bag that I carry at my girdle with a goodly
stock of pearls, sapphires, and rubies, for one
evening's diary of that cottage!

"If all go on as well and prosperously as I
hope for, I have not the least objection, but
rather a wish, that you would tell the world
where I am, and what I am doing. Linked with
failure, I'd rather keep dark; but as a sharer
in a great success, I burn to make it known
through the length and breadth of the land
that I am alive and well, and ready to acquit
a number of personal obligations, if not to the
very fellows who injured me, to their friends,
relatives, and cousins, to the third generation.
Tell them, Algy, 'A chiel's amang ye, cutting
throats,' and add, if you like, that he writes
himself your attached friend,

"HARRY CALVERT."

This letter, delivered in some mysterious
manner to the bankers at Calcutta, was duly
forwarded, and in time reached the hands of
Alfred Drayton, who confided its contents to
a few "friends" of Calvert's—men who felt
neither astonished nor shocked at the intelligence
—shifty fellows, with costly tastes, who
would live on society somehow, reputably, if
they could—dishonourably, if they must; and
who all agreed that "Old Calvert," as they
called him—he was younger than most of them
—had struck out a very clever line, and a
far more remunerative one than "rooking
young Griffins at billiards"—such being, in their
estimation, the one other alternative which fate
had to offer him. This was all the publicity,
however, Drayton gave to his friend's achievements.
Somehow or other, paragraphs did appear, not
naming Calvert, but intimating that an officer,
who had formerly served her Majesty, had been
seen in the ranks of the insurgents of Upper
Bengal. Yet Calvert was not suspected, and he
dropped out of people's minds as thoroughly as
if he had dropped out of life.

To this oblivion, for a while, we must
leave him; for even if we had in our hands,
which we have not, any records of his
campaigning life, we might scruple to occupy our
readers with details which have no direct bearing
iupon our story. That Loyd never heard
of him is clear enough. The name of Calvert
never occurred in any letter from his hand. It
was one no more to be spoken of by Florence
or himself. One letter from him, however,
mentioned an incident which, to a suspicious mind,
might have opened a strange vein of speculation,
though it is right to add that neither the writer
nor the reader ever hit upon a clue to the
mystery indicated. It was during his second year
of absence that he was sent to Mulnath, from
which he writes:

"The mutiny has not touched this spot; but
we hear every day the low rumbling of the
distant storm, and we are told that our servants,
and the native battalion that are our garrison,
are only waiting for the signal to rise. I doubt
this greatly. I have nothing to excite my distrust
of the people, but much to recommend them to
my favour. It is only two days back that I
received secret intelligence of an intended attack
upon my bungalow by a party of Bithoor cavalry,
whose doings have struck terror far and near.
Two companies of the—th, that I sent for,
arrived this morning, and I now feel very easy
about the reception the enemy will meet. The
strangest, part of all is, however, to come.
Captain Rolt, who commands the detachment, said
in a laughing, jocular way, 'I declare, judge, if I
were you, I would change my name, at least till
this row was over.' I asked him 'Why?' in
some surprise; and he replied, 'There's rather a
run against judges of your name lately. They
shot one at Astraghan last November. Six weeks
back, they came down near Agra, where Craven
Loyd had just arrived, district judge and
assessor; they burnt his bungalow, and
massacred himself and his household; and now, it
seems, they are after you. I take it that some
one of your name has been rather sharp on these
fellows, and that this is the pursuit of a long
meditated vengeance. At all events, I'd call
myself Smith or Brown till this prejudice blows
over.'"

The letter soon turned to a pleasanter theme
—his application for a leave had been favourably
entertained. By October—it was then
July—he might hope to take his passage
for England. Not that he was, he said, at
all sick of India. He had now adapted himself
to its ways and habits, his health was good, and
the solitude—the one sole cause of complaint—
he trusted would, ere long, give way to the
happiest and most blissful of all companionship.
"Indeed, I must try to make you all emigrate
with me. Aunt Grainger can have her flowers
and her vegetables here in all seasons, one of my
retainers is an excellent gardener, and Milly's
passion for riding can be indulged upon the
prettiest Arab horses I ever saw."

Though the dangers which this letter spoke
of as impending were enough to make Florence
anxious and eager for the next mail from India,
his letter never again alluded to them. He
wrote full of the delight of having got his leave,
and overjoyed at all the happiness that he
pictured as before him.

So in the same strain and spirit was the next,
and then came September, and he wrote: "This
day month, dearest—this day month, I am to
sail. Already, when these lines are before you,
the interval, which to me now seems an age,
will have gone over, and you can think of me as
hastening towards you."

"Oh, aunt dearest, listen to this. Is not this
happy news?" cried Florence, as she pressed the
loved letter to her lips. "Joseph says that on
the 18th—to-day is—what day is to-day? But
you are not minding me, aunt. What can
there be in that letter of yours so interesting as
this?"

This remonstrance was not very unreasonable,
seeing that Miss Grainger was standing with
her eyes fixed steadfastly at a letter, whose few
lines could not have taken a moment to read,
and which must have had some other claim thus
to arrest her attention.