horses’ and cow’s food as well as our own, and physicked all the invalids in the neighbourhood. So begin, Mab.”

“Well, don’t you want to know my real reasons for coming out?”

“I thought we heard them last night—such as they are.”

“How nasty you are, Georgie! Didn’t you guess that there were other reasons behind, reserved for your private ear, and not to be exposed to Dick’s ribaldry? The truth is, I was hungering and thirsting for reality, and that’s why I came.”

“My beloved Mab, is England a world of shadows?”

“It is exactly that—to women in our class of life, at any rate—and I am sick of shadows. Our life has become so smooth, and polished, and refined, that it is not life at all. We are all Tomlinsons more or less—getting our emotions second-hand from books and plays. Some of us go into the slums or the hospitals in search of experiences (you’ll say that was what I tried to do), but even then we only see things, we don’t feel them. I wanted to get to a place where things still happened, where there were real people and real passions.”

“Do you know, Mab”—Georgia fixed a critical eye on her—“if you had been a little younger, I should have suspected you of a yearning to enter the Army Nursing Service? I can’t tell you how many girls have lamented to me at different times the unreality of their lives, and proposed to set them right by means of that particular act of self-sacrifice. But as things are, I suppose, to use plain English, you were bored?”

“Bored to exasperation, then, you unsympathetic creature! But I am serious, Georgie. There’s something you quoted in one of your letters from Kubbet-ul-Haj that has haunted me ever since, and expresses what I mean. It was something like: ‘When the world grows too refined and too cultured, God sends great judgments to beat us back to the beginning of history again, to toils and pain and peril, and the old first heroic lessons—how to fight and how to endure.’ It would be absurd for me, in England, to take to living in a slum, making my own things, and teaching people who are much better than I am, but I thought out here——”

“And you find Dick and me dressing for dinner every evening, and getting the magazines monthly! You had better cross the border into Ethiopia, Mab. We are just as artificial here as at home.”

“Georgie! as if I wanted to make a savage of myself, like the youth in ‘Locksley Hall’! Surely life can be simple and primitive without being squalid?”

“You haven’t asked my advice, and I don’t know whether you want it, but it’s dreadfully commonplace. Get married.”

“You mean that I should know then what reality is? What an indictment to bring against Dick! What in the world does he do to you, Georgie?”

Georgia smiled superior. “You don’t expect me to begin to defend Dick to you?” she asked, then laughed aloud. “No, Mab, you needn’t try to tease me about him at this hour of the day. But what I mean is, that you get into the way of looking at things in quite a different light when you are married. You don’t hold a brief for your own sex any longer, but for men as well. That makes the difference, I think. You are in the middle instead of on one side, and that is at any rate a help towards seeing life whole.”

“But do you always look at things now through Dick’s spectacles? How painfully monotonous!”

“We don’t always agree, of course. But we talk things over together, and generally one convinces the other. If not, we agree to differ.”

Mabel shook her head. “Then I’m perfectly certain that you and Dick have never differed on a really vital matter,” she said. “In that case I know quite well that neither of you would ever convince the other, and you could not conscientiously agree to differ, so what is to happen?”

Georgia did not seem to hear her. She rose and went into the drawing-room, and unlocking a little carved cabinet that stood on her writing-table, took something out of a secret drawer. “Look at this, Mab,” she said, handing Mabel a piece of paper. It was a photograph, obviously the work of an amateur, of a little grave surrounded by lofty trees.

“Oh, Georgie!” the tears sprang to Mabel’s eyes; “this is baby’s grave?”

Georgia nodded. “Dick doesn’t know that I have it,” she said, speaking quickly. “Mr Anstruther took the photograph for me, and I had one framed, and it always hung in my room. I used to sit and look at it when Dick was out. Sometimes I cried a little, of course, but I never thought he would notice. But he took it into his head that I was fretting, and when we left Iskandarbagh he gave the servants a hint to lose the picture in moving. Wasn’t it just like him, dear fellow? But he never bargained for the servants’ letting out the truth to me. I had this one as well; but when I saw how Dick felt about it I took care to keep it hidden away, and he thinks his plan has succeeded, and that I have forgotten. It makes him so much happier.”

“I see,” said Mabel, in a low voice. “You wouldn’t have done that once, Georgie. I see the difference. But surely there is a name on the stone?” She was examining the photograph closely. “She was baptized, then? I never heard——”

“Yes, Dick baptized her; there was no one else. Georgia Mabel, he would have it so. Oh, Mab, it was awful, that time! We were the only English people at Iskandarbagh just then, and the tribes were out on the frontier. Miss Jenkins, the Bab-us-Sahel missionary, was coming to me. Since I knew her first, she has been home to take the medical course, and is fully qualified. Well, she could not get to me, and I couldn’t get to Khemistan, and I had to stay where I was and be doctor and patient both. Of course I had my dear good Rahah, and Dick was as gentle as any woman; but oh, it was terrible! But I shouldn’t have minded afterwards if only baby had lived. She was such a darling, Mab, with fair hair and dark eyes, like yours. Dick tried to cheer me up—chaffed me about her being so small and weak—but she died in my arms a few minutes after she was baptized. Miss Jenkins got through to us the next day at the risk of her life, but she was only in time for the—the funeral in the Residency garden.”

“And you lived through that? Oh, Georgie, it would have killed me.”

“Oh no; there was Dick, you know. Poor dear Dick! he was disappointed about baby, of course; but a man doesn’t feel that sort of thing as a woman does. Besides, he was so glad I didn’t die too, that he really could not think of anything else.”

“And you, Georgie?”

“I can’t talk of it, Mab, even to you—how I longed to die. But he never knew it. And when I was better, I saw how wicked I had been. I would have lost anything rather than leave him alone.”

“Well,” said Mabel, trying to speak lightly, “you have made acquaintance with realities, Georgie, at any rate; but I don’t know that I am very keen on following in your footsteps. I believe you have made me afraid of taking your advice. Marriage seems to involve experiences out here which one doesn’t get at home.”

“It does,” agreed Georgia, “and I suppose they would be too much for some women. But when you love the country and the people as I do—and love your husband, of course—you would scarcely come out here with him if you didn’t—I think the life brings you nearer to each other than anything else could. It is such an absolute solitude à deux, you see, and you are so completely shut up to one another, that you seem really to become one, not just figuratively. It’s rather a terrible experiment to make, as you say, but if it succeeds—why, then it’s the very best thing in the world.”

“I can’t quite fancy myself thinking of Mr Burgrave like that,” murmured Mabel reflectively.

“Mab, I didn’t think——”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Georgie. If I didn’t laugh I should cry. And there’s Dick coming back, and he’ll see we have been crying. Talk about something else, quick!”

“I was wondering whether you would like to pay a call or two,” said Georgia, thrusting a wet handkerchief hastily into her pocket. “I don’t want to drag you out if you are still tired after your journey, but it would be nice for you to get to know people before all the Christmas festivities begin next week.”

“Of course!” Mabel’s sudden animation was not wholly assumed for Dick’s benefit as he rode past the verandah. “Who is there to call upon?”

“Only your friend Mrs Hardy, whose husband is the missionary here, and acts as chaplain, and Flora Graham, the Colonel’s daughter, I am afraid. Nearly all the men are bachelors or grass-widowers at this station. Two or three ladies will come in from Rahmat-Ullah and the other outlying stations next week, but we are still scarce enough to be valuable.”

“That’s a state of things of which I highly approve,” said Mabel.

“Never knew a woman that didn’t,” said Dick, entering. “Ask Georgia if she doesn’t like to see the men round her chair, though she pretends to think they’re attracted by her professional reputation. But Miss Graham is coming to call on you, Mab. She’s dying to see you, but feared you would be too tired to pay visits this week. In gratitude for this honour, don’t you think you ought to refrain from exercising your fascinations on her young man?”

“Really, Dick, I don’t know what you can think of me. Is Miss Graham engaged?”

“Rather; to young Haycraft, of the Regiment.”

“Ah, I fly at higher game,” said Mabel austerely.

“So I should have guessed.”

“Oh, Dick, have you seen the Commissioner?” cried Georgia.

“Been closeted with him nearly all morning.”

“And was he very horrid?”

“By no means. He didn’t make any secret of his reforming intentions, but he gave me no hint as to his plan for carrying them out. He only tells that sort of thing to casual fellow-travellers, I suppose. But I think he wished to make himself agreeable, and I attribute that to my having the honour of being Miss Mabel North’s brother.”

“Ah!” said Mabel wisely.

Late that afternoon she and Georgia set forth to visit Mrs Hardy, much against Mabel’s will. She represented that she had only parted from the good lady the day before, and had not the slightest desire to renew the acquaintance, but Georgia was firm.

“We will only go in for a minute or two, for we must be back early to meet the Grahams, but I could not bear her to think herself slighted.”

When they reached the missionary’s bungalow they found it in the throes of a general turn-out. The verandah was piled with furniture, and here Mrs Hardy, a worn-looking little woman with a lined face, and thin grey hair screwed into an unbecoming knob, received them in the lowest possible spirits. She had always prophesied that the house would go to rack and ruin during her absence in England, and now she perceived that it had. Only that morning she had discovered the fragments of her very best damask table-cloth doing duty as dusters, and three silver spoons were missing. Moreover, she believed she was on the verge of further discoveries that would compel her to dismiss at least half the servants. Georgia’s inquiry after Mr Hardy elicited the fact that he had contracted the bad habit of having his meals served in his study and reading while he partook of them, which was bound to have a prejudicial effect on his digestion in the future, while Mrs Hardy felt morally certain that he had gone to church in rags for many Sundays past. Yes, he had spoken very cheerfully of several interesting inquirers who had come to him of late, but Mrs Hardy had, and would continue to have, grave doubts as to the genuineness of their motives. Georgia sighed, and turned the conversation to the subject of the journey from the coast, but this only opened the way for a fresh flood of forebodings. The new Commissioner was bent on mischief, and the natives were perceptibly uneasy. Where they were not defiant they were sullen, and Mrs Hardy’s eagle eye foresaw trouble ahead. Perceiving that Georgia was not entirely at one with her, she descended suddenly to details.

“Ah, dear Mrs North, I know you think I am a pessimist, but when you hear what I have to tell you——! Is—is Miss North in your confidence—politically speaking?” with a meaning glance at Mabel.

“In our confidence!” cried Georgia, in astonishment. “Of course she is. Why not?”

Mrs Hardy bridled. “I am relieved to hear that Miss North is not so entirely taken up with the Commissioner as to have no thought for her dear brother’s interests,” she said acidly. “Well, I must tell you that I hear on good authority that Mr Burgrave intends to allow Bahram Khan to return to Nalapur. In the course of our journey he gave a private audience to a Hindu whom I recognised as Narayan Singh, the brother of the Nalapur Vizier Ram Singh, and I now hear that he has been closeted with him again to-day. Ram Singh has always been suspected of intriguing for Bahram Khan’s return, and Narayan Singh has divided his time between Nalapur and Ethiopia for years.”

“Oh, but it’s quite impossible!” cried Georgia. “The Commissioner would never take such a step without consulting my husband, and Dick would never countenance it. Bahram Khan has sinned beyond forgiveness.”

“I wish I could think so!” said Mrs Hardy oracularly. “We shall soon see, my dear Mrs North. What, must you go? I wonder Major North likes you to drive that high dog-cart. You will certainly have an accident some day.”

“Odious woman!” cried Mabel, as the dog-cart dashed down the road. “How can you endure her, Georgie? She is the very incarnation of spite.”

“No, no—of hopelessness,” said Georgia. “The climate tries her, and her children are all being educated at home, and she thinks Mr Hardy is not appreciated here. Dear old man! I wish you could have seen him, Mab. He is all patience and cheerfulness, and indeed, it is a good thing that he has Mrs Hardy to keep him within bounds. All our people and the native Christians love him, and even the mullahs who come to argue with him can’t succeed in hating him. His learning is really wasted up here, and I don’t think he has had more than six baptisms of converts in the five years we have known him. We always say that the natives who become Christians here must be very much in earnest, for Mrs Hardy discourages them so conscientiously beforehand.”

“Horrid old thing, spoiling her husband’s work!” cried Mabel.

“No, not at all. He has been taken in more than once. And really, Mab, it is hard for us to urge these people to be baptized. The persecution is awful.”

“Here—under English rule?”

“Not from us, of course, but from their own people. Two men have been lured across the frontier and murdered, and another had a false charge trumped up against him, and only just escaped hanging. It seems scarcely fair on our part unless we can get them away to another part of India.”

“Well, Mrs Hardy isn’t exactly a good example of the effects of Christianity. She is enough to frighten away any number of intending converts.”

“And yet she is the staunchest friend possible at a pinch. I had rather have her with me in an emergency than any other woman I know.”

“That’s because she likes you. She hates me, and would rejoice to make my life a burden to me. The idea of hinting that I would betray Dick’s secrets to Mr Burgrave! Wasn’t it infamous? But who is Bahram Khan?”

“He is the Amir of Nalapur’s nephew, and was intended to succeed to the throne, but in order to expedite matters he tried to poison both his uncle and Dick’s predecessor here, who had been obliged to scold him for some of his doings. The matter could not be absolutely proved against him, but he thought it well to take refuge in Ethiopia, and has stayed there ever since. To guard against his returning, Dick advised the Amir to adopt another nephew, Bahadar Shah, as his successor, and he did. Bahram Khan is only about twenty-three now, but he married an Ethiopian lady of rank four years ago. His poor old mother, who is one of my Nalapur patients, was very sore at his arranging it without consulting her. She remained at her brother’s court when her son escaped, for it was she who saved the lives of the Amir and Sir Henry Gaunt. She suspected her son’s intentions, and tasted the food prepared for the banquet he was going to give. It made her very ill, but she gave the warning, and I was sent for post-haste from Iskandarbagh in time to save her life. She is a dear, grateful old thing.”

“But do you think Mr Burgrave will let Bahram Khan come back?”

“Oh no, it’s impossible. But I wish,” added Georgia thoughtfully, “that I hadn’t been so emphatic in denying it to Mrs Hardy. If anything happens now, she will know that Dick and the Commissioner are not in accord.”

“But why shouldn’t she know?”

“Because out here we learn to stick together. Quarrel in private as much as you like, but present a united front to the foe,” said Georgia sententiously, as she pulled up before her own verandah. Two horses, in charge of native grooms, were waiting at the door.

“Our visitors have arrived before us,” said Mabel, and they hurried into the drawing-room, to find an elderly man of soldierly appearance and a tall yellow-haired girl waiting patiently for them.

“I’m afraid you will think us very rude for thrusting ourselves upon you so soon, and at this time of day,” said Miss Graham, addressing herself to Mabel, after Georgia had apologised for their absence, “but my father happened to have time to come with me just now, and I was so very anxious to see you——”

“How sweet of you!” murmured Mabel softly, as the visitor stopped abruptly.

“Because I want to ask you a favour,” finished Miss Graham. Her father laughed, and Mabel looked politely interested. “I want you to be Queen of the Tournament next week instead of me.”

“Oh, Georgie!” cried Mabel; “and you said that life out here was modern and unromantic! Why, here we are plunged into the Middle Ages at once.”

“It’s only my daughter’s poetical way of speaking of our annual gymkhana,” explained Colonel Graham. “She has officiated so often that she feels shy. The real fact is,” he turned confidentially to Georgia, “Haycraft has loafed about here so much that he’s wretchedly stale this year, and Flora can’t bear to give a prize to any one else.”

“No, no, papa; what a shame!” cried Miss Graham, blushing. “You see, Miss North, I have really done it a good many times, and I’m sure everybody would like to see some one new. Besides, I am engaged, you know, and—and——”

“And it would make it more realistic if the opposing heroes felt they were really struggling for the Queen’s favour?” said her father. “Well, that’s easily managed. Intimate to Haycraft that unless he wins he’ll have to resign you to the successful competitor.”

“But why ask me?” said Mabel.

“Because there’s no one else,” replied Miss Graham quickly. “No, I don’t mean that; but my father says I ought to ask the Commissioner to give the prizes, and I don’t like him well enough. But he couldn’t possibly be offended if I asked you. It’s so obviously the proper thing.”

“Now, why?” asked Mabel again, and the other girl blushed once more.

“I saw you yesterday when you rode past our house,” she said shyly, “and I knew at once that you were the right person.”

Mabel smiled graciously. Such open admiration from one of her own sex was rare enough to be grateful to her. “I am wondering what I should wear,” she said. “I have a little muslin frock——”

“Oh!” said Miss Graham, evidently disappointed. “But perhaps—do you think I might see it?”

“If Georgie and Colonel Graham will excuse us for a moment,” said Mabel rising, and she led the way to her own room, and summoned the smiling brown-faced ayah whom she had brought from Bombay.

“Oh!” cried Flora Graham again, when the “little muslin frock” was displayed to her, but her tone was not now one of disappointment. The frock might be little, whatever that term might mean as applied to a gown, but it was not therefore to be despised. It was undoubtedly made of muslin, but it had a slip of softest primrose silk, and the glories of frills and lace and primrose ribbon which decked it bewildered her eyes. “It is lovely!” she said slowly; “and look how your ayah appreciates it. I wish mine ever had the chance of regarding one of my gowns with such reverential admiration! And what hat will you wear with it?”

“They tried to make me have one swathed in white and primrose chiffon,” said Mabel indifferently, “but I knew I could never stand that. I shall wear this one with it.” She indicated a large black picture hat.

“That will be perfect,” said Miss Graham. “It’s the finishing touch. Oh, you will—you must—give the prizes. That gown would be wasted otherwise. You will do it, won’t you?”

Yielding sweetly to the eager entreaties showered upon her, Mabel consented, and in the talk which followed set herself to gain an acquaintance with all the gaieties that were to be expected during the following week. When Georgia came to say that Colonel Graham was obliged to leave, the two girls were discussing ball dresses with the keenest interest.

“I can’t make Mabel out,” Georgia said to her husband that night. “Sometimes she seems in such deadly earnest, and yet she is as anxious as possible to take part in everything that is going on.”

“But why in the world shouldn’t she be?”

“It’s not that; but I can’t think why she should care for it.”

“No, I suppose not. You never felt that you must play the fool for a bit now and then or die, did you, Georgie? But Mab does—has periodical fits of it, alternating with the deadly earnest. Let her alone to have her fling. She’ll settle down some day, and it’s not as if it did any harm.”

But Georgia was not convinced.

CHAPTER III.
“IN HIS SIMPLICITY SUBLIME.”

“The Major not back from the durbar yet, I suppose, Mrs North? Have you heard this extraordinary report about Bahram Khan?”

“No, I didn’t know there was any report going about,” answered Georgia. She was driving Mabel to the club, and had stopped to speak to the station surgeon, a cheerful little stout man, riding a frisky pony which danced merrily about the road, while its master tried in vain to induce it to stand still.

“It’s all over the bazaar, and one of the hospital assistants told me. They say that the Commissioner means to insist on Bahram Khan’s being restored to his lands and honours, and to advise poor old Ashraf Ali strongly to accept him again as his heir.”

“Oh, that gives the whole thing away,” said Georgia, more cheerfully, “for the Amir’s adoption of Bahadar Shah was recognised by the Government of India. Was all this to happen to-day, Dr Tighe?”

“Yes, at this durbar. Quite thrilling, isn’t it? Well, I must be off on my rounds. When am I to have that game of tennis you promised me, Miss North?” and the doctor rode away, while Georgia drove on, with brows drawn into an anxious frown.

“It’s quite impossible,” she said at last, rousing herself. “He couldn’t spring such a mine upon us. Look, Mab! this is my father’s old house.”

“But why don’t you live in it?” asked Mabel, looking with much interest at the flat-roofed building with its massive stone walls and narrow windows. Georgia laughed.

“Because the accommodation is a little too Spartan for a family,” she said. “My father prided himself on his powers of roughing it, and all his young men had to follow his example. Mr Anstruther inhabits the house at present, in company with the official records, for the office is large and airy, and Dick uses it still.”

“I should have thought General Keeling would have lived in the fort,” said Mabel, as a sharp turn in the road brought them in sight of the dust-coloured walls and mouldering battlements, crowned with withered grass, of the old border stronghold.

“Never!” cried Georgia. “The first thing he did on coming here was to dismantle it. He would never allow either the Khemistan Horse or his British officers to hide behind walls. Their safety had to depend on their own watchfulness.”

“He had the courage of his convictions, at any rate.”

“Of course. He never told any one to do what he would not do himself. He wanted to blow up the fort and destroy it altogether; but the Government objected in the interests of archæology, so he gave it to the station for a club-house. There has never been too much money to spare in Alibad, and people have used it gratefully ever since.”

“What a delicious old place!” sighed Mabel, as they drove in through the hospitable gateway, on either side of which the ancient doors, warped and worm-eaten and paintless, leaned useless against the wall. The block of buildings which had comprised the chief apartments of the fort in the wild days before the coming of the British was now utilised as the club-house, and an inner courtyard had been ingeniously converted into a tennis-ground. As she passed, Mabel caught a glimpse through the archway of Flora Graham and her fiancé, young Haycraft, playing vigorously, but she also noticed something else.

“Georgie, there’s Mrs Hardy looking out for you.”

“Oh dear!” cried Georgia in a panic, “I can’t meet her just now, until I know the truth about Bahram Khan. She is waiting to gloat over me about this horrible rumour, and I can’t stand it. I am going to take you up to the ramparts, Mab, to see the view.”

She gave the reins to the groom, and, avoiding the reading-room, in the verandah of which could be discerned Mrs Hardy’s depressed-looking bonnet, hurried Mabel across the wide courtyard and up a flight of steps which led to the summit of the western wall. From this, at some risk to life and limb, they were able to reach one of the half-ruined towers, which commanded a bird’s-eye view of the town. The native quarter, with its narrow, crooked alleys and carefully guarded flat roofs, the lines, painfully neat in the mathematical symmetry of their rows of white huts, the houses in the cantonments, embowered in pleasant gardens, were all spread before them. Beyond the belt of green which marked the limits of the irrigated land round the town, the desert stretched on the east and south as far as the eye could see. To the west was a range of rugged hills, their nearer spurs within rifle-shot of the fort, and to the north, at a much greater distance, the peaks, at this season covered with snow, of a considerable mass of mountains.

“That is Nalapur,” said Georgia, pointing to the mountains, “and beyond it to the eastward is Ethiopia. Our house is the last on British soil. The corner of the compound exactly touches the frontier line.”

“Then that’s why your father rides past just there?” said Mabel unthinkingly.

“So the natives say. I rather like to think of him as still guarding the frontier which he spent his life in defending. It’s a nice idea, I mean—that’s all. But, Mab, the men are coming back from the durbar. Look at that dust-cloud, and you will see the light strike on something shining every now and then. That’s the bravery of their durbar get-up. We will wait here until they get into the town, and capture the first that comes this way. I must find out what has happened.”

They watched the cavalcade enter the town and separate into its component parts, and presently saw Fitz Anstruther riding up to the fort. He caught sight of their parasols and waved his hand, but Georgia dragged Mabel down the steps, and they met him in the courtyard.

“You’ve heard, then?” he cried, as his eyes fell on Georgia’s face.

“Only a bazar rumour. Is it true that Bahram Khan——?”

“He is restored to his estates and rank, and recommended by the Commissioner to the particular favour of his uncle. Burgrave had him all ready outside the tent, it appears, and after enlarging to the Amir and the luckless Bahadar Shah on the blessings of family unity, and the advisability of forgiving and forgetting youthful peccadilloes, brought him in as a practical embodiment of his words. It was dramatic—very—but it was playing it awfully low down on us, especially the Major.”

“Then he knew nothing of it?”

“No more than I did.”

“And Ashraf Ali was willing to take the Commissioner’s advice?”

“He hadn’t much choice. A glance from Major North would have turned the scale, but you know what the Major is, Mrs North—he will play fair by his own side, however badly they may have treated him. He gave him no encouragement to show fight, and Ashraf Ali took a back seat. It is rather tough to have to receive again into the bosom of your family an affectionate nephew who has tried to murder you, isn’t it?”

“But how does the Commissioner get over that little difficulty?”

“Airily ignores it. ‘Not guilty, and won’t do it again,’ is his view. Every prospect of domestic happiness in the Amir’s family circle in future.”

“Where is Dick now?” asked Georgia suddenly.

“I rather think he has gone to have it out with the Kumpsioner Sahib. He was horribly sick, and who can wonder?”

“I really think,” said Mabel, quite inconsequently, “that if I couldn’t pick up my own balls I wouldn’t play tennis.”

They were sitting in the verandah overlooking the tennis-court, and it was the sight of the squad of small boys in uniform who were being kept hard at work by the three men now playing that had called forth the remark.

“We get so slack with the climate,” pleaded Fitz.

“Well, I don’t intend to let those boys pick up my balls when I play.”

“They won’t have the chance, Miss North. We should simply massacre them if they attempted it. Oh, here’s the Major—and the Commissioner!”

Dick was still in uniform, and the man who emerged with him from under the archway was quite thrown into the shade by his magnificence, but the contrast did not appear to afflict Mr Burgrave, even if he noticed it. He crossed the shadowed court with slow, deliberate steps, apparently unaware that he was interrupting the game, talking all the time to Dick, who listened courteously, but without conviction.

“What a curious face it is!” muttered Georgia involuntarily, as the Commissioner stepped into the line of light cast by a lamp in one of the rooms.

“Yes, doesn’t he look the pig-headed brute he is?” was the joyful response of Fitz, who had overheard her.

“No, that’s not it. He looks obstinate enough, but there is something benevolent about the face—nothing cruel or mean. It’s the face of a fanatic.”

“Oh no, Mrs North! There’s bound to be something good about even a fanatic at bottom, I suppose. Won’t you say a doctrinaire?”

“If you prefer it. I mean a man who has formed certain opinions, and allows neither facts nor arguments to prevent his forcing them upon other people.”

“Ah, Mrs North!” The Commissioner was bowing before Georgia with the somewhat exaggerated courtesy which, combined with his paternal manner, caused impatient young people to brand his demeanour as patronising. “And are you very much incensed against me for keeping your husband so busy all day?”

He sat down beside her as he spoke, taking little notice of Mabel, and devoted himself to her for ten minutes or more, while Dick went into the club-house to speak to some one. To Mabel, as to Georgia, it appeared as if Mr Burgrave’s condescension towards Dick’s wife was intended to disarm any resentment that might have been aroused in her mind by his treatment of Dick that day, although it was not easy to see why he should take so much trouble. It was Fitz on whom the true comedy of the situation dawned at last, rendering him speechless with secret delight. The Commissioner was an adept in the mental exercise known as reading between the lines, and he had formulated his own explanation of the unconventional manner in which Mabel had made her appearance upon the stage of Khemistan. Jealous of her sister-in-law’s good looks, and the attention she attracted, Georgia had refused to invite her to pay a visit to Alibad, and the poor girl’s only chance had been to take matters into her own hands. Too considerate to expose Mabel to the risk of incurring the reproaches of her family circle, Mr Burgrave would talk to Georgia long enough to put her into a good temper before he gratified his own inclinations. His reward came when Georgia rose and remarked that it was time to go home, for guessing that Dick would be driving his wife, he lost no time in offering Mabel a seat in his dog-cart. As for Mabel, she accepted the offer joyfully. Her hasty determination to give Mr Burgrave a lesson had deepened by this time into the deliberate intention of fascinating him into laying aside his distrust of Dick.

“What an interesting day you must have had!” she began guilefully, as soon as they started. “I wish ladies were admitted to durbars.”

“They are, sometimes, but I fancy”—the Commissioner smiled down at her—“that there is not very much business done on those occasions.”

“Oh, then to-day’s was really a serious affair? Do tell me what you did.”

“I am afraid it would hardly interest you.”

“Indeed it would. I am interested in everything that interests my friends.”

Mr Burgrave’s smile became positively grandfatherly. “I thought so!” he said. “No, Miss North, I won’t allow you to sacrifice yourself by talking shop to me. To tell you the truth, it doesn’t interest me—out of office-hours—and therefore I am the last person in the world to inflict it upon you. I am sure you hear so much of it all day that you are as tired of the subject as I am of the revered name of General Keeling.”

“What, have you been hearing more about him?”

Mr Burgrave groaned. “Have I not! Michael Angelo was nothing to him. I always knew that he founded Alibad and dug its wells, planted the trees and constructed the canals—made Khemistan, in short. But now I am the unhappy recipient of endless personal anecdotes about him. One man tells me that he used to go about in the sun without a head-covering of any kind, trusting to the thickness of his hair—if it was not rude, I should say of his skull. Then comes one of his old troopers, and assures me solemnly that after a battle he has seen Sinjāj Kīlin unbutton his tunic and shake out the bullets which had passed through it without hurting him. Another remembers that he has seen him reading a letter from his wife while under fire—rather a pretty touch that—and another recalls for my admiration the fact that the General reserved an hour every morning for his private devotions, and has been known to keep the Commander-in-Chief waiting rather than allow it to be broken in upon.”

“But he was a splendid man,” said Mabel, ashamed of herself for laughing.

“Who doubts it? Only too splendid;—I understand the feelings of the gentleman who banished Aristides. But forgive me for lamenting my private woes to you, Miss North. Let us turn to more interesting themes. We are to see you in an appropriate rôle on Saturday, Miss Graham tells me.”

“I believe I am to give away the prizes at the Gymkhana—unless you would prefer to do it,” said Mabel, with sudden primness.

“I should not think of such a thing unless it would be a relief to you.”

“To me? I shall enjoy the prize-giving above all things. But why?”

“I imagined you might feel shy.” Mr Burgrave looked at her as kindly as ever, but Mabel fancied that he was disappointed in her in some way.

“He seems to think I am about sixteen,” she said to herself, and awoke to the fact that they had reached home, and that her companion had skilfully prevented her from saying a word about the question of the moment.

“Dick,” said Georgia to her husband, when she was alone with him that evening, “did you get any explanation out of Mr Burgrave?”

“I did—without asking for it. He told me quite calmly that the reinstatement of Bahram Khan was part of his programme, and that as I had taken such a strong line with regard to the youth’s banishment, he considered it better to relieve me of all responsibility about it. It would be pleasanter for both of us, he thought.”

“Pleasanter for you and him in your social relations, perhaps; but your prestige with the natives, Dick! What do they think?”

“Why, they gloat, most of ’em,” said Dick grimly.

The Warden of the Marches

The Warden of the Marches

COPYRIGHT.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE WARDEN OF THE MARCHES.

CHAPTER I.THE COMING OF QUEEN MAB.

CHAPTER II.“LIFE IS REAL; LIFE IS EARNEST.”

CHAPTER III.“IN HIS SIMPLICITY SUBLIME.”

CHAPTER I.
THE COMING OF QUEEN MAB.

CHAPTER II.
“LIFE IS REAL; LIFE IS EARNEST.”

CHAPTER III.
“IN HIS SIMPLICITY SUBLIME.”