come
later.

The first love of a young girl is passionless, pure; a fanciful, poetic
devotion to an ideal; the worship of a deified, glorious being who does
not, never could, exist. Too often the realisation of the truth that the
idol has feet of clay is enough to burst the iridescent glowing bubble. Too
seldom the love deepens, develops into the true and lasting devotion of the
woman, clear-sighted enough to see the real man through the mists of
illusion, but fondly wise enough to cherish him in spite of his faults,
aye, even because of them, as a mother loves her deformed child for its
very infirmity.

So to Noreen love had come--as it should, as it must, to every daughter of
Eve, for until it comes no one of them will ever be really content or feel
that her life is complete, although when it does she will probably be
unhappy. For it will surely bring to her more grief than joy. Life and
Nature are harder to the woman than to the man. But in those golden days in
the mountains, Noreen Daleham was happy, happier far than she had ever
been; albeit she did not realise that love was the magician that made her
so. She only felt that the world was a very delightful place and that the
lonely outpost the most attractive spot in it.

Even when the day came to quit Ranga Duar she was not depressed. For was
not her friend--so she named him now in her thoughts--to bring her on his
wonderful elephant through the leagues of enchanted forest to her home? And
had he not promised to come to it again very soon to visit--not her, of
course, but her brother? So what cause was there for sadness?

Long as was the way--for forty miles of jungle paths lay between Malpura
and Ranga Duar--the journey seemed all too short for Noreen. But it came
to an end at last, and they arrived at the garden as the sun set and
Kinchinjunga's fairy white towers and spires hung high in air for a
space of time tantalisingly brief. Before they reached the bungalow the
short-lived Indian twilight was dying, and the tiny oil-lamps began to
twinkle in the palm-thatched huts of the toilers' village on the estate.
And forth from it swarmed the coolies, men, women, children, not to
welcome them, but to stare at the sacred elephant. Many heads bent low,
many hands were lifted to foreheads in awed salutation. Some of the
throng prostrated themselves to the dust, not in greeting to their own
sahib but in reverence to the marvellous animal and the mysterious white
man