disquieting news that Desmond was already
half-inclined to throw up the rest of his leave and go straight down to
Paul's bedside. The possibility of broaching the subject to his wife
that night so absorbed his mind that surface conversation was an
effort; and all three were thankful when the meal was over.

"Bring your coffee and cigars into the drawing-room, and we'll have
some music," Honor said, as they rose from the table, and Lenox looked
his gratitude. Intimate speech of any kind, even with Desmond, was
anathema to him just then, and his full heart went out to this woman,
whose genius for divining others' needs was so unerring, because her
sympathies were so deep and true.

He determined to put Quita out of his head for the evening, if she
would consent to stay there; and less than five minutes after this
triumph of common-sense, a slight stir in the verandah roused him to
unreasoning hope that it might be she after all. But it was only Amar
Singh, the bearer, with a telegram for Desmond.

His heart stood still as he tore it open; then a stifled sound of
dismay brought Honor instantly to his side.

"Dearest--what is it?" she asked under her breath.

For answer he handed her the flimsy scrap of paper, and went quickly
into the next room. Honor's eyes took in the curt statement at a
glance.

"Leave cancelled. Return at once. Infantry for cholera camp. None of
ours yet. Wyndham worse. High temperature persists. Condition
critical."

A low sound escaped her, and she passed the telegram to Lenox. It was
from her brother, Colonel Meredith, now in command of the regiment.

"A double blow," she murmured mechanically. "By this time it may
be--all over!"

Her lips quivered, but she did not follow her husband, knowing that in
the first bewilderment of grief he would prefer to be alone. And Lenox
had no answer for her; had, in fact, scarcely heard what she said.
Then, as his brain grasped the latter half of the telegram, he glanced
at her. He had never seen her look less like herself.

"I'm afraid this has hit you hard," he said, with more of feeling in
his eyes than he knew how to put into his tone. "But you mustn't take
the worst for granted. Desmond won't, if I know anything of him."

"I hope not. But this is . . . Paul; and you don't know what that
means to us both. Besides . . . the saints of the earth are always
taken too soon."

"No, not always. Fate does sometimes make mistakes on the