“Not half so much of an adventurer, as you call it, as our friend who went off this morning.”

It was the first mention of Isaacs since his departure.  I had said the thing inadvertently, for I would not have done anything to increase her trouble for the world.  She leaned back, dropping her hands with her work in her lap, and stared straight out through the doorway, as pale as death—­pale as only fair-skinned people are when they are ill, or hurt.  She sat quite still.  I wondered if she were ill, or if it were only Isaacs’ going that had wrought this change in her brilliant looks.  “Would you like me to read something to you, Miss Westonhaugh?  Here is a comparatively new book—­The Light of Asia, by Mr. Edwin Arnold.  It is a poem about India.  Would it give you any pleasure?” She guessed the kind intention, and a little shadow of a smile passed over her lips.

“You are so kind, Mr. Griggs.  Please, you are so very kind.”

I began to read, and read on and on through the exquisite rise and fall of the stanzas, through the beautiful clear high thoughts which seem to come as a breath and a breeze from an unattainable heaven, from the Nirvana we all hope for in our inmost hearts, whatever our confession of faith.  And the poor girl was soothed, and touched and lulled by the music of thought and the sigh of verse that is in the poem; and the morning passed.  I suppose the quiet and the poetry wrought up in her the feeling of confidence she felt in me, as being her lover’s friend, for after I had paused a minute or two, seeing some one coming toward the tent, she said quite simply—­

“Where is he gone?”

“He is gone to do a very noble deed.  He is gone to save the life of a man he never saw.”  A bright light came into her face, and all the chilled heart’s blood, driven from her cheeks by the weariness of her first parting, rushed joyously back, and for one moment there dwelt on her features the glory and bloom of the love and happiness that had been hers all day yesterday, that would be hers again—­when?  Poor Miss Westonhaugh, it seemed so long to wait.

The day passed somehow, but the dinner was dismal.  Miss Westonhaugh was evidently far from well, and I could not conceive that the pain of a temporary parting should make so sudden a change in one so perfectly strong and healthy—­even were her nature ever so sensitive.  Kildare and the Pegnugger magistrate tried to keep up the spirits of the party, but John Westonhaugh was anxious about his sister, and even old Mr. Currie Ghyrkins was beginning to fancy there must be something wrong.  We sat smoking outside, and the young girl refused to leave us, though John begged her to.  As we sat, it may have been half an hour after dinner, a messenger came galloping up in hot haste, and leaping to the ground asked for “Gurregis Sahib,” with the usual native pronunciation of my euphonious name.  Being informed, he salaamed low and handed me a letter, which I took