Claude Westwood looked grave. For some weeks he had talked about nothing else except the splendid possibilities of the Upper Zambesi to explorers; and his brother had offered to share the expenses of an expedition thoroughly well-equipped to do all that Livingstone and Baines left undone in that fascinating quarter of Africa. “Perhaps she will refuse me,” said Claude. “Ah! perhaps; but if she does not refuse you?” There was a long pause. Claude rose from his chair and walked to the window. He looked out over the sloping lawns and the terraced Italian garden; the blue swallows were skimming the surface of the huge marble basin where the water-lilies floated. He seemed greatly interested in the movements of the birds. At last he turned suddenly round to his brother, and laid his hand on his shoulder, saying: “Dick, I should like to win her. I should like to offer her a name--the name of a man who has done something in the world. Whatever happens I am bound to make the expedition to the Zambesi.” ***** Dick Westwood had, while sitting before the empty grate, recalled all the incidents of eight years before--he recollected how a level ray of the red sunlight had flickered through the leaves of the copper beech and made rosy his brother's face--he could still feel the strong clasp of his hand as they had separated to dress for the dinner which Admiral Mowbray was giving that evening. He remembered how Agnes had looked at the head of the table--oh, he had felt even then that she was not for him, but for his brother--how could he have fancied for a moment that he would have a chance of her love when Claude was near? The expression on Claude's face when they met to go home together told him all; but he did not need to be told anything. He knew that it was inevitable. Agnes had accepted Claude: she had accepted him and told him to go out to Africa; she would wait for him to return, even though he might not return for ten years, she had said, laughingly. Alas! alas! the lover had gone at the head of his expedition to the Zambesi, and for seven months news had come from him at irregular intervals--for seven months only; after that--silence. No line came from him, no rumour of the fate of the expedition had reached England, though at the end of the second year a large reward had been offered to any one who could throw light on the mystery. Eight years had now passed since the expedition had set out from Zanzibar, and there was only one person alive who rejected every suggestion that disaster had overtaken Claude Westwood and his companions. It had become an article of faith with Agnes that her lover would return. The lapse of years seemed to strengthen rather than to attenuate her hope. Her father had died when Claude had been absent for two years, and almost his last words to her had been of hope.