of speech. But
when Mackay entered with Paul Wyndham, Desmond made no sign. The
little doctor's keen eye took in the situation at a glance; and at the
unlooked-for relief of Paul's presence, Honor's strained composure
deserted her. She swayed a little, stretched out a hand blindly
towards him, and would have fallen, but that he quietly put his arm
round her, and with a strange mixture of feelings saw her head drop on
to his shoulder. But it was only for a moment. Contact with the
roughness of his coat roused her on the verge of unconsciousness. She
drew herself up, a faint colour mantling in her cheeks, and tried to
smile.

"Come away," Paul whispered, leading her to the door. "We can give him
no help--or comfort--yet."

AFTERMATH.

"Had he not turned them in his hand, and thrust
Their high things low and laid them in the dust,
They had not been this splendour."

I.

Some two weeks after that day of tragedy--a tragedy that had stirred
and enraged the whole station--Theo Desmond and Paul Wyndham left
Kohat on furlough, long over-due to both. Such a wander-year, spent
together, had, from early days, been one of their cherished dreams;
but, as too often happens, there proved little family likeness between
the dream and the reality. In the dream, Desmond was naturally to be
the leading spirit of their grand tour. In the reality, all practical
plans and considerations had devolved on Paul, and Theo it was who
assented, unquestioning, uncaring, so long as he could put half the
world between himself and Kohat.

His long illness, the fear of losing his sight, the double shock of
self-revelation and loss had affected him mentally as blow on blow
affects a man physically. Since the night of his wife's death none had
seen him strongly moved, either by sorrow, pleasure, or anger. He had
said and done all that was required of him with a strained unnatural
precision. Even to the few who had drawn nearest to him in former
times of trouble, he seemed now like a house whose every door is
locked and every shutter drawn.

Outwardly unmoved, he had endured the ordeal of Evelyn's funeral, the
storm of public surprise and indignation aroused by her murder. Though
British officers, not a few, have been victims to fanaticism in India,
no Englishwoman had ever been shot at before, and the strong feeling
aroused by so dastardly a crime had been long in subsiding. The news
had been wired to Peshawur. The Com