you have any pity." His anguished eyes and quivering
lips were convincing. "You will have no fault to find with my letters,"
he added while she hesitated.

Honor promised.

A bell clanged noisily and the engine whistled.

"Oh, Honey!--how can you leave me like this?" he whispered holding her
eyes with his.

Honor moved impulsively towards him and their lips met in a passionate
and lingering kiss. The strength to resist his unspoken appeal was
melted by that silent demand. After all, they were parting!

"Good-bye," she said, the tears falling.

He stepped back as the train began to move, his gaze riveted on her
face, and jaws set with stern self-repression.

CHAPTER XX

THE "IDEAL"

While Raymond Meredith convalesced at Darjeeling in the care of Nurse
Dalton--the identity of whose name with that of the doctor being
generally understood at Muktiarbad to be a mere freak of
coincidence--his family in Surrey waxed strong and healthy in the
glorious summer weather. Baby Douglas, who lived out of doors, had
cheeks like a damask rose, while his mother gained gracious curves which
added to her already radiant beauty. Even her pretty little sister who
had recently put up her hair, was eclipsed. But only in point of looks.

Kitty was not one to be overlooked in any company, by any means. What
she lacked in regularity of feature, she made up for in charm of
expression, a delightful speaking voice, and a ready tongue. Bright eyes
given to laughter, the gleam of white teeth, curving red lips mobile and
piquant, a dimpled cheek, laughter creases at the corners of the
full-lidded, soft eyes, that had a roguish trick of quizzing--eyes that
had borrowed their hue from the summer sky, with lashes like her
sister's, and an indefinable little nose, made up a whole which was
positively unfair to the rest of her sex, judging from the fact that
every other girl was superfluous when Kitty was on the scene. And she
was not blind to her own success, yet she was merciful out of the
tenderness of her naturally good heart that never inflicted suffering
wantonly; and if it happened that, owing to her irresistible
fascination, she was the means of causing pain, to her credit be it
said, that she was clever at healing the wounds she unwittingly
inflicted, which saved unhappy consequences to unfortunate victims, and
bound them to her as friends for life.

"I am so afraid of your becoming a flirt," Joyce once said
reproachfully, af