It was Verona's last evening at Manora. The Chandos bungalow was now untenanted, and she was staying with Mrs. Lepell. The two ladies and Salwey, who had come to say good-bye to his aunt, were strolling about the garden after dinner. To fitly describe Mrs. Lepell's garden would fill a small volume, for it was not alone her mere garden; it was her pride, her employment and her glory! In twenty years she had changed a bare straggling compound into a little Eastern paradise. The lawn was its chief feature; a large expanse of velvet turf, watered and clipped, and lined with borders of the choicest rose-trees--in some of which the bul-buls built their nests--it gave the impression of being full of sweet flowers, of shady nooks, of blossoming shrubs and graceful trees, and was the resort of many gay bold birds and brilliant butterflies. The lawn lay immediately behind the house; beyond it were cool green pergolas shaded with ferns, and great patches of sweet pea; then came the maze of mango trees, thickets of lemons, and beds of tomatoes, gourds and lettuce. It was one of Mr. Lepell's jokes that his wife could not endure to see people promenading on her precious English turf! but to-night, she and two companions paced it slowly from end to end--and once and again from end to end. They spoke but little. At last Mrs. Lepell said: "And so you are not coming home, Brian? Well, I think you are very foolish. You have had three hot weathers straight off." "I don't think it can be done this year, Aunt Liz." "It ought to be done, when your Aunt Liz is in England. Don't you require some new clothes? Oh, there is old Mordoo beckoning; I suppose he wants to speak to me about the doves. Don't go in, Verona, I will be back in two seconds." "Your last evening here," said Salwey, breaking a somewhat constrained silence. "How glad you must be to leave the land of regrets--when you can regret nothing." "You forget," she answered, in a low voice. "Two graves." "Yes, and I promise you that they will be well cared for--since Mrs. Chandos is leaving the station." "And is all her business arranged and wound up?" "Yes, it is now in the hands of a trustworthy man--her books have been destroyed. She has, however, an ample income." "So Saloo is no more, thanks to you. And your wish is accomplished." How bold she was! Her companion made no reply, as he paced the grass with his eyes on the ground, and his arms locked behind him. "And you are not coming to England?" she pursued recklessly. "No; you see my work is out here." "Ah, yes, of course--and your heart is in your work!" Oh, what an abominably forward girl she was! If Mrs. Lepell did not quickly return, she would find herself proposing to the man beside her. She felt desperate; cool and self-possessed as she outwardly appeared. Must she go home--and never see him again? Would he not speak even one word? Her heart thumped so violently, she was half afraid that he might hear it!