Her faltering words cast a revealing glare on the situation—there was absolute truth in what she said. "I am not," and she caught her breath sharply, "as silly as I seem—I expect—in short—I will have more than you can give. You cannot make me happy unless you love me—what you offer me is imitation. It is not big enough, or strong enough, to hold me—I want real love, not make-believe. I—am sure—it has cost you a great deal—to—to——" she hesitated, "speak! and I thank you—but I will go home by next mail, and live with grandmamma after all." As she came to this decision and a full stop, Angel sat down breathless and trembling. But now that the treasure was slipping from his grasp, the prize not so easily attained as he supposed, of course Gascoigne closed his hand upon it greedily. "Angel, listen to me," he cried impetuously. "Don't talk of make-believes, and your grandmother, and such wild nonsense—I do love you—not in a romantic story-book fashion, but sincerely and faithfully in my own way. I was engaged once to a girl—you know?" "Yes," she assented sharply. "That came to an end ten years ago. You are the only woman I shall ever love again—I swear." He spoke in a tone of grave restrained emotion. Angel still sat with her eyes on the ground, and made no sign whatever. Truly, this Angel was a stranger, an alien, and ill-understood! "It was for your own sake I have been holding back," he resumed with an effort—was he sure that he was speaking the truth? "I am a busy, self-centred man—I live in a groove—I feared your gay young life would be dull—with me." "Never dull with you, Philip—you know that," she murmured under her breath. "Will you think it over, and give me an answer when I come out on Wednesday?" Angel made no reply. Her cousin looked at her downcast eyes, her twitching nostrils, and resumed, "If you wish to return home, of course I will do all in my power to help you." As he continued his voice was less steady, some inward barrier seemed to have given way under a confused pressure of emotion. "If you decide to stay—and I hope from my heart you will—then," and he stooped and kissed her hand, "when I come again, wear a flower in your dress." * * * * * Mrs. Gordon was sitting under the fly of her tent engrossed in a novel, when Major Gascoigne galloped up on Wednesday afternoon, having covered the forty miles which lay between Marwar and the camp in an extraordinarily short time. He had three horses posted on the road, and the bay Arab he rode was in a lather. Why this unusual haste? was Mrs. Gordon's mental interrogation. The reply came in a flash of prophetic insight. She interpreted her visitor's strange air of repressed excitement, his reckless ride; he had spoken to Angel, and had come for her reply. "Where is Angel?" he asked, as soon as he had dismounted and exchanged a few words of greeting.