When she was convalescent she one day said to him: ‘Dick, I have something to say to you.’ ‘Nothing very serious, darling,’ he answered, laughingly. ‘Yes, very serious. When I was first engaged to you my father was considered to be a wealthy man, and I understand that he promised you that my dowry should be something handsome. That is all changed now. We are ruined, and my dear father is in his grave. Under these circumstances I can no longer hold you to your engagement, and therefore release you from every promise. You must give me up and seek for someone better suited for you than I am.’ She fairly broke down here, and burst into violent weeping. Dick’s arm stole around her waist, he pressed her head to his breast, and, whispering softly to her said, with deep earnestness: ‘Lily, there is one thing, and only one thing, that shall break our engagement.’ ‘What is that?’ she stammered between her sobs. ‘The death of one of us!’ he answered, with strong emphasis. She needed no further assurance. There was that in his manner and tone that convinced more than words could possibly have done. And so, save for the shadow which hung over the little household, she would have been perfectly happy. A year went by and Mrs. Hetherington still lingered in India, for she did not like to leave her sons; but failing health at length rendered it necessary that she should return to England. At this time Dick had just been granted two years’ leave of absence, and he urged Lily to become his wife before they left India, as he too was going home. She had asked him, however, to postpone the event, and made a solemn promise that the wedding should take place on Christmas Day, adding: ‘It is not long to wait, dear. It is now the middle of July, and, as we sail in a fortnight, the vessel is sure to be home by that time. Besides, I am so fond of Christmas. It is so full of solemn and purifying associations, and a fitting season for a man and woman to take upon themselves the responsibility of the marriage state. A wedding on Christmas Day brings good luck. Of course you will say this is stupid superstition. So it may be, but I am a woman, and you must let me have my way.’ Pressing his lips to hers, he made answer: ‘And so you shall, my own Red Lily; but, remember, come what may, you’ll be my wife on Christmas Day.’ ‘Come what may, I will be your wife on Christmas Day,’ she returned solemnly. August arrived, and Dick, Lily, and Mrs. Hetherington were passengers on board the good ship ‘Sirocco.’ Their fellow-passengers were a miscellaneous lot, and included several Indian officers, a planter or two, a clergyman, and some merchants, who, having amassed fortunes, were going home to end their days.