He was dangerously ill in that lofty, bare, whitewashed bedroom in Infantry Lines. He would not be the first to die there. No,--not by many. His friends were devoted and anxious. The Missus was devoted and distracted. She lay all day long at the foot of his cot, watching and listening, and following his slightest movement with a pair of agonized eyes. At length there was a change--and for the better. The patient was promoted into a cane lounge in the sitting-room, to solids, and to society--as represented by half the regiment. He looked round his meagrely furnished little room with interested eyes. There was not a speck of dust to be seen, everything was in its place, to the letter-weight on the writing-table, and the old faded photos in their shabby leather frames. Missus’s basket was pushed into a far corner. She had not used it for weeks. He and Missus were going home, and would soon say good-bye for ever to the steep-roofed thatched bungalow, the creaking cane chairs, the red saloo purdahs, to the verandahs, embowered in pale lilac “railway” creeper, to the neat little garden--to the regiment--to Bombay. Their passages were taken. They were off in the _Arcadia_ in three days. * * * * * That afternoon, the Major had all his kit and personal property paraded in his sitting-room, in order that the packing of his belongings (he was a very tidy man) should take place under his own eyes. The bearer was in attendance, and with him his slave and scapegoat--the chokra. The bearer was a stolid, impassive-looking Mahomedan, with a square black beard, and a somewhat sullen eye. “Abdul,” said his master, as his gaze travelled languidly from one neatly folded pile of clothes to another--from guns in cases to guns not in cases, to clocks, revolvers, watches, candlesticks--the collection of ten years, parting gifts, bargains, and legacies--“you have been my servant for six years, and have served me well. I have twice raised your wages, and you have made a very good thing out of me, I believe, and can, no doubt, retire and set up a ticca gharry, or a shop. I am going away, and never coming back, and I want to give you something of mine as a remembrance--something to remember me by, you understand?” The bearer deliberately unfolded his arms, and salaamed in silence. “You may choose anything you like out of this room,” continued the Major, with unexampled recklessness. Abdul’s eyes glittered curiously--it was as if a torch had suddenly illumined two inky-black pools. “Sahib never making joke--sahib making really earnest?”--casting on him a glance of almost desperate eagerness. The glance was lost on his master, whose attention was fixed on a discarded gold-laced tunic and mess-jacket. “Of course,” he said to himself, “Abdul will choose them,” for gold lace is ever dear to a native heart, it sells so well in the bazaar, and melts down to such advantage.