IT was seven o'clock in the morning, and under the neem trees at the far side of the parade-ground, Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Gascoigne are walking their horses side by side. The former has completely recovered from her sharp attack of fever, though her face is worn, and bears the trace of suffering. She always appeared to great advantage in the saddle, and sits her powerful black New Zealander with the ease of a finished horsewoman. Mrs. Gordon is Irish. Angel, looking slim and girlish, is mounted on an excitable chestnut, stud-bred, called Carrots, who keeps snatching alternately at his bridle, and snapping at his neighbour—although they are old friends, were out in camp together, and have travelled many miles in company. "I have a piece of news for you, Angel," said Mrs. Gordon. "I was coming round to tell you, when we met. Donald has suddenly made up his mind to go home for six months." "Oh, Elinor! what you have been longing for the last three years. You want a change—I am so glad—and so sorry." "It was all thought of in the usual Indian eleventh hour scramble; Donald finds he can get leave, and he is suddenly seized with a desperate desire to see his book in print—the idea has been simmering for a long time, last night it came to a boil. He wired for our passages in the _Caledonia_ for next Friday." "Next Friday—so soon?" "Yes; and he has written to Alan Lindsay, telling him to meet us. He thinks he will be so useful to him about publishing the book—and——" "And?" said Angel, interrogatively. "To Donald's surprise, I have decided to remain out here, and spend the hot weather at Almora with the Byrnes." Angel pushed back her Terai hat with her whip hand, and stared fixedly at her friend. "Mary Byrne is so delicate, and she has those four children to look after—my god-child, the eldest little thing, is a cripple. No, I am not going home." "I believe you are right," announced Angel, after a pause; "but oh! what a terrible disappointment—think of your people." "I do think of them—and of many other things. I am always thinking now. I wish to be a happy old woman—if ever I am an old woman—to try and be faithful to my ideals, and to do my duty—nothing else matters." "Do you believe in the doctrine of compensation? If you don't have some things—there are others?" "It would be a compensation, if you came to Almora, Angel." Angel shook her head. She was engaged with her irritable young horse, who, maddened by a fly, had broken into a mad frenzy of kicking, culminating in two passionate buck jumps. "He wants a good bucketing," said Mrs. Gordon; "you should take him round the racecourse." "I should," agreed his rider, a little out of breath, "but it's too late this morning. Have you seen Mrs. Waldershare yet?" "Yes; I returned her visit yesterday." Angel's eyes instantly asked a dozen questions, in reply to which Mrs. Gordon said: "I do not admire her." "But don't you see that she is beautiful?"