"Yes, I know he is ill," she went on,
excitedly; " and what is the use of trying to
deceive me? I know that he is very bad
indeed."

"Well," said uncle Diamond, "perhaps he
is not so well as he was; but he'll do,
wonderfully. Why, God bless me! I have known
men stretched there on the broad of their
backs for weeks, and not a bit the worse—not
a bit." Then the captain's voice fell into a
feeling key, and with a look of deep compassion,
he said, "My poor little girl, we must take
these things as they are sent. My heart bleeds
for that poor Tillotson, it does indeed. But we
must pull him through."

But the next day, after the captain came
back, all his powers of deception and cheerful
little mendacities could not disguise the truth.
It was a raw, piercing day, and the captain, in
a very thin great-coat, limped along steadily to
wait on his friend. He said he would be back
at four, "with tip-top news." But that hour
had long passed, and he did not return. There
was an anxious face at the window looking out
watching the gusts, and the east wind piercing
the walkers through and through. At that
moment, when they were just thinking of dinner,
the captain drove up in a cab, which he kept
waiting at the door. He came in to them with
a curious, wistful look. "Gilpin's not come
back," he said; " very odd, ain't it?"

"You know he wasn't to be back," said the
elder Miss Diamond.

"No, to be sure," said he, with alacrity.
"What an old Tom-the-Goose I am. Always
the way with me. I should forget this lame
leg of mine if it wasn't fastened to me."

"And, how is he to night, nunkey?" said the
young girl.

"Not so well," said he, dismally; "not quite
so well, I mean, as we could all wish, you know.
Between you and me and the post, I wish Gilpin
was back."

"I knew it would be this way," the young
girl cried, impulsively. " Of course he is not
back, and won't be back. What is to become
of him?"

"Here is dinner, sir," said Martha
Malcolm, suddenly appearing at the door,
"cooling and half spoiled, while other people are
running about the town. Take my advice,
captain, and leave him to the regular
doctors. Let him pay them, and they'll get him
through."

"At any rate, uncle, you must eat your dinner
now."

"Dinner!" said uncle Diamond. "Lord bless
you! I've dined two hours ago. Had a chop at
The Son and Heir. As good a couple of chops as
were ever cut off a loin. By the way, dear, you
don't remember the name of that surgeon to a
palace, the fellow that waits on the royal family
when they're sick, do you? Mere curiosity,
you know."

"Ah!" said the girl, starting, "then you want
him? So he is bad, very bad?"

"No, no. On my solemn oath, no. I wasn't
thinking of it. It was only to ease my own
mind. Now Tom's off to an apothecary's, and
I'll look in on our patient as I come round."

HORSE-RACING IN INDIA.

THE monsoon, whose first stormy shower
was welcomed with delight, has become dreary
and monotonous in the extreme, and almost
makes one wish it were hot weather again.
Everything has become damp and mildewed;
clothes are lying rotting in trunks, from which
it is impossible to take them to be aired, by
reason of there being no sun; boots are covered
with a Stilton-like mould; every corner of the
bedroom has been tried in vain for a place
for the bed without catching the drippings from
the roof; the sitting-room is studded with
basins and tubs to catch the water and save
the bamboo matting; the ceiling-cloth is
discoloured in many places, and looks as if bottled
porter had been kept above, and had burst; the
furniture is damp and slimy; and the neat
gravel drive in front of the house is cut up
like the bed of a dry water-course.

Towards the middle of September, one or
two bright days in succession, with an
occasional shower at night, and a delightful
freshness in the morning, proclaim the approaching
close of the monsoon; and now that there is a
prospect of a little dry weather, the subject of
getting up Skye races in December is started
at one or other of the mess-tables. It is of
tropical growth, no sooner conceived than
matured; a meeting is called, the subject is
discussed, stewards and secretary are chosen—the
two latter without heartburning. The majority
of the residents subscribe liberally, and there are
but few in the cantonment who object. These
can be divided into three classes: those whose
wives are afraid that they will ride, and who
consequently object on the ground of its being
wicked: screws, who do not possess an animal
that has a ghost of a chance, but who are always
lingering about the stables during training:
lastly, those who really do think it wicked.

At length the programme appears, full of
mistakes, printed by the local government or
some amateur press, and many young hearts are
quite in a flutter. There is no parade to-morrow
morning, so Tomkins will try what Budmash's
paces are like. Budmash has been laid up for
nearly three months in consequence of the rain,
and has been fed as well all the time as if he were
in training for the Derby. He has got past the
period of bucking with delight on going into
the fresh air, by reason that he is too fat, and
feels more inclined to rest quietly in his stable
than carry his owner even for a short walk.
But his owner knows as much about a horse as
he does about a pig; for he is firmly of opinion
that Budmash's plethoric and sleek look
expresses the acme of condition.

Next morning at daylight, Budmash, saddled
and bridled, is led up and down in front of his
master's door. He has not long to wait; for