"There is that poor child of Mrs. Wilkinson's. What a weird little face! It is positively disgraceful the way she is overlooked and left to servants." "Yes," agreed her companion. "The result of her mother's second marriage. Colonel Wilkinson is wrapped up in his bank-book and his boys. Mrs. Wilkinson is wrapped up in her clothes. I do believe that woman's heart is composed of a reel of cotton, and unfortunate Cinderella is left in the kitchen—there is no fairy godmother for _her_. She ought to have been sent home years ago," continued Mrs. Jones, with the authority of one who is dealing with her friend's expenditure. "There is no doubt of that," assented Mrs. Gordon, a very pretty Irish girl who had recently come to India as the wife of a civilian. "Some one told me the other day that Angel is twelve years of age." "Oh, dear no," replied Mrs. Jones, with a touch of irritation, "I remember when she was born. I remember her mother when she came up to Simla, such a lovely girl, and that is not more than ten years ago. She had a host of admirers, and of course she took the least desirable; handsome, penniless, reckless Tony Gascoigne. They could not have done worse, either of them, if they had tried." "And now since he is dead, and his widow has married again, it seems to me that it is poor little Gascoigne who suffers for that foolish match," declared the other lady. "The child should be at school—if only the money was forthcoming." "But with Colonel Wilkinson's economies, and Lena Wilkinson's extravagances, there is not much prospect of _that_," rejoined Mrs. Jones, and the subject dropped.