"Yes, Rupert is like me. And now--how are our mutual friends in India?" The momentous question she had been longing to ask from the first; but her well-trained voice spoke it as steadily as though it had been a question of the weather. Colonel Jocyln's face clouded, darkened. "I bring bad news from India, my lady. Captain Everard was a friend of yours?" "Yes; he left his little daughter in my charge." "I know. You have not heard from him lately?" "No, and I have been rather anxious. Nothing has befallen the captain, I hope?" The well-trained voice shook a little despite its admirable training, and the slender fingers looped and unlooped nervously her watch-chain. "Yes, Lady Thetford; the very worst that could befall him. George Everard is dead." There was a blank pause. Colonel Jocyln looked grave and downcast and sad. "He was my friend," he said, in a low voice, "my intimate friend for many years--a fine fellow and brave as a lion. Many, many nights we have lain with the stars of India shining on our bivouac whilst he talked to me of you, of England, of his daughter." Lady Thetford never spoke, never stirred. She was sitting gazing steadfastly out of the window at the sparkling sunshine, and Colonel Jocyln could not see her face. "He was as glorious a soldier as ever I knew," the colonel went on; "and he died a soldier's death--shot through the heart. They buried him out there with military honors, and some of his men cried on his grave like children." There was another blank pause. Still Lady Thetford sat with that fixed gaze on the brilliant May sunshine, moveless as stone. "It is a sad thing for his poor little girl," the Indian officer said; "she is fortunate in having such a guardian as you, Lady Thetford." Lady Thetford awoke from her trance. She had been in a trance, and the years had slipped backward, and she had been in her far-off girlhood's home, with George Everard, her handsome, impetuous lover, by her side. She had loved him then, even when she said no and married another; she loved him still, and now he was dead--dead! But she turned to her visitor with a face that told nothing. "I am so sorry--so very, very sorry. My poor little May! Did Captain Everard speak of her, of me, before he died?" "He died instantaneously, my lady. There was no time." "Ah, no! poor fellow! It is the fortune of war--but it is very sad." That was all; we may feel inexpressibly, but we can only utter commonplaces. Lady Thetford was very, very pale, but her pallor told nothing of the dreary pain at her heart. "Would you like to see little May? I will send for her." Little May was sent for and came. A brilliant little fairy as ever, brightly dressed, with shimmering golden curls and starry eyes. By her side stood Sir Rupert--the nine-year-old baronet, growing tall very fast, pale and slender still, and looking at the colonel with his mother's dark, deep eyes. Colonel Jocyln held out his hand to the flaxen-haired fairy.