The veil that shrouded her aunt's secret being now withdrawn, by a strange paradox a heavy cloud of darkness descended upon Sophy; she seemed to have suddenly passed from a warm glow of sunlight into a cold shadow-land of mystery and fear. Before Herr Krauss and the outer world she still carried a buoyant standard of false high spirits. Her rippling laughter and cheerful repartees were to be heard where young people were assembled at the Gymkhana, or elsewhere; but this Sophy wore another aspect when she sat on duty in her aunt's bedroom, whiling away restlessness and want of sleep with reading and talk, and even cards. Many a time the dawn was breaking before she was at liberty to go to bed. No wonder that she looked pale and fagged—no wonder people gazed at her keenly and inquired about her health. It is not easy even for a girl of two-and-twenty thus to burn the candle at both ends! Riding, dancing, and playing tennis in the daytime, and then sitting up half the night, with a restless and fretful patient. It was this Sophy who conferred so long and earnestly with Lily ayah, respecting methods to be adopted, pretences effected, infinitesimal doses exchanged for the usual amount, and the patient craftily beguiled—but it is almost impossible to beguile a person who is suffering from the fierce craving for a drug; and the want of her normal supply soon began to make itself apparent in Mrs. Krauss, and there were not a few exhausting scenes.

Sophy found it necessary to take her ayah Moti into her confidence—a humiliating obligation (as it happened, Moti had always been in the secret), and among the three it was arranged that the mistress of the house was to be watched and never left alone. Occasionally Mrs. Krauss had disputes and dreadful altercations with Lily; but by degrees she appeared to acquiesce; her strength was unequal to a prolonged struggle, and the victim of cocaine would throw herself down on her bed and moan like some dying animal. These moans pierced the heart of her unhappy niece.

Herr Krauss was seldom at home, but, when in residence, his personality obtruded itself in all directions, and it was surprising to Sophy that he never noticed any cause for anxiety in his wife's appearance, she looked so ill and emaciated; it was true that he was preoccupied with important affairs, and that he only saw her of an evening when the lights were shaded. She still appeared in the afternoon and at dinner, particularly if they were alone. When she received visitors, especially her German neighbours, Sophy felt exceedingly uncomfortable. It seemed to her—although this might be imagination—that the ladies exchanged coughs and significant glances, and noticed the trembling hand with which Mrs. Krauss helped herself to cake, her sudden lapses into silence, her abrupt interruptions and cavernous yawns. For years Mrs. Krauss had been at home once a week to her German neighbours. They are a gregarious nation, and the "Kaffee-Gesellschaft"—an afternoon affair, beginning at four o'clock—is greatly beloved by German women. Here they enjoy strong coffee, chocolate flavoured with vanilla and whipped cream, and every description of rich cake. These coffee parties are generally an orgy of scandal, and that at "Heidelberg" was no exception. Whether Mrs. Krauss was well or ill, the guests never failed to arrive. It was a standing institution and enjoyed their approval and countenance.

One bright hope upheld Sophy; Herr Krauss now talked of returning home—that is, to Germany.

"Business is booming, my dear old lady; I shall close down, and we will all depart. You have been in Burma too long, but in six months we shall be aboard the mail boat and watch the gold Pagoda gradually sinking out of sight. I shall take a handsome place in the neighbourhood of Frankfort, and entertain all my good friends. Then we will make music, and eat, drink, and be merry."

His talk was invariably in this hopeful strain; he never exhibited the least anxiety with regard to his wife's illness; it had become her normal condition, and he spoke of it as "that confounded neuralgia" and cursed the Burmese climate.

Sophy listened and marvelled, and yet she herself had been equally dense. Neuralgia covers various infirmities, just as the cloak of charity covers a multitude of sins. She had become excessively sensitive and suspicious, a sort of domestic detective—a post that was by no means to her taste. She had thought long and earnestly over the situation, and from her reflections emerged the solid word "Duty." It was her duty to fight for her aunt, to contend against the demon drug—and fight she did. Oh, if she could only maintain the struggle until her charge was en route home, what a victory!

Mrs. Krauss never alluded to her illness—a remarkable contrast to many invalids; but one afternoon, as Sophy sat beside her in the dimly-lit lounge, she suddenly broke an unusually long silence:

"Life is very difficult, Sophy, my dear; death is easy, and I shall soon know all about it."

"Oh, Aunt Flo, why do you say this?"

"Because, before long, I shall die. Karl is full of great plans and talks of our wonderful future. I see no future for myself in Europe; I shall remain behind when you and he go down the Irrawaddy—but I am not afraid. On the contrary, I look forward."

"As for death, I hope you are mistaken, Aunt Flora, but I confess that yours is a most enviable frame of mind."

"It is, dear, I suppose, from living so long in the East, I have imbibed some of the people's ideas. In all the world these Burmans cannot be matched for their radiant cheerfulness—they make the best of the present, and, as they say, 'merely die to live again.' There is not one of them who does not believe in and speak of his past life, and look forward to a future existence; this is why they wear such an air of happiness and contentment."

"And do you really believe there is anything in this comfortable faith,
Aunt Flora?"

"Yes, my dear, I have a sincere confidence that my soul, not this miserable wicked body, will live again, and be given an opportunity of being better in another world."

"Well, at any rate that is a consoling creed. For my own part, I know little about Buddhism, but I can see that the Burmans are a religious people, much given to worship and offerings, and with a good deal of gaiety in their ceremonies; but, Aunt Flora, although they are delightfully picturesque, and so merry and cheerful, as a mass they are terribly pleasure-loving and lazy; no Burman will work if he can help it; even the women are difficult to get hold of. Mrs. Blake, who is in the District, told me that her ayah, who never exerted herself, had put in for a year's holiday and rest."

"But what had that to do with religion, my dear?"

"Just this—that they are as a race too indolant and easy-going to study any big question, or to take the trouble to think for themselves."

"But what about the hundreds and thousands of holy priests who spend all their lives in profound meditation? What do you say to that? Come now."

"I say that they live a life of incorrigible idleness; they have no need to maintain themselves; they just eat, and sit, and muse; everything is supplied to them, including their yellow robe and betel nut. Their religion is selfish."

"Well, well, I'm too stupid to argue, my dear child, my brain is like cotton wool; but I have my hopes, my sure hopes. Karl is different. He is cultured, he reads Marx and Hegel, and says we are like cabbages and have no future; when we go it is as a candle that is blown out. Oh, here are visitors! What a bore! I shall not appear! Run and tell the bearer."

"Oh, but these are your own special old friends, Mrs. Vansittart and Mrs. Dowler. Do let them come in; they will amuse you—poor dears, you know they always call after dark."

These visitors, friends of former days, were social derelicts, who had, so to speak, "gone ashore" in Rangoon. One was chained to Burma by dire poverty and a drunken husband; the other, who had been a wealthy woman of considerable local importance, was now a childless widow, supporting herself with difficulty by means of a second-rate boarding-house. To these old friends, and in many other cases, Mrs. Krauss had proved a generous and tactful helper. Both visitors were wearing costumes which had been worn and admired at "Heidelberg" and were still fairly presentable.

After a stay of an hour the ladies withdrew, leaving their hostess well entertained but completely exhausted. Then they hastily sought out Sophy in order to express to her, in private, their horror at the terrible change in her aunt.

"Her spirit is there all right," said Mrs. Dowler (who had a hundred-rupee note in her glove), "but oh, my dear Miss Leigh, how she's wasted! I felt like crying all the time I was sitting with her."

"Yes, she should see a doctor, and that this very day," added Mrs.
Vansittart.

"Oh, but you know Aunt Flora," protested Sophy; "she cannot bear doctors, and Lily, her ayah, knows pretty well what to do."

"Tell me, Miss Leigh, what is the real truth about your aunt's illness?" said Mrs. Dowler, suddenly dropping her voice to a mysterious whisper. "It has been so long and so tedious—off and on for at least three years. She has been worse the last four months, and indeed ever since you went up to May Myo. It is not a malignant growth, please God?"

"Oh, no, nothing of that sort; just weakness and this relaxing climate."

"She should have returned home years ago," said Mrs. Vansittart; "and when she does go—oh, it will be a bad day and a sad day for me and many others, not to speak of all the animals she has befriended. She is wonderfully sympathetic to dumb creatures and indeed to everybody."

"That's true," echoed her companion, "no one knows of your aunt's good deeds and charities, not even her own servants, and that is saying everything. Her hand has raised many an unfortunate out of the dust."

Thus whispering, advising and hoping and bemoaning, the two ladies were conducted by Sophy to their jointly-hired ticka gharry, and were presently rattled away.

Sophy, too, had her own particular visitors, Mabel Pomeroy, Mrs. Gregory and Fuchsia—Fuchsia, almost daily. To her it seemed that Sophy's confidences were frozen; she rarely mentioned her aunt, and gave evasive answers to her friend's probing inquiries. At last the brave American spoke out:

"You are frightfully changed, my Sophy girl—changed in a month. You have become so dull and absent-minded, and have lost all your pretty colour. Of course, I know the reason, but you can do no good—no, not a scrap. You had much better have gone home when you discovered the secret—you are as thin as a walking-stick, and look as if you sat up all night and never went to bed."

"Well, even if I did and, mind you, I'm not saying that I do, it is no worse for my health than dancing all night, is it? I'm very fond of Aunt Flora, and I'd do more than that for her."

"She has added years to your life; the gay flitting-about Sophy, with her pretty kittenish ways and harmless claws, has been thrust in a sack—and drowned!"

"Well, I do think you might have given her Christian burial," protested
Sophy with a laugh.

"Christian burial brings me to the Marriage Service. What do you think—that great stupid Irishman, has at last blundered out a proposal, and in me," rising and making a curtsey, "you behold the future Mrs. Patrick FitzGerald."

"Oh, Fuchsia!" jumping up to embrace her, "I do congratulate you, and I do hope you will be very happy."

"Yes, I believe we shall. I have money and he——" she hesitated, and
Sophy added:

"Has a warm, kind heart."

"Oh, well, I was about to say looks, but I'll throw in the heart as well! Next week I am going up to Calcutta to see about the trousseau and business. I'm real sorry to be the means of smashing up the Chummery Quartette."

"And when does the blow fall?"

"Not for some time; Patsy has asked for a long day."

"Fuchsia!"

"Well, no, it's not that; but he's obliged to finish some inspections. He really is fond of me—I dare say he's not as fond of me as Shafto is of someone! But his is a more serious, rigid character. If someone would smile, he would melt like a shovelful of snow on a coal fire!"

"My dear Fuchsia, do give your imagination a rest."

"Maybe you are right, and my tongue, too. I've only just one thing more to say," she paused and walked into the veranda in silence.

In silence Sophy followed her down to the car and, as she tucked in the knee-sheet, she raised her eyes and asked:

"What is this wonderful last word?"

"That I think 'Sophy Shafto' would be a nice easy name to say."

In another second Fuchsia's car had panted away and nothing remained of her visit but a cloud of red dust.