"He is very well and grown quite the man. He tells me that he has just been made a corporal. He's in his father's old regiment, and it has been ordered out at once. He ought to be landing in less than a week's time. He has promised to come off and see his old mother the first minute he can get leave. They say that the regiment is going to Bangalore. If so I shall see him often." "I hope he will prove a good son." "No fear but what he will," said Mrs. Hulver, with the unshaken confidence of a proud mother. "He is happy in his work and likes soldiering. As William--that was my second and the boy's own father--used to say when I talked of the child following any other trade: 'Bring up the foal to the shafts and don't try to teach him to drive a wheelbarrow.'" "He was perfectly right; each man should follow the line for which he is best suited." "But they don't do so always. There are many men--and women, too--who, being square, find themselves in round holes. Now you, sir, I take it, are in the right-shaped hole. So am I; and so is Miss Wenaston. She would do badly in my hole, for instance; for she would be cheated every hour of her life by these budmashes of servants; and she would be still worse off in your hole. There's nothing of the missionary about her, as any one can see with half an eye. As William--that was my third--used to say: 'It doesn't need a uniform to show you who's a born soldier.' He was a fine figure and had a handsome----" Miss Wenaston appeared and the car drew up under the portico, cutting Mrs. Hulver short. She watched the pair drive away with renewed misgivings. "I don't like that look in her face. She's feeling just as I used to feel when William, my second and the father of my boy, took me out walking in the bazaar, he looking so fine in his corporal's uniform." She called to the butler. "Ramachetty! Come here; I want you. To-morrow is pay-day. I'm going out into the garden to count the roses. Where's the gardener?" She descended the steps of the front verandah and walked slowly, displaying an imposing dignity, to the spot where the roses stood. She counted the pots. "--six--seven--" As she arrived at the seventh the gardener pointed with feverish anxiety to the eighth. It bore a beautiful double pink blossom full of fragrance, proclaiming itself a true and genuine _La France_, "Eight; good! Wasn't it just as I said?" she asked the butler triumphantly. "With care the roses would turn back to their proper sort. Why haven't the others turned, too?" she inquired, looking severely at the gardener. "They are turning now; all coming nicely if missus will please wait." "Mind they do come," she replied, lifting a warning finger that indicated a determination to exact the fulfilment of her demand. "Missus will let off the fine!" said the gardener in an insinuating voice.