These bungalows, for the most part, are cheaply built of bamboo, with thatched roofs, and are encircled with broad and shaded verandas, always roofed, and sometimes latticed at the sides and grown with vines, to form a cool and leafy arcade, which serves all the purposes of promenade, sitting-room, music-room, dining-room, and even sleeping room, for there are usually bamboo couches scattered about, upon which the indolent resident takes his siesta at midday. To one of these bungalows, a fair type of the rest, we will now direct the attention of the reader. It stood upon an elevated plateau, with the tall mountains crested with snow in the distance. It was surrounded at the distance of a few miles by a range of hills, and between it and them lay miles of forest, which was an impenetrable jungle. Around the bungalow was a clearing of limited extent, and which was dotted with plumed palms, bamboo, and banyan trees. The dwelling, frail like all of its class, was sufficiently well built for the climate. It was constructed of bamboo, was a single story in height, and was thatched with the broad leaves of the palm. A veranda, twelve feet wide, surrounded it. Its interior consisted of a broad hall, extending from front to rear, with two rooms opening from each side of it. The central hall, containing no staircase, was a long and wide apartment, which served as dining-room, sitting-room, and parlor, when required. A little in the rear of this dwelling were two others, one of which served as the kitchen of the establishment, and the other as the quarters of the half-dozen native servants belonging to the place. The bungalow which we have thus briefly described belonged to a Major Archer, H. M. A., and it was under its roof that George Wynde had breathed his last. It was from its broad veranda that Sir Harold Wynde had rode away for a last morning ride in India, upon that fatal day on which he had encountered the tiger of the jungle, in which encounter he was said to have perished. At about seven o’clock of the morning then, as we have said, and about the moment when Neva awakened from her dream, Major Archer reclined lazily upon a bamboo couch in the shadow of his veranda. He was dressed in a suit of white linen, and wore a broad-brimmed straw-hat, which was tipped carelessly upon the back part of his head. He was reading an English paper, received that morning at the hands of his messenger, and indolently smoking a cigar as he read. The major was a short, stout, choleric man, with a warm heart and a ready tongue. He had greatly loved young Captain Wynde, and still mourned his death, and he mourned also the tragic fate of Sir Harold. “Not much news by this mail,” the major muttered, as he withdrew his cigar and emitted a cloud of smoke from his pursed lips.