, like his father before him; and you
know the proverb, 'He travels the fastest who travels alone.' Tis
hardly meself, though, that should be upholding such a saying as
that!"

"No, indeed! No woman ought to uphold it. And, after all," Honor
added, with a very becoming touch of seriousness, "there may be better
things for a man than to travel fast. He may learn more by travelling
slowly, don't you think? And I should imagine that fast or slow,
Captain Desmond is bound to arrive in the end--Now I must turn in
here, and see if John is awake. I'll come and see you when he is gone.
I can spare no time for any one else till then!"

Frank Olliver beamed in unqualified approbation.

"You're just a brick, Miss Meredith," she declared with ready Irish
warmth. "An' 'twas a fine wind indeed that carried you up to Kohat."

Honor found her hand enclosed in a grasp as strong as a man's; and
three minutes later Mrs Olliver--whose seat on a horse was as ungainly
as her hand on its mouth was perfect--had become a mere speck on the
wide sunlit road.

Honor entered the hall of her new home pondering many things. She
laid aside her sun helmet, and in obedience to the promptings of her
interested soul turned her steps toward the drawing-room.

The door was ajar, and passing between the looped gold and white
_phulkaris_, she came to a standstill; for the room was not empty.

Captain Desmond, in undress uniform, sat at the piano with his back
towards her. His white helmet lay, spike downward, on the carpet; and
an Aberdeen terrier--ears rigidly erect, head tilted at a critical
angle--sat close beside it, watching his master with intent eyes, in
which all the wisdom and sorrow of the ages seemed writ.

While the girl hesitated on the threshold, Desmond struck a succession
of soft chords in a minor key; and she stood spellbound, determined to
hear more. Music was no mere accomplishment to her, but a simple
necessity of life; and this man possessed that rare gift of touch,
which no master in the world can impart, because it is a produce
neither of hand nor brain, but of the player's individual soul.
Desmond's fingers were unpractised, but he gave every note its true
value; and he played slowly, as though composing each chord as it
came, or building it up from memory. It was almost as if he were
thinking aloud; and Honor had just decided that she really had no
business to be overhearing his thoughts, when an apprehensive "woof"
from the