“Certainly I will take it to her,” answered Sir Dugald. “I am sure she will like it because Missy sent it.” The response was unexpected, for Missy wriggled away from her father’s arm, and held up her face to Sir Dugald to be kissed. “That ought to be gratifying,” said General Keeling, laughing. Both men were perhaps not ungrateful to the child for diverting their thoughts from the tragedy with which they had been busied. “Gratifying, sir? It’s better than millions of the brightest diamonds to be kissed by Miss Georgia Keeling.” “As fond of Dickens as ever, I see. What should we do without him? But you and Missy certainly ought to be friends, for she knew all about Paul Dombey long ago. The doll your wife sent her is called Little Paul, and drags out a harrowing existence of all kinds of diseases complicated with gunshot-wounds, according to the cases Tarleton has in hospital. Sometimes I am cheered by hearing that he ‘ought to pull through,’ but generally he is following his namesake to an early grave. But I see your things have come, and you will like to see your quarters. This visit is a great pleasure, believe me, and I only wish it was going to be longer.” There was no further word of regret, but Sir Dugald realised keenly the disappointment that his friend was feeling. When they were breakfasting together the next day, just before his departure, he essayed a word of comfort. “If things get much worse, General, we shall have you fetched down with the regiment to help in putting them right.” General Keeling’s eye kindled, but he shook his head. “No, Haigh, my work lies up here. It would be too much to ride with the regiment through a mob of those cowardly, pampered Bengalis--too much luck for me, I mean. I have made out a list for Pater of the men I can afford to send on by the next steamer, and I must stay and do their work. I’m glad you will get your chance at last. John is a just man--like most of us when our prejudices don’t stand in the way--and his recommendations will be attended to. His is the show province, not left out in the cold like poor Khemistan. I only wish you and all the rest could have got your steps for the work you have done here; but at least I can keep the frontier quiet while you have the chance of getting them elsewhere.” He stood on the verandah a little later, tall and bronzed and grey-headed, as Sir Dugald rode out at the gate. Beside him Missy, raised high on the shoulder of Ismail Bakhsh, with one hand clenched firmly in his beard, waved the other frantically in farewell. Reduced in numbers, the Advanced-Guard held the frontier still. [The End] FOOTNOTES. [1] _Syads_ are descendants of the Khalif Ali by the daughter of Mohammed, _Khojas_ his descendants by other wives. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES. Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg. This book is part of the author’s “Modern East” series. The full series, in order, being: