"Angel—Mrs. Gascoigne," said her listener, who had suddenly assumed all the dignity of the wife of the Commissioner, "you have taken leave of your senses. You have had—a—a—sunstroke." "No—no—I am quite sane, thank you," she replied, "and perfectly cool-headed; you may remember that as a child I was very sharp at seeing things that never occurred to other people. The faculty has not deserted me. I believe all women are possessed of an instinct, and recognise love when they see it. Dear Elinor, do forgive me," she pleaded, and her voice broke, "because I love you, and I have so few to love. If I do not speak to you—who will dare? My sight is terribly keen—I cannot help it—I cannot help seeing that Philip does not love me—that Alan Lindsay does love you." She paused for a moment, threw back her hair, and went on, standing directly before her companion, who sat on the side of the cot with a countenance as expressionless as a mask, "You are beautiful—you are sympathetic—you are good," continued the girl in a clear ringing voice, "all the world knows you, as the admirable wife of—a block—of Aberdeen granite. Half the young men and the girls in the district have come under your influence—which has always been noble and pure. It is as far-reaching and penetrating as the sun—it is your responsibility; and now love has come to claim you—and you are in danger, or why these long walks, and absorbing conversations, and early strolls to see the sun rise, and late strolls to see the moon rise? No one has recognised the danger but we three—you and I and Mr. Lindsay. You must send him away—before it is too late." With her white robe, flowing locks, and earnest and impassioned face, Angel might almost have stood for a picture of her namesake. "It is strange," began her companion in a husky voice, "that you should be exhorting me—a woman who is fourteen years older than yourself—who remembers you a child." "Yes, it is strange—it is, I'm afraid, unpardonable. I expect you will send me back to Marwar to-morrow, and I am ready to go. I feel that I must speak, and risk your friendship—for your own sake;" then she added, "Oh, have I not said, and seen—what is true?" The immediate answer was long delayed, then suddenly Mrs. Gordon bent her head upon her hands, and burst into tears; at last she looked up with streaming eyes, and said: