"I can guess where they were, my young Penelope—up in the Garhwal," said her friend. "And now to return good for evil, I beg to inform you that we were talking about you." "What have you been saying?" she asked. "If it is bad, you won't tell me, of course?" "We were calling the roll of our acquaintance, and have come to the conclusion that you are the most to be envied person we know in all the wide world." "I?" with a short little laugh; "you are not in earnest?" "Certainly we are," replied Mr. Lindsay; "and you say that with such an ungrateful air. You cannot deny that you have youth, health, sufficient wealth—the beauty I leave you to fill in yourself—many friends—and a devoted husband." "Oh, yes, you mean a husband devoted to his profession," she answered with a smile. Was Mrs. Gascoigne in jest or earnest now? and Lindsay looked at her narrowly. "We did not come out like the native women to spend our time holding forth by the well," put in Mrs. Gordon impatiently. "Angel, the word is—march. You must take a good stiff walk. Let us go over to the village," pointing to a far distant clump of trees, "and call on the weaver's wife." CHAPTER XXIV THE SOOTHSAYER WEEK by week the great camp moved on in its stately, deliberate fashion, through its accustomed districts. There was not as much variety in the daily life as in the ever changing surroundings. Donald Gordon was absorbed in heavy official work by day, and heavy unofficial work by night. Mrs. Gordon and Alan Lindsay were unconsciously absorbed in one another, and pretty Mrs. Gascoigne—with her old head on young shoulders—appeared to be absorbed in her own thoughts. She was curiously silent and grave; not a trace of gay, vivacious, chattering Angel remained.