ad slain her in the space of a week. And Roy,
knowing her too well, had guessed the truth, in spite of his father's
gallant attempt to shield him from it.

His first letter from that bereft father had been little short of a
revelation to the son, who had ventured to suppose he knew him: a rash
supposition where any human being is concerned. There had been more than
one such revelation in the scores of letters that at once uplifted and
overwhelmed him, and increased tenfold his pride in being her son. But
outshining all, and utterly unexpected, was a letter from herself,
written in those last days, when the others still hoped, against hope,
but she knew----

It had come, with his father's, in a small, gold-embroidered bag--scent
and colour and exquisite needlework all eloquent of her: and with it
came the other, her talisman since he was born. Reaching him while brain
and body still reeled under the bewildering sense of loss, it had
soothed his agony of pain and rebellion like the touch of her fingers on
his forehead; had taken the sting from death and robbed the grave of
victory....

* * * * *

To-night, in his loneliness, he drew the slim bag out of an inner
pocket, and re-read with his eyes the words that were imprinted on his
memory.

"ROY, SON OF MY HEART,--This is good-bye--but not
altogether good-bye. Between you and me that word can never be
spoken. So I am writing this, in my foolish weakness, to beg of
you--by the love between us, too deep for words--not to let heart
and courage be _quite_ broken because of this big sorrow. You were
brave in battle, my Prithvi Raj. Be still more brave for me.
Remember I am Lilamani--Jewel of Delight. _That_ I have tried to be
in my life, for every one of you. That I wish to be always. So I
ask you, my darling, not to make me a Jewel of Sorrow because I
have passed into the Next Door House too soon. Though not seen, I
will never for long be far from you. That is my faith; and you must
share it; helping your dear father, because for him the way of
belief is hard.

"Never forget those beautiful words of Fouquet in which you made
dedication of your poems to me: 'How blessed is the son to whom it
is allowed to gladden his mother's heart with the blossom and fruit
of his life!' And you will still gladden it, Dilkusha.[5] I will
still share your work, though