After all, Colonel Crayfield was driven to proposing in the kitchen garden. Stella was sent there, when luncheon was over, to pick more fruit for jam-making, that serious ceremony being now at its height; not even the presence of an important guest in the house could be permitted to delay its progress. Colonel Crayfield volunteered in public to help his goddaughter; Ellen's pale eyes flickered, grandmamma was coldly silent; only Augusta, who, as yet, was ignorant of his intentions, uttered conventional protests. Why should he trouble? It was so hot out of doors; Stella was well used to the little task, and required no help—would he not prefer to sit quiet with a book, or the paper? Colonel Crayfield was equally punctilious—no trouble, a pleasure.... Though, unfortunately, unversed in the business of fruit picking for jam, he would feel it a privilege to be allowed to contribute his share of assistance, and so on.

At last the pair set off, armed with huge baskets, towards the sun-blistered door let into the old brick wall of the garden.

"I will join you as soon as I can," Augusta called after them kindly.

"I hope she won't!" said Colonel Crayfield, to the malicious delight of Stella, who promptly echoed the hope. For the first time she felt reconciled to the tedious duty, for surely now was her chance to coax Colonel Crayfield into giving her at least some sort of notion as to what was to happen.

As they opened the rickety door he contrived to touch her hand gently, again as they closed it behind them; then, rather to his discomposure, she suddenly slipped her hand confidingly into his.

"Do tell me," she urged; "I know you've got some plan up your sleeve."

She found her hand tightly imprisoned. "You are sure you want to go to India?" he asked her.

"You know! I've told you—it's the dream of my life."

"As a governess, or a missionary?"

"Oh, don't be so tiresome—as anything!"

"Well," he restrained himself still.

"Go on!" she cried with impatience.

"How would you like to go to India with me?"

"With you?"

"Yes"—he dropped his basket, snatched hers from her grasp and flung it to the ground. Now he was holding both her hands. "Yes, with me, Stella—as my wife!"

Had the old red-brick walls of the garden fallen flat around her she could hardly have felt more astounded. Involuntarily she wrenched her hands free, clasped them behind her, backed away from him.

He advanced upon her. "Now, now, little girl, what is the matter? Isn't it all quite simple? You told me yourself there was no one here you could marry, didn't you? And now here is someone who wants you, who will take you to India and give you everything in the world you could wish for——"

"I'm—I'm so surprised!"

It was just what silly Ellen Carrington had said; damn it all, couldn't the child understand that she was being given the chance of her lifetime!

"Come, come—isn't it a pleasant surprise?"

She grew white, then red. "I never thought of such a thing!" she exclaimed, in agitated apology.

"Of course not, why should you? I quite understand. But it's easy enough to think of now—eh?"

Her hesitation inflamed him further; he hungered to kiss her, to hold her in his arms—the first, and as long as he lived, the last man to do so. Next moment his lips were on hers; she was enfolded, crushed to his big body, almost suffocated, and to his intense satisfaction she made no resistance....

To Stella it was like all she had heard about drowning, when a multitude of impressions and memories were said to invade the mind in a miraculously short space of time: Maud Verrall and her love adventures and engagement; the spotty youth outside the Greystones gate; young Capper the farmer; the lumber room at The Chestnuts, and her thirst for India; and oddly, above all, the words of the familiar hymn that of a sudden had exasperated her those many Sundays ago seemed to beat time to the recollections:

She was barely conscious of the present, hardly even of the determined embrace that held her fast; only the past seemed real, and it was the past that won. When he released her, flushed and breathless, she knew she had dared to choose her lot once and for all; she was in the grip of a wild excitement; she, Stella Carrington, was to be married, like Maud Verrall, and she was going to India, to India! The doorway of life was unlocked at last, presenting a wondrous vista, entrancing, irresistible.... Then, blocking the doorway, she saw Colonel Crayfield, bulky, triumphant, a masterful smile on his face.

"Well, isn't it all right?" And again he drew her to him, this time gently, protectively, and with his arm about her they sauntered among the vegetables and fruit bushes, while he held forth concerning the future, Stella hearkening as in a dream. She knew he was speaking of his position, of horses and clothes, of a piano, and a pearl necklace; but it was of India she was thinking as she hung on his arm in childlike gratitude. Was he not granting her the desire of her heart?

"You are a sort of fairy godfather!" she told him, laughing; "perhaps not exactly a fairy—more of a Santa Claus. I think I must call you Santa-Sahib."

"Call me what you like; but doesn't it spell Satan as well?"

"That will come in useful when you are disagreeable, cross with me."

"I shall never be cross with you, my jewel, my pet!"

Oh, it was all delightful, almost too good to be true.

But what about grandmamma? He said that grandmamma knew.

"So you have made it all right with her?" she exclaimed, with the kind of sensation that is engendered by some lucky escape. How clever of him! He was a wonder, her saviour, her deliverer. True, he was neither young nor "a picture," but one could not have everything, and Stella told herself she was going to be quite as happy as Maud Verrall, very likely far happier.

"Just fancy!" she sighed ecstatically. "And if I had only known what was coming when you found me in the larder! Isn't it a mercy that we both like onions? Do tell me, when did you think of your ripping plan?"

"The first moment I set eyes on you at the station," he declared untruthfully.

"Oh! Then now I know why you looked at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You did—and then under the oak tree, too! I felt there was something."

"Bright little star!" Hiding a smile, he raised her hand and kissed each pink finger-tip with deliberate enjoyment.