that entices rather than uplifts.

Evelyn Desmond, perched lightly on the railings, showed ethereal as a
large white butterfly, in the daintiness of her summer finery against
a background of glowing sky. She swung a lace parasol aimlessly to and
fro, and her gaze was concentrated on the buckle of an irreproachable
shoe.

Honor, withdrawing her eyes reluctantly from the brooding peace of
mountain and sky, wondered a little at her pensiveness; wondered also
where her thoughts--if mere flittings of the mind are entitled to be
so called--had carried her.

As a matter of fact, she was thinking of unpaid bills; since human
lilies of the field, though they neither toil nor spin, must pay for
irreproachable shoes and unlimited summer raiment.

The girl's own thoughts, as they were apt to do in leisure moments,
had wandered to Kohat: to the men who were working with cheerful,
matter-of-fact courage in the glare of the little desert-station; and
to the one brave woman, who remained in their midst to hearten them by
her own indomitable gladness of soul.

The beauty of the evening bred a longing--natural in one so
sympathetic--that they also could be up on this green hill-top, under
the shade of the deodars, enjoying the exquisite repose of it all.

"Have you heard from Theo this week, Ladybird?" she asked suddenly. It
was the first time she had used the name, for habit is strong; and
Evelyn looked up quickly, the colour deepening in her cheeks.

"Don't call me Ladybird!" she commanded, with unusual decision. "It
belongs to Theo."

Honor noted her rising colour with a smile of approval.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said gently. "I quite understand. But--have you
heard lately?"

Evelyn's face cleared as readily as a child's.

"Oh, yes; I forgot to tell you. I had quite a long letter this
morning. Perhaps you would like to read it."

And drawing an envelope from her pocket she tossed it into Honor's
lap.

The girl glanced down at it quickly; but allowed it to lie there
untouched. She knew that Desmond wrote good letters, and she would
have dearly liked to read this one. But a certain manly strain in her
forbade her to trespass on the privacy of a letter written to his
wife.

"Thank you," she said; "I think I won't read it, though. I don't
suppose Theo would care about his letters being passed on to me. I
only want to know if things are going on all right."

"Oh, yes; in the usual sort of way. They've had trouble with