painfully planned operations. Her little head
was miserably confused. But she had not
time to think. For here was the representative
clergyman with boundless wife and daughters;
and after him the doctor; and, following, the
choir of maiden ladies and debatable youths,
scarcely boys, nor yet wholly men. Yet these
latter were negotiable, and the two or three
girls who leavened the community welcomed
them cheerfully.

Major Carter and Captain Fermor would, as
of course, come flashing in late. For such
brilliants a dull background or setting was
necessary. Yet already had a white-faced
pendule (a gilt classical lady, sitting on a
metallic sofa, with the dial between the legs of the
sofa) given a smart "ting," meaning the half-
hour. Young Brett, faithful as a terrier, had
come, and was keeping close to Miss Manuel,
with his faithful terrier eyes fixed on her face.
Another officer or two, reluctantly asked by
Fermor, gave "an air" to the party, as a
master would give a touch to a drawing. Those
gentlemen were looking round with the surprise
and wonder of Europeans newly landed on an
Indian island. They seemed to keep together, too,
for protection against the natives. Miss Manuel
flitting about, with Young Brett following, tried
to break up this confederacy. They would not
go away: yet remained under a sense of injury
at having been trepanned into the situation.
Still Pauline contrived to stir these elements of
her little pot-au-feu. She finally broke up the
crowd, and brought about temporary alliances
between the newly-arrived Europeans and the
daughters of the natives. She was at the piano,
out of the room, in the room, and everywhere.
When the dial between the sofa legs of the
pendule gave out eleven "tings," Violet's face
began to show some of the old lines of anxiety.
As little processions entered the room, of ices,
teas, and cakes, she started and looked to the
door. The opening of her little campaign was
being too long delayed. Her heart was growing
sick, and she heard a military European say aloud,
with the freedom of his tribe, "What the deuce
can have become of Fermor?"

Below-stairs others had been wondering also,
but for this reason; that Mr. Bates, who had
readily promised his services with trays and other
heavy objects, had appointed to be there at ten
"sharp," as he put it. Ten sharp had long gone
by; it was now more than eleven sharp. No
Mr. Bates. Much troubled in mind by this
desertion, and laying it to the account of death
or accident, the faithful maid, Jane, "slipped
on" her bonnet and shawl, and flitted away up
to Brown's-terrace. When the door was opened,
she asked for Captain Fermor. He had gone
up to the barracks—taken his things, too—so
had Mr. Bates. But a note had been left, which
was to be sent up in the morning to Mrs.
Manuel's. Here it was.

Wondering, much mystified, and not at all
"seeing her way," for so clever a fairy
godmother, the maid went home. She could not
get further than that Mr. Bates and Captain
Fermor had gone to their barracks for the
better facilities of dressing.

By the time she reached home it was long past
twelve o'clock. The brother, Louis, had been
biting his lips; his heart was full of fury at this
public slight, as it appeared to be. Certain of
the elderly maidens had said to Pauline in a
friendly endearing way, "How was it that
Captain Fermor was not here, my dear?" Violet,
in such distress that she had flung away all
thought of acting, sat with her eyes fixed, worn
and hopeless, on the door, and her figure
drooped, her fine clothes hanging about her,
Hanbury watching her with a puzzled interest.
As the French pendule "tinged" half-past
twelve, she started as if it were the bell for
execution. Another bell rang at the hall, and
she went hurriedly over to the window. It was
the maid, and Violet saw the note in her hand. In
great trepidation she almost ran out of the room.

At that moment the London express had
halted for refreshment. Fermor and his friend
Carter, wrapped in cloaks, were standing on
the platform, under an illuminated clock.

The maid tripped up-stairs, bonnet and shawl
on. Violet met her at the door.

"Give—give it to me," she said, wildly.

"Quite right, miss," said the maid,
confidentially, "they will be here presently."

The door was wide open, and every one of the
little company—the Europeans, natives, all—
heard a slow, sad, agonising cry outside, and
Young Brett ran out just in time to catch her
in his arms. Many crowded out and saw the
hapless child, with what seemed death in her
face, and one arm outstretched, holding tightly
the fatal sheet of paper.

In a moment they had all poured out on the
little landing, with a curiosity which overbore
all decent restraint. The girls crushed and
rustled to see. "What is it? what was it?
what is in the letter? has he broken it off?
gone off, has he?" One, indeed, had artfully
glanced at the open paper in that now rigid
little hand. The story was, indeed, known, or
as good as known, in a few seconds.

There lay the poor child in her flowers and
finery, ghastly white, relaxed, and, as it seemed,
dying, supported by Hanbury, who, bursting
through the little crowd, had taken her
from Young Brett. In a few moments more
they carried her up, her little finery all torn
into shreds as it was trod on by those who
carried her, amidst the despairing faces of
her own family. The crowd, transformed into
a low crowd by the greed of curiosity, crept half
way up the stairs, and listened. But Hanbury,
coming down, bluntly and roughly and without
ceremony, cleared them out of the house. Only
the representative doctor, who had come as a
guest, remained professionally.

However terrible such a crisis, shattering the
brain even as a blow of a bludgeon does the
skull—it seldom kills. Later on that night, or
morning, she opened her eyes on the anxious
faces gathered round her, shivered, shrieked
again, subsided soon into low sighs and quiet