THE hot weather was in full possession of Ramghur, and, as a natural consequence, the station became deserted. Various bragging individuals, who had announced their determination to "face it this year," had at the first boom of its artillery—that fierce midday blast,—closed their bungalows, distributed their pets and flowers, lent their cows, and carriages, among their friends, and departed precipitately to cooler regions. It was a sickly season; already the bazaar prediction had been more than justified. Only those whom duty or poverty chained to the cantonment were to be found at their posts, and these were to be seen, very late or very early, driving about the dusty roads, with haggard white faces. It is a well-established fact, that one hot weather endured in company draws people more nearly together than a dozen cold seasons. There is a general relaxing of stiffness, a putting off of armour, a reliance on one another, and a liberal exchange of sympathy—and secrets;—undoubtedly a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind. For example, if a cynic happened to remark what friends two sharply contrasting ladies had become, "Oh, they spent a hot weather together in Kalipore," would be accepted as an unanswerable reply. Moreover, it is undisputed, that some of the best matrimonial prizes have been snatched out of the heat of the plains, by maidens who clung to their parents, and braved the consequences. Thus, they occasionally made the acquaintance of some bored and solitary bachelor, who, failing to obtain leave, presently consoled himself with a wife. The band of the Native Cavalry,—Mr. Shafto's Regiment,—played thrice a week in the club gardens, and then the pale remnant of Europeans (and many brilliant Eurasians) assembled to what the natives term "eat the air" and exchange the contents of letters from the hills, and the delinquencies of their domestics. Everywhere beyond the gardens the atmosphere was that of a brickkiln. Within, among the trees, shrubs, and glistening foliage plants, the nostrils were greeted by the smell of hot earth, and a recently watered greenhouse,—that is an aroma peculiar to India. In the early morning, immediately after sunrise, the club was at its best; thronged with members who came to study the telegrams, glance at the papers, and pick up any stray crumbs of local news. It was thus that the youngest Miss Brewer first allured Mr. Pontefract into conversation on the subject of "a fire in the Bazaar." Hitherto he had thought of her (if he ever did think of her) as a plain, heavy young woman, who could neither ride nor dance, but just lob over the net at tennis. Now he discovered, thanks to the hot weather, that she was a surprisingly taking girl, with a good deal in her, including brains. She talked well (and shared his views on the subject of the club soda-water, and Sunday tennis); moreover, she was a devout listener.