coals of that unknown country which held all for which she yearned.

"I shall travel slowly up the White Nile to Renk," Hillyard continued,
blissfully. He was delighted at the interest which Mrs. Croyle was
taking in his itinerary. She was clearly a superior person. "From Renk,
I shall cross to the Blue Nile at Rosaires, and travel eastward again to
the River Dinder----"

"You are most fortunate," Stella interrupted wistfully.

"Yes, am I not?" cried Hillyard. It looked as if nothing would break
through his obtuseness.

"I should love to be going in your place."

"You?"

Hillyard smiled. She was for a mantelshelf in a boudoir, not for a camp.

"Yes--I," and her voice suddenly broke.

Hillyard sprang up from his chair, but Stella held up her hand to check
him, and turned her face still further away. Hillyard resumed his seat
uncomfortably.

"You may meet your friend Harry Luttrell in the Sudan," she explained.
"He is stationed somewhere in that country--where exactly I would give a
great deal to know."

They sat without speaking for a little while, Stella once more turning
to the fire. Hillyard watching her wistful face and the droop of her
shoulders understood at last the truth of Hardiman's description. The
mask was lain aside. Here indeed was a Lady of Sorrows.

Stella Croyle was silent until she was quite sure that she had once more
the mastery of her voice. It was important to her that her next words
should not be forgotten. But even so she did not dare to speak above a
whisper.

"I want you to do me a favour. If you should meet Harry, I should like
him to have news of me. I should like him also--oh, not so often--but
just every now and then to write me a little line."

There were tears glistening on her dark eyelashes. Hillyard fell into a
sort of panic as he reflected upon his own vaunting talk. Compared with
this woman's poignant distress, all the vicissitudes of his life seemed
now quite trivial and small. Here were tears falling and Hillyard was
unused to tears. Nor had he ever heard so poignant a longing in any
human voice as that on which Stella's prayer to him was breathed. He was
ashamed. He was also a little envious of Harry Luttrell. He was also a
little angry with Harry Luttrell.

"You won't forget?"

Stella clasped her hands together imploringly.

"No," Hillyard replied. "Be very sure of that, Mrs. Croyle! If I meet
Luttrell he shall have your message."

"Thank you."

Stella Cr