“My fellow-traveler from India was an invalid—that Lieut. Elliston of whom I wrote you once. I nursed him through a contagious disease when every one else had deserted him, and he seems to think he owes his life to me, and sticks to me like a burr; while his family, on the strength of that and the little Gordon blood there is in my veins, make much of me, and insist that I shall dine with them to-night; so I must leave you soon, but shall return to-morrow.” I made no answer, but busied myself with preparing his coffee, and after a moment he went on: “By the way, Norah, what do you think of Miss Elliston? She wrote you were at the same hotel in Paris.” “At the same hotel with me? Miss Elliston at the Grand? When?” I asked, in much surprise; and he replied: “Last September, when you were there with friends. Did you not see her?” “No,” I answered, “I did not see her, or if I did, I did not know it; and she is much too proud to make herself known to me, a poor music teacher.” This last I said bitterly, but Tom made no reply, and hardly knowing what I was saying, I added: “Then you are the Mr. Gordon she talks so much about?” “Miss Elliston talk about me! How do you know that?” Tom asked, with an increase of color in his face. Very foolishly I told him how I knew, and of the photograph which must be his, though it was not quite like him now. “Yes, it was taken three years ago, and we exchanged. I remember it now—and she has it yet,” he said, abruptly; then looking steadily at me across the table, he continued: “Norah, I have not told you all the reasons which brought me home. I am thinking of getting married and settling down in England among the daisies and violets.” “Yes, Tom,” I said, with a great throb of pain in my heart, for I knew his marriage with Miss Elliston would separate him from me further than his absence in India had done. “Are you not glad?” he added, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and a lurking smile at the corners of his mouth. Then I told a fib, and said I was glad, for I could some time hope to see him. My life would not be so lonely. He had risen by this time, and was putting on his overcoat, which made him so big and bearish. “Good-by, Mousey, till to-morrow. Take off those boots and dry your feet the instant I am gone. I cannot have you sick now. _Au revoir._”