ly desired to avoid it.

The whole business was beyond his comprehension and, he was convinced,
beyond Stella's also. He did not think Everard would find it a very easy
task to restore her confidence. Perhaps he would not attempt to do so.
Perhaps he was too engrossed with the service of his goddess to care
that he and his wife should drift asunder. And yet--the memory of the
morning on which he had first seen those streaks of grey in his
brother's hair came upon him, and an unwilling sensation of pity
softened his severity. Perhaps he had been drawn in in spite of himself.
Perhaps the poor beggar was a victim rather than a worshipper. Most
certainly--whatever his faults--he cared deeply.

Would he be able to make Stella realize that? Bernard wondered, and
shook his head in doubt.

The thought of Stella turning away with that look of frozen horror on
her face pursued him through the night. Poor girl! She had looked as
though the end of all things had come for her. Could he have helped her?
Ought he to have left her so? He quickened his pace almost insensibly.
No, he would not interfere of his own free will. But if she needed his
support, if she counted upon him, he would not be found wanting. It
might even be given to him eventually to help them both.

He had not seen her again. She had gone to her room with Peter in
attendance, Peter who owed his life to the knife in Everard's girdle. He
had had a strong feeling that Peter was the only friend she needed just
then, and certainly Tessa had been his first responsibility. But the
feeling that possibly she might need him was growing upon him. He wished
he had satisfied himself before starting that this was not the case. But
he comforted himself with the thought of Peter. He was sure that Peter
would take care of her.

Yes, Peter would care for his beloved _mem-sahib_, whatever his physical
disabilities. He would never fail in the execution of that his sacred
duty while the power to do so was his. If all others failed her, yet
would Peter remain faithful. Even then with his dog-like devotion was he
crouched upon her threshold, his dark face wrapped in his garment, yet
alert for every sound and mournfully aware that his mistress was not
resting. Of his own wound he thought not at all. He had been very near
the gate of death, and the only man in the world for whom he entertained
the smallest feeling of fear had snatched him back. To his promptitude
alone did Peter owe his