most admired in him.

When she said good night to Meryl she could not refrain, from just one
little delve into the perplexing situation. "If you and Major Carew
met at six o'clock and did not get back until seven, you must have had
quite a long chat together. Such a new thing for him! I don't think
even I, his trusted friend, can boast of such an incident."

"We just stayed to watch the sunset," and Meryl turned away on some
slight pretext. "He certainly was a little more communicative than
usual. Did you know he was once engaged to someone who died?"

"No," in slow surprise, "I had never heard of it. But then, he never
speaks of himself, and I did not know his branch of the family at all.
We lived near London about that time, and seldom went into Devonshire.
Still, I wonder Billy did not know. Probably he heard it, and took no
notice. That would be so like Billy. He was perhaps scheming some new
move for his boys, as he used to call his parishioners."

"Perhaps he would rather I had not mentioned it," Meryl said.

"It will be safe with me, dear. I shall only speak of it to Billy. How
terrible it must have been! It is impossible not to feel it has
shadowed all his life. And for her!--he must have been a very
striking, attractive man in those days. One hears rumours without
attaching much interest to them at the time, but looking back now, I
remember my father alluding once or twice to the two brothers as if
they were very well-known men. But that would be when I was but a
schoolgirl, and soon afterwards I went abroad for a year with an
aunt." She lingered a moment longer. "I am glad he told you. It was
nice of him. And he tells so little. It was a great compliment. Good
night, dearie. Sleep well."

Meryl sat on the little bed, in the round wattle and daub hut, and
pressed her fingers against her eyes to still their throbbing. Then
she looked round at her surroundings, and a little wry smile twisted
her lips. A rough floor of ant-heap composition and cow-dung hardened
to cement, with some native reed matting laid down; a small stretcher
bed; a packing-case for a washhand-stand, and enamel ware. Another
packing-case for a dressing-table, and a little cheap glass nailed to
the wall. Walls of baked mud, which had fallen in places, laying bare
the wattle stems, and a door made from packing-cases which fitted
badly, and was fastened only by a string and a nail. For ceiling long,
thin wattle stems converging upwards, an