“And that is a sound I shall _never_ hear again,” he groaned aloud, and flinging himself down on the root of a tree, he covered his face with his hands. How long he remained in this attitude the grey pony alone knew! By-and-by he became tired of waiting--for he was either too well fed or too sympathetic to graze--he came and rubbed his soft black muzzle against the man’s short brown locks (his cap lay on the ground). It was his poor little attempt at consolation, and effectually roused his owner, though it did not comfort him, for what could a dumb animal know of the great distresses of the human heart? * * * * * Honor was late for tiffin, in fact it was getting on for afternoon teatime when she arrived. She discovered the bungalow in a state of unusual commotion. There was visible excitement on the servants’ faces, an air of extra importance (were that possible) in the bearer’s barefooted strut--he now appeared to walk almost entirely on his heels. Mrs. Brande was seated at a writing-table, beginning and tearing up dozens of notes; her cap was askew, her fair hair was ruffled, and her face deeply flushed. What could have happened? “Oh, Honor, my child, I thought you were never coming back, I have been longing for you,” rushing at her. “But how white you look, dearie; you have walked too far. Are you ill?” “No, no, auntie. What is it? There is something in the air. What has happened?” For sole answer, Mrs. Brande cast her unexpected weight upon her niece’s frail shoulder, and burst into loud hysterical tears. “Only think, dear girl!”--convulsive sobs--“a coolie has just come--and brought a letter from P.--They have made him a K.C.B.”--boisterous sobs--“and your poor old auntie--is--_a lady at last_!” CHAPTER XLIII. “RAFFLE IT!” “Major and Mrs. Granby Langrishe request the honour of Mr. and Mrs. Blanks’s company at St. John’s church at two o’clock on the afternoon of the 20th inst., to be present at the marriage of their niece and Sir Gloster Sandilands.” These invitation cards, richly embossed in silver, were to be seen in almost every abode in Shirani. The wedding dress was on its way from Madame Phelps, in Calcutta. The cake and champagne were actually in the house. There were to be no bridesmaids, only two little pages--“they were cheaper,” Mrs. Langrishe said to herself; “a set of girls would be expecting jewellery and bouquets.” Happy Mrs. Langrishe, who had been overwhelmed with letters and telegrams of congratulations. She had indeed proved herself to be _the_ clever woman of the family. It was her triumph--more than Lalla’s--and she was radiant with pride and satisfaction. Yea, her self-congratulations were fervent. She was counting the days until her atrocious little incubus went down the ghaut as Lady Sandilands. A little incubus, securely fastened on another person’s shoulders--for life!