Three days later cholera broke out on the relief works.

During the afternoon a woman had arrived with a dead, monkey-like infant in her arms and a dilapidated little family clinging to her skirts, only herself to curl up and die in the heartbreaking fashion common to the stricken native, haplessly, silently, without struggle or protest. Before dawn the demon let loose among a weakened multitude had begun to pick off victims, here in a triangle, there in a semicircle, again in a neat zigzag, as if with mathematical malice and caprice....

Flint, roused at daybreak by the fatal news, worked for hours in conjunction with the medical officer, dosing, segregating, attending to the removal of the dead, striving to stem the panic that might drive the people to scatter over the countryside, spreading the disease. Then, after a hasty breakfast, he rode off to Miss Abigail's camp with the intention of urging Miss Baker to seek some other field of activity in view of the present danger. He encountered Laban, the Bible teacher, nervous and voluble, outside the principal tent, and was informed by him that the two ladies had gone forth the previous morning to visit a small outpost in connection with the Mission some few miles distant, having arranged to remain there for the night. They had not yet returned.

"This is a very bad sickness!" added Laban. "How shall we all escape with our lives—and my grandmother dying in Cawnpur, calling, and calling for my presence!"

"Meantime," suggested Philip, left cold in regard to the grandmother, "hadn't you better go and help with the children whose parents are dying or dead? There's a good supply of tinned milk, and it's got to be served out quickly."

The teacher's flabby brown face paled to a sickly hue. He swallowed hard, and his lips moved. Philip fancied he caught the word "photograph." Probably the wretched Laban, unable to divest himself of the fear that a portion of his spirit had already gone from him with the taking of his picture, felt he was doomed unless he could flee to his home.

"Look here, old chap," went on Flint, prompted by sympathetic understanding, "aren't you a soldier of Christ, ready to fight for your own people?"

He asked the question with a certain grim amusement at his own recourse to missionary diction; but presently the amusement turned to respectful admiration as Laban shivered, hesitated, then, without further ado or explanation, marched off in the direction of the camp.

Inwardly Flint salaamed to the shambling figure of this "soldier of Christ." He said to himself: "By Jove, that's a feather in the missionary cap!"

He had turned his horse's head, when the sight of a little cloud of dust in the distance caused him to halt, and out of the dust-cloud appeared a hooded bullock cart, crawling, bumping over the rough ground at a snail's pace. He waited, wondering how the energetic Miss Baker could bear with such leisurely travel, since patience was hardly one of her gifts. The bullocks must have taken hours covering the distance. When at last the vehicle pulled up at the camp a flushed and fuming young person scrambled from beneath the hood.

"Thank goodness!" exclaimed Miss Baker, shaking the dust from her clothes and stretching her cramped limbs. "Hullo, Mr. Flint!" Her face brightened at sight of him. "What do you want?"

"Good morning, had a nice drive?" He smiled at the grimace that was her answer, and dismounted.

"I want to speak to Miss Abigail." It had occurred to him that Miss Abigail's powers of persuasion might prove more effective than his own in the matter of counselling change of air for Miss Baker, the girl being more or less under her authority. Truth to tell, he rather shrank, with masculine cowardice, from a task that he anticipated would involve something of a scene.

"Here she is, then—what's left of her after that awful journey!" There was plenty of Miss Abigail left; the stout, square figure clambered backwards from the cart, and he took comfort from the fat, kindly face and brave little eyes. He drew her aside.

"Bad news," he said; "we've got cholera in the works!"

"Ah! so it has come! I don't know which I have been dreading most, that or smallpox. Well, we must all turn to and do our best."

"But what about Miss Baker? She oughtn't to be allowed to stay——"

"Why not? She has put her hand to the plough, and surely you don't expect her to turn back?"

He felt annoyed, disconcerted. "It's all right for us," he deprecated, "but Miss Baker should go."

"Well then, you had better tell her to do so. Frankly I shan't be sorry if she takes your advice. Amateurs are more bother than they are worth in my line of work. But I can't urge her to bolt!"

"Don't you feel responsible for her safety? A girl out here alone——"

"She came of her own free will, as far as I know, and was handed over to me by the Charitable Relief Fund Committee. I didn't ask for her. But now she's here I consider she should take the rough with the smooth like the rest of us. I will leave you to settle the question."

With a nod and an exasperating smile of unsympathetic comprehension Miss Abigail stumped off to her tent.

Miss Baker approached. "What has happened?" she asked. "You look peevish. Don't cry!"

"I've been telling Miss Abigail she ought to send you away at once."

"And are you so miserable because she has refused or consented? Why should I be sent away? What have I done?"

"Cholera has started among the people," he told her bluntly, "and you must pack up and be off, unless you want to add to our anxieties!"

Could he believe his eyes? Instead of the torrent of lofty expostulation he had expected, and hoped successfully to combat, the girl simply showed him the tip of her tongue. "There!" she added defiantly after this vulgar exhibition.

"Do, for Heaven's sake, listen to reason——" he began, irately.

"Don't waste time," she interrupted. "I know what you want me to hear, but I can't wait for your words of wisdom. I must make haste to pack and run away as fast as I can!"

She darted towards Miss Abigail's tent, throwing him a glance of derisive revolt over her shoulder. He was helpless. Anyway he had but done what seemed to him his duty, and he had been given no chance of emphasising the fact that in leaving the camp she would be sparing him and Miss Abigail additional responsibility.... Yet he doubted if any argument under the sun would prevail with her now. To remain and risk death would, of course, enhance the feeling of superiority and benevolence that on her own admission she found so pleasant!

He rode back to the works determined to put her out of his mind. He had more to think of, he told himself, than a tiresome, pig-headed girl; but later in the day, when he caught sight of her with Miss Abigail and the Bible-teacher herding a flock of women and children into a new-made enclosure, his conscience murmured reproaches. At least Dorothy Baker's pluck was undeniable, even though it might be the pluck of ignorance and self-will....

That was a dreadful night. At times the hot, still air rang with the weeping and wailing of mourners, piteous cries that rose and fell; the silences that intervened seemed even worse—while the fight with death went on. Now and then it appeared as if the fatal scourge had been checked in its merciless progress; then again, as though leaping the barriers, it would break out in some quarter hitherto free. Luckily remedies held out, and more were expected in answer to urgent telegrams. By dawn further medical help had arrived, and as the sun rose, fierce and cruel, Flint felt justified in snatching a rest. He was roused from heavy sleep by a message, a message scribbled in obvious haste and agitation by Miss Baker from the Mission camp.

"Please come quickly; it's Miss Abigail."

An ominous summons! Fearing its import, he obeyed it without delay, ordered a horse to be saddled, threw on his clothes, and rode rapidly. Arrived, he found, within a sagging little sleeping tent, Miss Baker seated beside a narrow camp-bed on which, as he perceived at first glance, lay a dying woman. The once round, tanned face of the lady missionary was wet and grey, so strangely altered; the sturdy form was twisted and shrunken. A horrible odour pervaded the atmosphere, mingled with the smell of drugs and straw and canvas. At the foot of the bed a dishevelled ayah crouched terrified, weeping. On the rough, uneven drugget was scattered a confusion of clothes, a couple of tin basins, a shabby Bible, a notebook. The solitary camp table was covered with bottles and coarse crockery.

Dorothy Baker turned to Philip Flint; she was pale, trembling a little, yet wonderfully self-controlled.

"It was so sudden!" she faltered, biting her white lips. "This morning she was quite well, full of energy and plans. We had come back for some breakfast, and she was taken ill. Laban fetched the doctor. He stayed as long as he could, and she got better. He said he thought she would pull through. I did everything he told me. But now, see! I have sent for him again——"

Flint laid his finger on a cold wrist. Clearly it was a case of sudden collapse, beyond hope; even as he felt the faint, racing pulse it grew feebler, fluttered spasmodically.... He heard the girl's voice in his ear, a choking whisper: "Is she going? Is it the end?"

He nodded, and the whisper went on: "Just before you came she spoke. She said she knew, and she wanted to be buried under the tree, under the peepul tree...."

He nodded again. She poured something into a glass and held it out to him. "Try," she urged, "perhaps she could take it."

To please her he tried, though he knew it was useless. What a pitiful death scene—the cramped, untidy little tent, the coarse bedclothes, the scanty furniture; the only ornament, if so it could be called, a text printed in large black letters on a piece of cardboard, hung to a nail on the yellow tent-pole: "Thy Rod and Thy Staff They Comfort Me."

Yet Philip felt it was all ennobled by the sound faith, the unswerving purpose of the strong, simple soul whose work on earth was over. For a few moments there was silence; even the stifled, convulsive sobbing of the ayah crouched at the foot of the bed had ceased; the woman hid her face in her wrapper. Then, presently, with a long-drawn sigh, a gallant spirit passed to rest. For Ann Abigail, ardent Christian, brave worker in the cause of alien souls and bodies, no more weary hot weathers, no more disappointment, discomfort, sacrifice. And as Philip gazed down on the blunt features that already were almost beautiful in their repose he found himself picturing Miss Abigail heading a band of helpless, bewildered ghosts, leading them from the camp and the works to regions where suffering, fear and want were unknown....

He remembered Dorothy Baker, and looked round. She was still standing close beside him, silent, her eyes fixed on the dead face; now she swayed, put her hand to her throat: "I have never—I have never seen anyone die——" Then, aware of his concern for her, she added reassuringly, "I'm all right, I'm not going to faint."

"Come into the other tent; where's your hat?"

She did not seem to know. He looked about, found his own, and held it umbrella-wise over her head as he guided her quickly through the burning, midday glare to the living tent that was hardly bigger than the one they had left. She made no resistance, sat down at his bidding, and drank the brandy he gave her from his flask. Then he stood watching her anxiously as the colour came slowly back to her lips and cheeks. His mind was working swiftly. Somehow he must get the girl away; she had had a severe shock, her vitality was lowered, he dreaded the consequences....

Footsteps and voices outside drew him to the door of the tent, and for the next few hours he and the doctor were busy over such arrangements as were possible for the funeral. The work finished, Flint sent off a messenger mounted on a camel to the railway junction with a couple of telegrams. One was to the headquarters of the Mission in the nearest station, the other was to the wife of the Magistrate, whom he happened to know slightly. He had evolved a plan for the benefit of Miss Baker, and he only trusted she would fall in with it. All the time she had remained in her tent, effaced herself, for which he was grateful to her; perhaps she would be equally sensible when he told her what he had done....

By sundown a rough coffin was ready, composed of packing-cases, a grave had been dug beneath the big peepul tree, and a melancholy little procession started, headed by the bullock shigram that bore Miss Abigail on her final journey. Flint had fetched Miss Baker at the last moment, he had promised her he would do so, and they walked together behind the shigram. Laban, crying bitterly, the native doctor, one or two subordinates followed, and the dead woman's servants; behind them again came a straggling crowd of people from the works and the camp.

Flint read the burial service. Dorothy Baker stood by his side; now and then she shivered despite the heavy heat of the evening; he saw her glance furtively at the scraps of her handkerchief that hung conspicuous from the branches above their heads. He knew she must be picturing, as he was, the scene of but a few evenings back, when Miss Abigail had knelt praying among the roots of the tree.... The air was thick and sultry, perhaps Miss Abigail was right, perhaps rain was not so far off.... The setting sun threw a red glow over the land, already the fireflies danced in the branches, the leaves whispered and rustled; two or three bats flew from the foliage, skimming over the open grave and the heap of sulphur-coloured soil at the side.... Now the last words had been read, now the coffin, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into the shallow trench, the dry earth was shovelled over it by the scavenger coolies of the village, and the gathering, all but Philip Flint and the English girl and Laban, departed. At a sign from Flint the coolies collected some of the stones that lay about and piled them upon the grave.

"Oh! she would hate that!" cried the girl impulsively. "The idols, the carvings——"

"There must be some protection," Flint told her reluctantly; "you see, jackals and other animals——"

"I understand." She turned away, gazing sadly over the misty, red plain. "And we have to leave her here by herself! Oh! I can't bear it—India is horrible, horrible!"

For the first time she broke down, leaned, weeping, against the trunk of the tree that, maybe, had seen other human sacrifices offered at its foot. Flint waited for a moment; then he went to her, took her hand gently, protectively.

"Don't grieve too much," he said. "She is all right. She would have asked nothing better than to give her life for her work. We are not leaving her here, remember!"

"I wish I could think"—she paused, flung out her hands passionately. "I can't believe anything; I always wondered how she could. And here am I alive and useless, and she has gone. It seems so unfair!"

"I expect she was very tired," said Flint simply, "and is glad to rest. Come back to the camp; Laban will see that it is all finished properly, and I want to talk to you."

They started. It was now almost dark, and he set himself as they went to tell her what he had arranged—that she should take Miss Abigail's personal belongings back to the Mission headquarters.

"The things are all ready," he confessed. "I told the ayah to pack them. There were very few, just a writing-case and a little locked box and some papers and notebooks; one or two photographs, her Bible and Prayer Book. The camp things can all follow later. Of course the clothes she was wearing, and the bed and so on, have had to be burnt, that was necessary; the Mission people will understand."

At first she said nothing. He went on hurriedly: "I can drive you to the junction; there's a train——"

"You want me to go?" she asked below her breath, "to go now, to-night?"

His heart sank. Did she mean to refuse? "It's only right. She would have wished you to go, you know she would."

"But do you wish it?" She bent towards him, trying to see his face in the gathering dusk.

"Only because I know I ought to send you away."

Silence again for a space. "I telegraphed to the Magistrate's wife as well. She is a kind woman, she will take you in if you would prefer it to the Mission House, I am sure."

There was a pathetic little catch in her voice as she answered drearily: "Yes, I suppose I must go. Oh, how everything has altered, just in a few hours!"

"That's India."

"I feel so horribly alone."

"It will be different when you get into the station. I wish I could go with you all the way, but I must stick here till this epidemic is over and things are working properly. Then I go on to another district, where I hear matters are pretty bad. Goodness knows when all the trouble will end."

"I wonder if we shall ever meet again?"

"I hope so. You'll write, won't you, and let me know your plans?"

"Yes, of course. And—shall I go on writing?"

"Would you? I should like it. Sometimes I feel 'horribly alone' too."

"You aren't happy."

"No; I am more alone than you are." They had reached the camp. His trap, which he had ordered beforehand to meet them, was waiting.

"Just pack what you will want for the next day or two," he advised. "I will see that everything else is sent after you at once. You must come and have some dinner with me, and then we'll start for the junction. It's a long drive. The train goes about midnight."

She obeyed him with a touching docility. For the rest of that curious evening she might have been a child, leaning on his judgment, listening to his directions, trusting him utterly. He knew she ate the food that was set before her because he urged her to do so, accepted his brandy flask and the escort of his old bearer for the journey, got into the trap without a word when the moment came for their departure. Jacob leapt at the wheels in an agony of apprehension that he was to be left behind.

"Can't he come too?" she asked; and the panting, whimpering Jacob was hoisted on to her lap. The moon was rising as they set off, a swollen red moon whose light irradiated the veil of dust that hung over the spreading, irregular earthworks, the lines of sheds, the outlying groups of tents. Here and there a few spidery thorn trees showed black and scanty—it was as if a fire had swept the locality and was still smouldering. A hum of voices, the thin wailing of women and children, rose and hung in the hot mist....

The trap rocked over the uneven ground, now sinking into soft powdery soil, now jerking against clods of earth, hard as iron. They left the works and the camps behind them, and headed for the grand trunk road marked by an avenue of great trees in the distance; passed through a village that was silent, deserted; most of the inhabitants had sought refuge on the relief works. On the outskirts they encountered an ash-smeared figure, practically naked, with long, matted hair and upraised arms, who called after them—cursings or blessings, what matter which!

The comparatively smooth surface of the grand trunk road came as a blessed relief, and they spun along swiftly, between the rows of giant trees, avoiding sleepy carts that crawled in the middle of the highway, passing silent, plodding little bands of foot travellers. Neither of them felt inclined for conversation; the hot, still air through which they clove, the rhythmical beat of the pony's hoofs, lulled their senses; even Jacob had long since ceased to fidget and demand attention.... As in a dream they arrived at the junction that with its satellites of ugly square buildings appeared to have been dropped without purpose on to a barren plain, and found themselves in the midst of a clamouring throng of humanity; every caste seemed to be represented, from the shaven, high-featured Brahmin priest to the humblest, uncleanest outsider. A proof, so often quoted by the inexperienced observer, of the power of progress! Yet, while the "twice-born" would journey cheek by jowl with the pariah, making use of the railway for his own convenience, in reality it brought them no nearer to bridging the gulf. A few oblations, ceremonial ablutions, a liberal religious offering, and the high-caste traveller would feel cleansed, soul and body, from the evil effect of such contamination....

The interior of the station was suffocating. Philip shouldered a way for his companion through the crowd to a waiting-room reserved for "Europeans only," where they found a family of Eurasians already installed, bundles innumerable, a pack of fretful children, a litter of domestic belongings spread over the floor.

Philip backed hastily from the entrance. "This won't do," he said. "We must try the refreshment-room."

It was scarcely more inviting, but at least they had the place to themselves, save for a couple of slovenly-looking servants who were flicking crumbs and dead flies from the table laid with dirty appointments. A dingy punkah began to wave jerkily, moving the ill-smelling air. Nauseated, weary, miserable because she was about to part from the only man who had ever appealed to her heart as well as to her mind, Dorothy Baker sat staring at the pretentious electroplated epergne set in the middle of the table, coloured tissue paper ruffled about its base.

How sordid it all was! She dared not look at Philip Flint for fear she should lose her self-control; the lump in her throat was almost strangling....

To Philip her silence, her depression, merely indicated that she was pitifully tired, worn out with the trying events of the day, and no wonder, poor girl! He felt helpless, at his wits' end to know what more he could do for her.

"It won't be long now," he said in hopeful desperation, looking at his watch. "The train ought to be here in a few moments."

"In a few moments," she echoed mechanically.

Then, from outside, came the clangour of metal striking a suspended length of rail, the Indian equivalent of the station bell, announcing the train's arrival.

"Here she is!" Philip rose, half relieved, half reluctant. They plunged into the yelling throng on the platform. Flint's old bearer spread the Miss-sahib's bedding on an empty seat in the ladies' compartment that had only one other occupant, a mummy-like form, fast asleep.

"Now you're all right." Philip looked into the carriage. "You'd better get in and settle yourself for the night."

She held out her hand. "Please don't wait," she said formally, avoiding his gaze. "Good-byes are so horrid, and they say it's unlucky to see the last of a traveller!"

"Unlucky for me to see the last of you. I shall miss you."

"Oh, no, you won't," she said sharply. "Good-bye, and very many thanks for all your kindness."

She got into the train. Through the window he saw her busying herself with her bag. She did not even look up as the train passed out of the station. Chilled and puzzled he turned away. What an odd girl! Her curious behaviour, her grey eyes and freckled eager face filled his thoughts as he drove back to his camp in the hot moonlight.