To do Mrs. Hesketh justice, her friends were not altogether the mere victims of a cynical interest; in the core of a withered heart, long-forgotten emotions and sympathies, were stirring. In the days of her exquisite youth, Maude Charlton, too, had a gallant, handsome, penniless lover; but when love had extended imploring arms she suffered ambition to restrain her, and accepted instead of a heart’s devotion, middle age, position, and wealth. He, the abandoned, had gone to India and there shortly afterwards died. Often now, in the barren autumn of her life, did her thoughts turn to Lawrence Ormond--her heart ached and ached, as she thought with wet eyes, of his neglected grave in some sun-scorched up-country cemetery. Thirty years had elapsed since three volleys had been fired over that shrunken mound, and he was now forgotten by all. Mrs. Hesketh had a habit of whispering to herself, scraps of poetry, lines that she admired, and that dwelt in her memory, and as she recalled her young dead lover, she would murmur the appropriate quotation: “Forget not Earth thy disappointed ones, Forget not the forgotten.” Then would brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek, and exclaim: “You silly old woman; your mind is wandering--don’t drivel!” Nevertheless, the spell of the past held her; and her cynicism was but skin deep. As an officer’s wife, knocking about the world with Lawrence, fighting its battles by his side, making the best of things, and seeing life in its wider aspect, she might have been a happy woman--and he still living. She had seen a letter from an army surgeon, in which the writer declared that Ormond had a splendid constitution, but made no fight. He seemed to have lost all interest in life, and to be glad to go out of it, and therefore fell an easy prey to the pestilence that walketh in darkness, and whose name is Cholera. As Maude Hesketh crouched over her fire, dreaming of her youth, she asked herself why should not Lance and Letty benefit by _her_ experience, and have their chance? This girl had no ambition, no extravagant tastes. Lancelot was clever and steady, and by all accounts bound to get on. If he only had his company, once in India, with a little help they could manage to scrape along. She would contribute a canteen of plate, all the house-linen, and a cheque. And what about Doodie Fenchurch? demanded a sharp, inward voice, Doodie, whose head was filled with dazzling plans. Was she strong enough to withstand her masterful cousin and uphold the girl for the sake of sentimental memories and the ashes of her own long-dead romance? Alas! to this question, her mental reply was a prompt and unqualified ‘No.’ Her conscience now took Maude Hesketh in hand. She had indulged herself unwarrantably, she had enjoyed bringing the two children together in order to contemplate their happiness for her own gratification, and _they_ would ultimately be called upon to pay for her entertainment--because she was a coward.