THUS ended the butterfly career of pretty Lena Wilkinson, who looked surprisingly fair and girlish, as she lay with her hands crossed on her heart, surrounded by white flowers. She had passed at dawn; sunset witnessed her interment, and a considerable company—in fact, the whole station—followed the coffin, which was covered with pale blue and silver, by the dead woman's particular desire. The ground in the arid cemetery was almost as hard as rock, and the _cortège_ was compelled to halt for a time, whilst the grave was made ready and enlarged. What a depressing scene for a newly-arrived exile! The brick-coloured ground, weather-stained headstones, haggard clergyman, and wan-faced assembly—the gay and glittering coffin waiting till inhospitable alien soil was prepared to receive it. Over all was the stare of a triumphant red sun, sinking slowly into the arms of a tropical night. At last the service was concluded, and whilst the earth was noisily flung upon the blue and silver coffin and the mourners were dispersing, the station cynic, as he walked towards the gate, pronounced the epitaph of the deceased: "Poor Mrs. Wilkinson, she was like some delicate flower without perfume, and as she never did anything bad, she will soon be forgotten." A few days after the funeral Colonel Wilkinson was faintly surprised to receive a visit from Philip Gascoigne. After one or two commonplace remarks, the latter explained his errand. "I came to speak to you about Angel," he said. "I do not know if Lena told you that I am to take charge of her." "By Jove! No, not a word," rejoined the widower, and his eyes glistened. "Man alive, you don't mean that you are in _earnest_?" "Yes," assented his visitor; "I propose to educate her, and as soon as I can find a school and a travelling companion, to send her to England." "Uncommonly handsome of you, I must say," exclaimed her stepfather. "It will cost you a couple of hundred a year." "Then you are satisfied that I relieve you of the child?" continued Gascoigne, ignoring the money question. "Satisfied," repeated his host; "satisfied, my dear fellow, is not the word that expresses my feelings—devoutly thankful—happy—enchanted—is more like it. My poor wife and I never agreed about the child. I may say that she was the only subject on which we ever disagreed. From my point of view she is a headstrong, malicious little devil, who cannot be trusted her own length—you never know what mine she will explode on you! My poor Lena held another opinion, and believed her to be 'a little saint.'" "Perhaps she is something between the two extremes," suggested her cousin drily.