Only a few days before Christmas a telegram told them that Loyd had reached Trieste, and would be with them in a few days. By this time Florence had recovered much of her strength and some of her looks. She was glad, very glad to hear that Joseph was coming; but her joy was not excessive. Her whole nature seemed to have been toned down by that terrible incident to a state of calm resignation to accept whatever came with little of joy or sorrow; to submit to rather than partake of, the changeful fortunes of life. It was thus Loyd found her when he came, and, to his thinking, she was more charming, more lovable than ever. The sudden caprices, which so often had worried him, were gone, and in their place there was a gentle tranquillity of character which suited every trait of his own nature, and rendered her more than ever companionable to him. Warned by her aunt and sister to avoid the topic of the storm, he never alluded to it in any shape to Florence; but one evening, as, after a long walk together, she lay down to rest before tea-time, he took Milly’s arm and led her into the garden. “She has told me all, Milly,” said he, with some emotion; “at least, all that she can remember of that terrible day.” CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST AND THE SHORTEST LOYD was married to Florence; and they went to India, and in due time--even earlier than due time--he was promoted from rank to rank till he reached the dignity of chief judge of a district, a position which he filled with dignity and credit. Few were more prosperous in all the relations of their lives. They were fortunate in almost everything, even to their residence near Simlah, on the slope of the Himalaya: they seemed to have all the goods of fortune at their feet In India, where hospitality is less a virtue than a custom, Loyd’s house was much frequented, his own agreeable manners, and the charming qualities of his wife, had given them a wide-spread notoriety, and few journeyed through their district without seeking their acquaintance. “You don’t know who is coming here to dinner, to-day, Florry,” said Loyd, one morning at breakfast; “some one you will be glad to see, even for a memory of Europe--Stockwell.” “Stockwell? I don’t remember Stockwell.” “Not remember him? And he so full of the charming reception you gave him at Orta, where he photographed the villa, and you and Emily in the porch, and Aunt Grainger washing her poodle in the flower-garden?” “Oh, to be sure I do, but he would never let us have a copy of it, he was so afraid Aunt Grainger would take it ill; and then he went away very suddenly; if I mistake not, he was called off by telegram on the very day he was to dine with us.” “Perhaps he’ll have less compunctions now that your aunt is so unlikely to see herself so immortalised. I’m to go over to Behasana to fetch him, and I’ll ask if he has a copy.”