"I have not much time. I sew a good deal for mother, and there are lessons, and going out walking with those children to the club gardens twice a day," and she gave a little impatient sigh. Gascoigne looked down at the small figure perched beside him, with pitying eyes, and thought of her dreary, colourless life. "I'm reading a book now," she announced complacently. "And what is it called?" "The Mysteries of Paris." "The _what_?" "The Mysteries of Paris," raising her thin voice. "I heard Mrs. Du Grand telling mother it was thrilling—and so wicked. She rooted it out of the old stock in the Library." "It's not fit for you to read." "Have _you_ read it?" she asked sharply. "No, and don't want to. Does your mother allow you to read such stuff?" "Mother does not know—she would not mind." "I'm certain she would—it's a bad—I mean a grown-up book, and not fit for you." "I've only read as far as two chapters—and it's so stupid." "Then mind you don't read more, Angel, nor any grown-up books, if you would like to please _me_. Hullo, sit tight," he added quickly, as a white bullock suddenly rose from beside a shrine, starting Sally out of her wits. She made a violent spring across the road—a spring that tested every buckle in her harness—and nearly capsized the cart. Then she broke away into a frantic gallop, with the trap rocking at her heels. "No fear, Angel; you hold on to me," said Gascoigne. "But I'm not afraid," rejoined a bold, clear voice. "I'm never afraid when I'm with you, Philip." "It's all right," he said presently, as Sally's racing pace slackened and she gradually came back to her bit. "Sally is a coward; she thought she saw a ghost." "Yes; and it was only an old bullock," scoffed the child. "But, cousin Phil, there _are_ real ghosts, you know." "Where?" "Oh," spreading out her hands, "everywhere, all over the world—in the station—yes, and in your bungalow." "My poor, simple Angel! Who has been cramming you with this rot?" "The servants," she promptly replied; "and I've heard other people talking. The cook's brother is your bearer, and yet, he would not go into your compound after dark if you gave him one hundred rupees." "Then he is a foolish man," pronounced Gascoigne; "not that I am likely to offer him his price." "They say," resumed the child, "where you keep your boxes and polo sticks used to be the dining-room, and that servants in queer old liveries can still be seen there." "Then I wish to goodness they'd clean up my saddles whilst they wait. And is that all?" "No; an officer in uniform, a strange uniform not worn now, comes running in with a drawn sword, and chases a pretty lady from room to room. She wears a white muslin dress, and black satin shoes. He kills her in the front verandah—and her screams are awful." "Dear me, Angel, what a blood-curdling tragedy! but you don't mean to say you believe it?"