"Yes, yes," she assented, with a shiver. "I've not lived in Ramghur for four years for nothing; but it gave me a shock. It looked like the face of—a white woman." "That was simply the effect of the moonlight," he responded. "Come along; the river is making you morbid, and it's not a sound thing to loiter near it after sundown—you know they say it's full of malaria. Let me turn your thoughts inland. Now, there is something worth looking at," and he pointed to the northern horizon, on which glimmered the long line of snows. "Ah, yes," she ejaculated. "How I love the Himalayas! my happiest days have been spent there, and my saddest. I wonder if I shall ever see them nearer than I do now?" and she sighed profoundly. "Why, of course you will," rejoined Shafto promptly. "We shall all be there next season, please goodness, and have a ripping time; and, I say, Mrs. Wilkinson, at our first ball up there let me here and now engage you for the first waltz." "Very well," she agreed, with a forced laugh; "it's rather a long way ahead, is it not?" "Nothing like taking time by the forelock—a year soon runs round. Here comes the Colonel," as the little squat figure bore down on them. "I say, you good people," he bawled, "what about refreshments? Does anyone want some iced coffee? Lena, I can recommend the brew of iced milk punch." His wife waved a negative, and then exclaimed, "Why, I see they are beginning to go; the Gordons and the Rattrays are off." "What a shame!" protested her host. Yes, two carriages had just driven away—people who are obliged to rise at four o'clock cannot afford to keep late hours, and by half-past ten the scene of recent revelry was utterly deserted. A family of jackals supped right royally on the remains of the cold viands, and an inquisitive alligator gulped down an empty soda-water bottle. * * * * * Angel, who was half-asleep, accompanied her mother in the victoria, and Colonel Wilkinson accepted a seat in Mr. Gascoigne's dogcart. He was by no means as stout-hearted as his figure would suggest, but held on convulsively with one hand as they dashed up the bridge, and halted in the middle of a sentence which he did not conclude until they were a quarter of a mile away on the other side. He had been discoursing of his own health, and then of his wife's health, and imparting his fears to his Jehu. "Lena was so delicate now, and so subject to fever," he declared. "She has a weak heart, too, and must go to the hills next season; in fact, they all wanted a change." "Indeed they do," assented Gascoigne, with considerable warmth, "especially Angela. She is too old to be in India." "Then I wish I saw my way to sending her out of it," rejoined her stepfather, "and the chance of never seeing her again." To this aspiration Gascoigne made no reply. "I suppose you think I'm a brute, now, don't you?" inquired his companion. "Since you will have it, I think you are a stepfather—that's all."