"Bombay, sahib," was her prompt reply. "Missy and one lady engaged me two days ago, the other mem-sahib going up country. At junction, my missy asking there, and people telling sahib no in Marwar, sahib in jungle and all roads gone," she paused to take breath, and resumed, "but that missy coming all the same, plenty bad way, no littley small path for one dog, missy never fraiding, she only laugh and tell coolie men to go on—go on—I plenty fraiding, missy only wanting to come to sahib—soon—soon—quick." The sahib impatiently motioned the woman away, and she swiftly disappeared in the direction of the cook-house. Here was a pretty business, a nice dilemma in which Angel had placed him. Major Gascoigne, as he sat on the steps, an outcast from his own retreat, was in what Billy Hargreaves would have termed one of his "cold" passions. He had looked upon Angel as a solved problem—a charge made over to her grandmother on payment of so much per annum. She sent him charming, vivacious, and, yes, affectionate letters—such as a girl would write to an uncle or a brother; some day he expected she would marry (according to her grandmother, her admirers were as the sand of the sea in multitude), and then the last fraction of responsibility would fall from his shoulders. Oh, why had he ever been such a cursed fool as to take the child at all? he asked himself bitterly, but when he recalled her mother's eyes—those eloquent, dying eyes, his heart told him the reason. He must get rid of Angel at once, but how, when, and where? The bearer now humbly craved his attention. He assured him that he had done all in his power to "keep the missy out;" as he spoke his expression became so tragic that Gascoigne was compelled to smile. As well as his recollection served him, should that Miss wish to enter, "to keep her out" was a hopeless task. He desired his somewhat ruffled factotum to prepare dinner, to pitch his tent, and make him some sort of shakedown; "the Miss Sahib" would occupy the bungalow that night, and leave early in the morning. It would be impossible to take Angel away that evening; the roads were unsafe, and there was another storm brewing. As he stood watching the clouds rolling up, and listening to the rumble of distant thunder, his mind groping for some means of speeding this most unwelcome "Angel in the house," a slight movement caused him to turn his head. There was his ward in the doorway, and against the dark background she stood forth a vision of youth, beauty, and joy. Yes, although her hair was tumbled, and she was obviously but half awake, Angela was a sight to make an old man young! She came quickly towards him with outstretched hands. No, _no!_ he was certainly not going to kiss her.