“Why not?” he argued; “it is mine to do with as I will; and there is nothing that will give me greater pleasure than to feel that it is in your hands--and the means of doing good--instead of standing closed, empty, and falling into ruins. There is the garden for the patients to walk in, the grazing for cows, the big rooms for wards. I will thankfully pay an apothecary and assistant, and whatever is necessary.” “You wish to establish a sort of hill hospital for the poor in these parts?” inquired the Persian, incredulously. “Nay; you have already done that. I only ask leave to help you. If you will not accept the Pela Kothi from me, take it from--us both--or from Honor. You will not refuse her!” “And shall I never see you again--or her?” she faltered. “Who can say? Perhaps one day we may come and visit you. At any rate, she will write to you.” “But how can she write to me--a--a--Persian woman?” looking at him with an intensity that was not pleasant to contemplate. “At least, _I_ shall write to you,” he rejoined, slightly disconcerted. “I will send you a certain yearly sum to spend on the wretched lepers, and in any charitable form that you may think best. Mr. Burgess will translate my letters for you, and also any answers that you may be good enough to send me. We do not wish to lose sight of you, if we can help it.” “_We!_ how soon you have learnt to say it! You are so happy, where you have hitherto known great misery, and the poor native woman will soon have passed from your mind. You are released. I shall never be released--but by death. You will be in another world--you, and the Miss Sahib! Will you give her this from me? It is a little charm. Nay, do not laugh. What am I but an ignorant, superstitious native? Nevertheless, I mean well. This is an amulet against sickness, poverty, or the loss of friends; an old hill woman gave it to me. She said it never failed. I have no friends to lose, but I am a stranger to poverty and sickness.” “I will give it to her to-morrow,” taking from her hand a smooth dark-green stone, about the size of a filbert. “As to having no friends, may Miss Gordon and I not call ourselves your friends?” “How can an English lady, and an English sahib, be the friends of--a woman of my people?” she inquired, with a face as expressionless as a mask. “It shall be as you will,” he answered gravely. “But I see nothing to stand between us. Remember that we wish to be your friends, if you will have us. And now I’m afraid I must go.” He saw her lips quiver, as she suddenly turned away her face, and dismissed him with a quick imperious gesture. Ere he left the valley he looked back once. The Persian was standing precisely where he had left her. In answer to his farewell signal, she waved a handkerchief--and thus involuntarily betrayed herself. It was the action of an Englishwoman! * * * * *