Whatever Major Gascoigne's mental remarks were, outwardly, he was the personification of politeness, encouragement, and cajolery. At last the lady was persuaded, and was hoisted on the back of a grunting Pahari with the shoulders of an Atlas, and with her eyelids squeezed tightly together, her long feet dangling helplessly, was safely borne to the other side. Thus she got across one of the "bad bits." Whatever obstacles they encountered, their leader never flinched. He worked hard in his shirt sleeves, with his own hands; he led, decoyed, and coaxed the two sisters and the ayah along crumbling tracks, over water-courses, and from rock to rock amid boiling torrents. It was the hardest day's work that he ever remembered. If a fourth clinging coward had been on his hands, Gascoigne felt that he was bound to succumb. But Angel, luckily for him, had no fear. She was blessed with a wonderful head and a cool courage, was amazingly active, and swung herself from rock to rock, from root to root, or walked along a six-inch path precisely as if she were a Pahari maiden. Her guardian's time being engrossed with repairs, enticements, and the charge of three agonised companions, he had but scant opportunity of talking to her; but once, when the worst part of the journey was behind them, the ladies were ahead in their jampans, the two fell into one another's society, as they passed through a forest of rhododendrons. "Well—that's over!" said Gascoigne, as he drew a long breath, took off his hat, and mopped his head with his handkerchief. "You won't offer to be squire of dames again in a hurry?" said Angel, with a mischievous laugh. "I never saw such cowards. They were as bad as the ayah—they gibbered." "I suppose it's constitutional," he replied; "they could not help their feelings." "At least they might have concealed them," rejoined the girl, indignantly. "Do you always conceal yours, Angel?" "I do my best—I'm trying hard; I can with some things," she answered, "and if I were afraid, I'd rather die than show it." "I am quite certain of that," he replied, "but you have a stout heart, I cannot fancy your being afraid of anything. I've a letter here for Mrs. Gordon—will you give it to her? It will explain——" he hesitated. "—_me_," she supplemented briskly. "Yes, she will be delighted to have you. She is very much alone, her husband is absorbed in his work—and they have no children." "Is she nice?" inquired his companion. "She is one of the best women I've ever known." "Yet she may be extremely disagreeable," argued Angela. "No, she is charming, and so popular. She is sympathetic, clear-headed, and practical—everyone takes their troubles to Mrs. Gordon." "And you are sending her your trouble by rail?" "Nonsense, Angel, she will look upon you as a great boon, and be infinitely obliged to me. I am sure you will like her."