Many a trusting heart has been won by the pink light from a lamp falling on a handsome profile, by the faultless cut of a frock coat, or by a good seat on horseback. Poor little Eleanor! Poor humanity! "It is a mistake to rely too much on love," says Major Short. "It sometimes fails us, and then----" He pauses, seeing the look of pain upon Eleanor's face. "I was speaking of myself," he adds half apologetically. "Look for instance, at my parents, at home in the old country. What good is their affection now? What use am I to them, stuck here in India? True, we correspond, but letters give us no sight of the familiar face, no kiss from the lips that may be dead and cold before we meet again. But love, Mrs. Quinton, is over for ever in my life, it is a memory alone, a dream of the silent past." Eleanor's eyes are deeply sympathetic; she is a woman to inspire confidence. Major Short continues, though he is surprised at himself for so doing: "Yes, I was in love once, it was the one sincere and overruling passion of my life." He lowers his voice as he speaks. "You brought it back to me when you said that all your interests were centred in your husband." He holds out a little case to Eleanor. "I always carry this about with me; it is her portrait. Look at it." Eleanor opens the case reverently, and gazes with a certain awe at the beautiful face within. She fancies there is a mystery in the far-away expression of the woman's eyes. But, after all, it is only the mystery of death. "That picture was taken after she knew she must die," he says. "They would not let me marry her then." His eyes are lowered, Eleanor fancies they are moist. "Fate is very cruel," she murmurs. "Yes, when the poetry of existence turns to prose, all the light dies out. I can never love again. Sentiment to me now is as a shallow stream." Quamina appears with the tray of drinks again. Her eyes look wild; she shambles along; her knees knock together. "What is the matter with that woman?" asks Major Short, as she staggers away. "She is frightfully superstitious, and some nights ago she thought the devil had come for Carol, and she has never been the same since. She crouches about like a creature demented. Sometimes I fancy she must be insane." Major Short quotes from Pope with a dry smile: 'Lo! the poor Indian, whose untutored mind, Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind." "But there is sense in that," Eleanor declares. "God is in all Nature; every blade of grass manifests Him." Then she remembers that she is still clasping that small case, and looks down once more on the impressive features of the beautiful woman. "Talking of death--and love," she says slowly, harping back to the old subject, "I often wonder what I should do if anything happened to Carol. Imagine me here, in a strange country, alone, friendless! What if he sickened with fever, or was wounded by an enemy, or if he died?" A shudder of apprehension runs over her.