"Very well," assented her hostess, "do just what you please." She was so anxious to depart that she was prepared to promise anything—oh anything, in order to escape. Yes, it had come to that. As long as she was within reach of Lola's extraordinary personal charm, she felt benumbed, a strange, unhappy, powerless mortal. Lola's magnetism and will force were so strong, that Angel shivered inwardly as she realised that if her companion had exerted them to throw obstacles in her path, she would have succumbed, and relinquished this journey to Garhwal. But Lola was content to be left in sole possession of an extremely comfortable bungalow,—which I regret to say, subsequently became notorious as a gambling den; in fact, the Wigwam sank into insignificance in comparison to Rockstone, for here the play was higher, the seclusion unsurpassed, and the dinners (at Colonel Gascoigne's expense) quite admirable. How little did that officer suppose that the house which he rented, and of which he was the ostensible master, went by the name of "The Den of Thieves." Angel was presently carried away in her dandy, and as she reached the shoulder of the first hill, drew a long breath—she was conscious of a delightful sense of being released at last, of a sundering of bonds, a recovery of her own individuality. She thoroughly enjoyed the journey, and being borne along higher, and yet higher, into a cooler, clearer atmosphere. First through a part of Kumaon (oh most beautiful Kumaon, with your forests, and lakes, ravines and passes, your exquisite glimpses of the snows, and the plains!) The party gradually left behind them, flat-roofed houses with carved fronts, standing deep in waving yellow crops, and jungles of dahlias and sunflowers, and surrounded by walnut and peach trees. They encountered long strings of melancholy pack ponies with deformed hocks, the result of their bondage from foal time, square-faced women, wearing short heavy skirts and silver ornaments—these latter heirlooms—and now and then a stout little Ghoorka or a shikari. Each night Angel and her ayah halted at a dâk bungalow, where elaborate preparations had been made for the reception of the Engineer's mem sahib. As they advanced further into Garwhary, they met flocks of little goats, laden with salt and borax, herded by Bhotias—dirty-looking people with Tartar features, and greasy black hair. The country grew stranger and sterner, they passed along the edges of fathomless ravines, between rugged inaccessible mountains, and Angel realised for the first time the inspiring effect of a wild and brooding solitude, where the almost awful silence was only broken by the muttering of her Pahari bearers, as they passed about the Huka, the scream of a kite, or the bleating of a belated sheep.