Angel Gascoigne, who shared in all the pomp and circumstance of the Commissioner's semi-royal progress, enjoyed this, her first experience of a camp, most thoroughly. The life was interesting, it was novel, it never hasted, never rested—what more could any girl desire? The beautiful tract through which they passed, be it snipe district or tiger district, waving crops, or forest lands, impressed the new-comer with its free atmosphere, the Biblical simplicity of the lives of the people, odd bits of folklore, and the weird stories connected with their camping-grounds, each and all appealed to Angel's quick imagination. She and her hostess enjoyed many rides and walks, explorations, and _tête-à-tête_ discussions, though occasionally a police officer or a collector joined the camp for a day or two, and then the talk at dinner veered towards the revenue, the floods, or the records. Now and then Major Gascoigne cut across the country, caught up the party, and remained a short time. Angel hailed these visits with a deep but secret joy—though he by no means gave her the lion's share of his attention—it was a _solitude à trois_. He brought books and papers, which he read to the ladies as they worked under the trees; he brought them scraps of news, the latest station joke; he brought with him a quickened enjoyment of the lazy, long days, and when he departed, he left them the anticipation of his return. One evening Mrs. Gordon was detained by a servant just as they were about to start for a stroll, and Major Gascoigne and his cousin went on alone. They left the white tents behind them, and sauntered down to a ruined well, such as one sees in the prints of Rebecca, or the Woman of Samaria. When they had reached it, Angel sat down on a broken step and said, "Let us wait here—she won't be long," nodding towards the distant camp. "I have something to show you," she continued, looking up at her companion. "I have had a long letter from grandmamma this mail." "Really?" he exclaimed; "and what has she to say?" "That she misses me dreadfully, and is sorry for our quarrel. If I will forgive her, she will forgive me, and will be glad if I will return to live with her—for nothing." Gascoigne gave a faint exclamation of surprise. "She will lodge my passage money at once," continued the girl. "I have only to send a wire—perhaps you would read her letter?" and she held it up to him. Philip took it and read it over, slowly; Lady Augusta's writing was scratchy and illegible, but he gathered that she was devoted to her grandchild, and the whole epistle breathed a passionate longing to see her once more.