I thought I
should never love any one after dear papa."

Lord Chetwynde smiled, and pressed her fondly to his breast.

The steady change which had been going on in Zillah, in mind and in
person, was indeed sufficient to justify Lord Chetwynde's remark.
Enough has been said already about her change in personal appearance.
Great as this was, however, it was not equal to that more subtle
change which had come over her soul. Her nature was intense,
vehement, passionate; but its development was of such a kind that she
was now earnest where she was formerly impulsive, and calm where she
had been formerly weak. A profound depth of feeling already was made
manifest in this rich nature, and the thoughtfulness of the West was
added to the fine emotional sensibility of the East; forming by their
union a being of rare susceptibility, and of quick yet deep feeling,
who still could control those feelings, and smother them, even though
the concealed passion should consume like a fire within her.

Three years had passed since her hasty and repugnant marriage, and
those years had been eventful in many ways. They had matured the
wild, passionate, unruly girl into the woman full of sensibility and
passion. They had also been filled with events upon which the world
gazed in awe, which shook the British empire to its centre, and sent
a thrill of horror to the heart of that empire, followed by a fierce
thirst for vengeance. For the Indian mutiny had broken out, the
horrors of Cawnpore had been enacted, the stories of sepoy atrocity
had been told by every English fireside, and the whole nation had
roused itself to send forth armies for vengeance and for punishment.
Dread stories were these for the quiet circle at Chetwynde Castle;
yet they had been spared its worst pains. Guy had been sent to the
north of India, and had not been witness of the scenes of Cawnpore.
He had been joined with those soldiers who had been summoned together
to march on Delhi, and he had shared in the danger and in the final
triumph of that memorable expedition.

The intensity of desire and the agony of impatience which attended
his letters were natural. Lord Chetwynde thought only of one thing
for many months, and that was his son's letters. At the outbreak of
the mutiny, a dread anxiety had taken possession of him lest his son
might be in danger. At first the letters came regularly, giving
details of the mutiny as he heard them. Then there was a long break,
for