oom, and sheds a halo round the striking likeness
she still holds in her hand.

Eleanor gazes at the Oriental splendour, the beauties of which no
utterance is capable of expressing, and indulges in visions that are
pleasant and soothing, marvelling at a scene she has admired a thousand
times before, and recalling memories of sweet caresses and whispered
words.

Filmy shadows fall from the trees without, gradually outlining
themselves upon the walls of the room, and the steps from the verandah.
The hot air rises from the valley.

Eleanor breathes the tropical atmosphere and sighs. She loosens her
gown at the throat, and waves an enormous palm-leaf fan leisurely
backwards and forwards. The air stirs the soft hair on her forehead,
cooling her brow.

She raises her eyes to the clock and smiles.

"He will soon return," she thinks. "It is growing late, and he
promised to be home before nightfall."

She goes out on to the verandah, gazing down the road which leads to
Mandalay.

Two or three black children are resting by a wall at the foot of the
hill, one squatting on the ground hugging his knees, the others
standing in easy graceful attitudes, with round pitchers on their heads.

The well is beneath a huge palm. Eleanor has sometimes "wished" by it
with Carol, pretending there is some mystic spell in the water.

He will pass that charmed spot as he returns, and she will stand on the
steps to greet him.

Surely in all the world Carol could not have chosen a more romantic
retreat in which to live and love!

The shadows deepen, they take forms, and glide from place to place as
daylight dies.

She peers into the gloom, the children go home to bed. Carol is not in
sight!

The red flowers of the morning lie withered up and brown on the floor
where she has left them. Carol must not be greeted by the sight of her
negligence. She stoops down, and gathers them together in both hands,
sweeping the dust and fallen petals into her white palm. Crossing
slowly to the door, Eleanor calls Quamina.

"Take these away," she says.

Quamina looks anxiously into her face, as she relieves her young
mistress of the dead blossoms.

"The Sahib is long in returning," she volunteers, with a nervous leer.

"Yes. We shall soon need a light."

"The devil will not catch him this evening; the devil is well
employed," Quamina assures her. "Have no fear, lady."

"What do you mean?" asks Eleanor, a shade of anger crossing her