n stage in culture; just as
the South Sea Islanders, with the advance of civilisation, forsook
putrid whale for roast missionary, the great English middle classes
complained that tarts and plum-puddings were too substantial, more
suited to the robust digestions of a past generation. In the
blanc-mange, on the other hand, they found almost an appearance of
distinction; its name, at least, suggested French cookery; it was
possible to the plainest cook, and it required no mastication.

"I shall have to tell Betty to make a jelly for dinner to-morrow," said
Mrs. Parsons.

"Yes," replied the Colonel; and after a pause: "Don't you think we ought
to let Mary know that Jamie has come back? She'd like to see him
to-night."

"I've sent over already."

It was understood that James, having got his Company, would marry Mary
Clibborn almost at once. His father and mother had been delighted when
he announced the engagement. They had ever tried to shield him from all
knowledge of evil--no easy matter when a boy has been to a public school
and to Sandhurst--holding the approved opinion that ignorance is
synonymous with virtue; and they could imagine no better safeguard for
his innocence in the multi-coloured life of India than betrothal with a
pure, sweet English girl. They looked upon Mary Clibborn already as a
daughter, and she, in Jamie's absence, had been their only solace. They
loved her gentleness, her goodness, her simple piety, and congratulated
themselves on the fact that with her their son could not fail to lead a
happy and a godly life.

Mary, during those five years, had come to see them every day; her own
mother and father were rather worldly people, and she felt less happy
with them than with Colonel Parsons and his wife. The trio talked
continually of the absent soldier, always reading to one another his
letters. They laughed together over his jokes, mildly, as befitted
persons for whom a sense of humour might conceivably be a Satanic snare,
and trembled together at his dangers. Mary's affection was free from
anything so degrading as passion, and she felt no bashfulness in reading
Jamie's love-letters to his parents; she was too frank to suspect that
there might be in them anything for her eyes alone, and too candid to
feel any delicacy.

But a lumbering fly rolled in at the gate, and the good people, happy at
last, sprang to the door.

"Jamie!"

Trembling with joy, they brought him in and sat him down; they kn