But these are matters for the politician and the statesman. It is more fitting that this story of the lives and fortunes of a few of the actors in a great human drama should conclude with such particulars of their subsequent history as have filtered through time's close-woven meshes of half a century. One day in February, not so long ago, a young officer of the Guides, who had come to Lucknow for "Cup" week, was standing in the porch of the Mohamed Bagh Club when he heard a young lady bewailing fate in the shape of a tikka-gharry which had brought her there. Her "people" were at the Chutter Munzil Club, miles away, for Lucknow is a big place, and she was already late for tea. Being a nice young man, the said officer of the Guides could not bear to see a nice young woman in distress. "My dog-cart is just coming up," he said, "and I am going to the Chutter Munzil. Won't you let me drive you there?" She blushed and hesitated and of course agreed. On the way, to maintain a polite conversation, he pointed out several historic buildings. "You are stationed here, I suppose?" she said. "No, indeed. My regiment is at Quetta, but I was reared on the records of Lucknow. My grandmother went through the whole of the siege, and my grandfather was with the Second Relief. It must have agreed with their health, for they were both out here two years since, and I went over the Mutiny ground with them." "How interesting! Was that how they met?" "No. They were engaged just before the Residency was invested. It is an awfully interesting yarn, and I should like some day to have a chance of telling it to you. There is a native princess in it, and a pearl necklace, which is worth quite a lot of money, and is believed to have been stolen by a sepoy before my grandfather obtained it, quite by accident. And the old chap--he was quite a young chap then, you know--had a remarkable native servant who did so well at the Mutiny that he became a nawab or something of the sort. Really, the whole thing is more like a book than a chapter of real life." "I had a grandmother in the Mutiny," said the girl, "but she had such a sad experience that she seldom mentioned it. Her maiden name was Keene, and her father was killed at Fattehpore--" "Keene! Did she ever speak of a man named Malcolm, who saved her and her sister?" "Oh, yes! You don't mean to say--" "Yes, really, I'm his grandson. Now, isn't that the queerest thing? Just imagine the odds against my meeting you here under such conditions? Please tell me your name, and you'll let me call, won't you?" The girl was somewhat breathless. Young Malcolm was looking at her as though he felt that a special dispensation of Providence had brought them together. "I am sure my mother will be glad to meet you and hear all about those old days at Lucknow," she said shyly.