Seated on the verandah of a pretty bungalow in the European quarter, is a young man--a civilian. His physique is that of a trained athlete. He is handsome, too, with a mass of black hair falling over a prominent forehead. His name is Walter Gordon; he is the son of a wealthy merchant of Meerut, who had died very suddenly, and Walter had but recently come out from England to take charge of his father’s business. He is not alone now. His companion is a lady slightly his junior. She is very pretty. A pure English face, with tender brown eyes, and soft, moist lips. A wealth of rich brown hair is negligently held together by two large gold pins of native workmanship. This young lady is the betrothed of Walter Gordon. Her father (Mr. Meredith) had held a Civil Service appointment in Meerut, but had died some two years before the opening events of this story, leaving a widow and two daughters, Flora and Emily. Emily had been recently married to an officer of one of the regiments stationed in the city. Lieutenant Harper and Walter Gordon were very old friends. They had been school-mates together, and they both laid siege at one time to the hearts of the Misses Meredith. Harper had been successful, and carried his prize off to his quarters, but Walter had delayed his marriage, pending the settlement of some legal difficulty in connection with property to which he was entitled. That difficulty was now removed, and Walter had gone on this evening to Mrs. Meredith’s bungalow to arrange for his marriage with Flora. “Flo, are you not glad that we are soon to be united?” he asks, as he observes that she is silent, and makes no remark on the news he has brought her. “Yes, love. You say that you wish our marriage to take place in a month’s time. Would that it were to-morrow; ay, even to-night!” He looked at her in astonishment. “Flo, what do you mean?” “I mean that in a month’s time you and I may be separated.” “Separated?” he repeated. “Yes. Perhaps dead.” “Dead!” he echoed--his astonishment increasing at the strangeness of her manner. “Ah, love,” she murmured, as she placed her arms around his neck, and her head drooped upon his breast,--“strange as you are yet to the ways of the country, you surely cannot be blind to signs which rise on every side, that a storm is approaching.” “A storm. To what do you allude?” “To the discontented state of the natives, who are ripe for revolt. We tremble upon the brink of a mine that may at any moment be sprung; and what the consequences will be I shudder to think.” “These are but morbid fears, Flo,” he answered, as he caressed her. “Believe me that our power is too strong, and too much dreaded by the natives to allow any serious outbreak. The example we made of the ‘ighty-five’ on the parade this morning will strike terror to the hearts of those who might have contemplated any rashness.”