el so sure as you
do that she wants to go to England; and, if not, I must write to Uncle
Philip. Give me your solemn promise, old fellow, an answer in twenty
days--if you have to send a Kafir on horseback."

"I give you my honor," said Falcon superbly.

"Send it to me at Bulteel's Farm."

"All right. 'Dr. Christie, Bulteel's Farm.'"

"Well--no. Why should I conceal my real name any longer from such
friends as you and your wife? Christie is short for Christopher--that IS
my Christian name; but my surname is Staines. Write to 'Dr. Staines.'"

"Dr. Staines!"

"Yes. Did you ever hear of me?"

Falcon wore a strange look. "I almost think I have. Down at Gravesend,
or somewhere."

"That is curious. Yes, I married my Rosa there; poor thing! God bless
her; God comfort her. She thinks me dead."

His voice trembled, he grasped Falcon's cold hand till the latter winced
again, and so they parted, and Falcon rode off muttering, "Dr. Staines!
so then YOU are Dr. Staines."

CHAPTER XXII.

Rosa Staines had youth on her side, and it is an old saying that youth
will not be denied. Youth struggled with death for her, and won the
battle.

But she came out of that terrible fight weak as a child. The sweet pale
face, the widow's cap, the suit of deep black--it was long ere these
came down from the sickroom. And when they did, oh, the dead blank!
The weary, listless life! The days spent in sighs, and tears, and
desolation. Solitude! solitude! Her husband was gone, and a strange
woman played the mother to her child before her eyes.

Uncle Philip was devotedly kind to her, and so was her father; but they
could do nothing for her.

Months rolled on, and skinned the wound over. Months could not heal. Her
boy became dearer and dearer, and it was from him came the first real
drops of comfort, however feeble.

She used to read her lost one's diary every day, and worship, in deep
sorrow, the mind she had scarcely respected until it was too late. She
searched in his diary to find his will, and often she mourned that he
had written on it so few things she could obey. Her desire to obey
the dead, whom, living, she had often disobeyed, was really simple and
touching. She would mourn to her father that there were so few commands
to her in his diary. "But," said she, "memory brings me back his will in
many things, and to obey is now the only sad comfort I have."

It was in this spirit she now forced herself to keep accounts. No