of Hilda.

They were walking toward the Institution together the day he explained
to her his gratification that she had elected to remain. Sister Ann
Frances and Sister Margaret led; Arnold and Hilda came behind. He had an
errand to the Mother Superior--he would go all the way. It was late in
May and late in the afternoon; all the treetops on the Maidan were bent
under the sweep of the south wind, blowing a caressing coolness from
the sea. It spread fragrances about and shook down blossoms from the
gold-mohur trees. One could see nothing anywhere, so red and yellow as
they were, except the long coat of a Government messenger, a point of
scarlet moving in the perspective of a dusty road. The spreading acres
of turf were baked to every earth-colour; wherever a pine dropped
needles and an old woman swept them up, a trail of dust ran curling
along the ground like smoke. The little party was unusual in walking;
glances of uncomprehending pity were cast at them from victorias and
landaus that rolled past. Even the convalescent British soldiers facing
each other in the clumsy drab cart drawn by humped bullocks, and marked
Garrison Dispensary, stared at the black-skirts so near the powder of
the road. The Sisters in front walked with their heads slightly bent
toward one another; they seemed to be consulting. Hilda reflected,
looking at them, that they always seemed to be consulting; it was the
normal attitude of that long black veil that flowed behind.

Arnold walked beside his companion, his hands loosely clasped behind
him, with the air of semi-detachment that young clergymen sometimes
have with their wives. Whether it was that, or the trace of custom his
satisfaction carried, the casual glance might easily have taken them for
a married pair.

"There is a kind of folly and stupidity in saying it," he said, "but you
have done--you do--a great deal for me."

She turned toward him with a wistful, measuring look. It searched his
face for an instant and came back baffled. Arnold spoke with so much
kindness, so much appreciation.

"Very little," she said mechanically, looking at the fresh footprints of
Sister Ann Frances and Sister Margaret.

"But I know. And can't you tell me--it would make me so very happy--that
I have done something for you too--something that you value?"

Hilda's eyes lightened curiously, reverie came into them, and a smile.
She answered as if she spoke to herself, "I should not know how to tell
you."