It was on a platform seething with strange faces, strange costumes and a strange nationality that Verona Chandos alighted and looked about her, with a vague, bewildered stare. She glanced hurriedly around in quest of her father, mother and sisters--her own people. Surely they were somewhere among this crowd! Her heart beat in rapid jerks as she noticed a tall lady in grey and a lad, who were peering into the carriages, evidently in search of friends. Yes--and had discovered them! This soldierly man in riding kit, with erect figure and alert eye--no! A young officer in khaki had come forward and carried him off, and Verona realised with a painful sensation that no one appeared to be awaiting _her_. The crowd hustled, and pushed, and clamoured by--sweetmeat sellers, fruit hawkers shouted their wares, porters rattled their trucks and excited parties of newly-arrived natives chattered together like a flock of parrots. At last the scene began to clear and her attention was attracted by one solitary figure--a tall, elderly man, standing aloof in the background. In spite of a shabby sun hat and a suit of shrivelled white drill he had the unmistakable appearance of a gentleman. His features were finely cut, he wore a grizzled moustache, but the face was marked by that indefinable expression presented by life's failures, and his air was timid, even apologetic, as if he felt that he was an intruder in the throng. Verona had surprised him looking at her with a quick, furtive glance, instantly withdrawn. Oh no, the shabby gentleman, with the saddest eyes she had ever encountered, could not be anything to her, and strangling the thought at its birth, she turned away to claim her luggage. Boxes and belongings, each marked "V. C.," had all been duly collected, and for this service she was thanking the guard, when, in reply to his nod of indication, she turned about and found the man from the background at her elbow. "Pardon me," he faltered, lifting his hat, and his voice though well bred was tremulous, "is your name--Chandos?" "Yes," she answered quickly, but the colour had left her lips, "and--and--you are my father!" His face grew livid as he murmured "Verona," and for a second he seemed so overcome with agitation that he was unable to speak. Then he took her hand--she felt his own tremble--and brushing her cheek with his wiry moustache, murmured: "My child, you are welcome." As she looked up into his face she read amazement, incredulity, awe. "Oh! am I so very different to what you expected?" she asked with a little breathless laugh. "God knows you are!" was the startling reply. Then, pulling himself together, he added: "I've a man here who will take charge of all your baggage," beckoning to a Peon with a large brass badge on his sash. "The victoria only holds two--so I came alone. Let me carry your wrap and bag." "Is it far to Manora?" she inquired. "About four miles." "Because I am so thirsty. May I have a glass of water?"