SINCE Angel had left Ramghur the hot winds of three seasons had swept over her mother's grave, killed the plants in pots, and defaced the lettering on the cheap headstone (Mr. Shafto was in error for once.) The dead woman who lay beneath was absolutely forgotten, even by her dirzee, who now owned a thriving shop in the bazaar. A community fluctuates in an Indian station more than in any part of the Empire, and to the present inhabitants of the cantonment, the name of Lena Wilkinson failed to conjure up any figure whatever, much less a pretty face and an unrivalled toilette. The Ram Gunga bridge was complete at last, and Philip Gascoigne was free; free to enjoy a year's holiday in Europe, and the weeks and days in Angel's almanac were now crossed off down to the one which had a big red circle drawn around it, the date when he was due to arrive in London. To do the young man justice, after he had called upon his tailor, his first visit was to a certain girl's school at Wimbledon. How _distraite_ Angel had been all the morning, secretly trembling with anticipation and agitation; and her hands were as ice, her heart was beating in her throat, as she opened the drawing-room door. There stood a gentleman in a long frock coat, with a hat in his hand. He had Philip's eyes. Somehow she had always pictured him in his khaki uniform or blue patrol jacket. For his part, when a tall, graceful girl glided into the room, he scarcely recognised her. But it was the old Angel who flew at him with a cry of "Philip," flung her arms round his neck, and sobbed for joy. Then she led him to the window, and there they scrutinised one another exhaustively. He was but little altered, though there were lines on his forehead, and two or three silver hairs on his temple. Angel was naturally the most changed of the two; her thin, pinched features; her white, dried-up skin, had given place to the bloom of health and a delicate complexion; her blue eyes were no longer sharply suspicious, but soft and gentle; and the hard little mouth was wreathed in happy smiles. Yes—Shafto was right. The child was going to be a beauty after all. "Let me have a good look at you," said Gascoigne, he was Captain Gascoigne now; "I want to see if I can find any trace of the old Angel?" She coloured, and laughed, as she replied, "No—not even a goose quill, or a pin feather. I've forgotten every word of Hindustani. I can't dance or crack my fingers, and I hate the sight of curry. Well, what do you think of me?" she asked, tossing back her hair with a laugh, and a heightened colour. "I think you have grown—at least four inches," he responded deliberately. "And you have grown grey," she retorted quickly; "I see some grey hairs there above your ear." "Then, Angel," he said, "I hope you will respect them." "Always, always," she promised gaily. "Oh, cousin Philip, I began to be afraid you were never coming home; I do hope you will think I have worked well."