The Eastern sky was still dim silvery grey when Mark Cheveril dismounted from his fine chestnut cob in front of the Rayner's verandah. Handing his horse to the syce, he turned to the other, a beautiful black Arab which he had secured for Hester, and whose girths and bridles he began carefully to inspect for the second time.

Presently Hester appeared on the verandah steps with a smiling face, wearing her riding habit for the first time since she left Worcestershire. Greeting Mark with a joyous mien, she renewed her thanks for the pleasure in prospect, sprang lightly to her saddle, and the cavalcade started; their respective syces following on foot, brandishing their long brush-like switches used to protect the horses from flies when a halt was made.

The riders trotted slowly along the wide Mount Road where at this early hour there was little traffic, only a few natives stepping about. Crossing the Adyar by the noble Marmalong Bridge, residences and their spreading compounds were soon left behind. Their route skirted the broad, winding reaches of the river, its banks fringed by peepul and casuarina trees, and here and there topes of cocoanut palms raised their graceful heads. The air was still cool and the early morning scents fragrant. Even the fumes of burnt charcoal curling upwards from the Thousand Lights Bazaar were pleasing to the riders, recalling the odour of furze fires on home moorlands.

Happy as were these two old friends to be together in such pleasant circumstances, their talk was as yet limited to spasmodic comments on the sights and sounds new to both. Mark was delighted to note the bright healthful glow on Hester's cheek, and resolved that each of the remaining mornings of his visit to Madras should be devoted to a morning ride together. He felt confident that her husband would approve when he saw how well-trained and reliable the Arab proved, and heard how greatly Hester was captivated by its paces.

They had now reached the ancient historical spot which was to be the goal of their morning's expedition. To eyes used to hills of home, St. Thomas's Mount seemed a very low eminence, though from the flat plain stretching all round it appeared to stand out like a unique personality. Possibly it was this feature which had caused it, centuries ago, to be singled out by devout pilgrims as a shrine. Fact and fiction had woven many legends round its steep grassy slopes, the most outstanding being the alleged visit of the Apostle whose name it bore. The Portuguese, the earliest European adventurers in the East, had established a mission there. Their ancient chapel which crowns the summit dates four centuries back. Instead of the zig-zag path which one expects in hill-climbing, the summit of the Mount is reached by a long, gradual ascent of granite steps which sparkled in the sun as if bestrewn by gems, and called forth the admiration of the riders as they halted at the base of the hill.

There, by Mark's arrangement, fresh syces had been posted from the stables for the return ride. They squatted on the sunny steps, their lips red with chewing betel-nut. They jumped up with salaams to take over charge of the hot steeds and to rub them down, while Mark, with liberal backsheesh, dispatched the returning pair of runners for, doubtless, a very leisurely progress townwards.

Hester had already scaled some of the steps of the shining stair when Mark joined her.

"Here we are, Hester, another pair of pilgrims treading the steps that have been climbed for centuries by feet often weary enough, no doubt, not to speak of hearts that ached!"

"Yes, it feels good to picture it—gives one a feeling of brotherhood, doesn't it? I wonder if the pilgrims ever crawled on their knees up those many steps as they do on the Santa Scala in Rome," said Hester, recalling the sight she had seen last Easter when she went for her first visit to Italy with her father.

As she lightly trod on, her thoughts lingered over Mark's suggestion, till she felt as if she too were one of the long procession of care-encumbered men and women who had come—some with true faith and zeal—to seek the true helper in the little chapel with its sacred symbols, which was once no doubt like an oasis in the desert of surrounding heathenism. Its dedication to the Expectation of the Blessed Virgin could still be traced in rude, half-effaced letters over the doorway. The little building was very primitive both within and without. Underneath its rough stone pavement lay many dead.

Presently the visitors came to the most interesting relic within the building—a grey stone slab finely carved, a scroll running round it on which there was a curious inscription, and in the centre a beautiful Persian cross with a dove brooding over it.

"That slab must have proved a bigger effort for some old-time Christian than one of our finest monuments to the modern sculptor," said Mark, after a close inspection of the carving. "The man who carved it must have been a genius. Think of the rough tools he had, and the absence probably of all suggestion from without!"

"Yes, isn't it rather symbolic too," answered Hester with a sigh. "Don't each of us have to carve our own crosses with rough tools till sometimes our fingers bleed, and our hearts too?"

"Wouldn't it be a more comforting metaphor to say that the Master Sculptor does that for us—chip by chip—till the work stands out a thing of beauty like that old cross?"

"But the process hurts, Mark! Shall we never be finished? Will our chipping go on to the very end?" said Hester, with a sudden ring of pain in her voice.

"Yes, I think it must go on till our new beginning," returned Mark quietly. "Then we shall find—and what's better, the Great Maker will find—that no touch of His hand has been in vain, that every blow with the mallet was needed, every scrape with the sharp tool," he added, in a pitying voice, for he had detected that Hester's questioning cry had been wrung from an aching heart.

"Thank you, Mark," she murmured, after a moment's silence. "I shan't forget your parable next time the mallet or the piercing tool tries to improve me, and shall recall this grey stone—so finished, so perfect. Surely loving hands fashioned it, as you say, or it would not have withstood the ravages of centuries to tell its tale to us on this bright morning."

As the two friends wandered on among the grey relics, "praising the chapel sweet with its little porch and its rustic door," Mark was reminded of a description in a well-read page of his favourite poet. In some of its aspects, it so truly described this morning which he was spending with Hester, that he resolved to bring the brown volume in his pocket the next time they rode together and read to her the lovely description of the old chapel and all that followed.

Yes, that "screen" though slight was "sure"! He would try to prove loyal in all things to this girl, who was evidently finding life very different from the flower-strewn path she had looked forward to when that bright letter reached him in the German Gasthaus, telling him of her engagement. He was glad to think it was still given him to cherish her as a friend. "Friends—lovers that might have been," he murmured. Then, in spite of himself, as they walked silently down the steps together, more of the poet's words vibrated in his heart——

Though Hester did not clothe her thoughts in Browning's pathetic words, they followed much the same trend of feeling. How magnetic was the influence of this high-souled companion, who seemed to bring out of the treasure-house of his mind deep things, new and old. How was it that this friend of Charlie's never seemed so magnetic in the days when they had ridden together in green byways at home? Why was it reserved for her only to find his many-sided value and charm when she was the wife of Alfred Rayner? Ah, how different was the daily companionship which was her portion now, strewn as it was with pin-pricks that hurt, even thorns that bled! Some of these she could only cease to feel, she thought with burning cheek, if she could descend from high ideals, ignore moral standards, and sink to the level of base and sordid thoughts and actions. But Alfred must be helped to better things, she resolved with fresh hope and courage, drawn from this happy morning. She must be more patient, more inventive in throwing him in the way of every good influence, and in this, who could help her better than the comrade who now rode by her side?

She reined her horse to a walk and turned to him, saying in a pleading voice:

"Mark, I have a favour to ask of you! Will you see as much of my husband as you can? Will you try to win his confidence and be his friend as I know you are mine? We have old links, of course, which makes friendship easy, but I do feel that Alfred needs a friend like you. He has somehow contracted such shallow aims; his ambitions often seem to me so poor, though I do try to be sympathetic. He is naturally secretive, you know, but I'm sure he isn't happy just now, though he does not open his mind to me. I fear his restlessness makes him extravagant. From some chance words he dropped lately it is evident that we have been spending too much money. As a new-comer, I haven't been able to give him the help he needed. It might have been different if we had come together to face the difficulties and temptations of the new country," wound up Hester with a sigh, some of her fears and perplexities coming sharply into relief.

"I believe you are right," returned Mark, glad to ignore her pitiful request, responding only to the last remark, "though you know the general theory is that the man should come first and prospect."

"Well, in your case I believe it will work all right. Your garnered experience will prove a mine of wisdom to your bride when you bring her to these shores. I'm longing to behold that 'not impossible she,' Mark! When will she arrive?" she asked smilingly, glancing at her companion.

Mark Cheveril did not return her glance, but reflectively stroked his horse's neck. After a moment's silence, he looked at her, and said slowly:

"There is not 'a possible she' for me, Hester."

"Oh, but she's waiting for you now in some English home, though you don't know it! I feel sure you will not choose foolishly, Mark, and I shall be able to give my heart's love to your wife when she comes. You'll tell her you have a friend who will insist on being admitted to her friendship."

To this Mark made no reply except to shake his head. They were now well on their homeward way, and had been riding slowly side by side as they talked.

Several vehicles and many native pedestrians had passed them, the highway between St. Thomas's Mount and Madras being also the road to Palaveram and a busy thoroughfare. A dust-begrimed bandy sweeping by did not attract the attention of the riders, for it was the facsimile of many which had already passed and repassed. But it was otherwise with the solitary occupant of the shabby vehicle. The riders had caught his eye while they were still in advance of his carriage. He glanced with keen interest at the handsome pair and their fine horses.

"One of the artillery officers and his wife from the Mount, no doubt," he muttered.

Great, therefore, was Alfred Rayner's surprise in coming to closer quarters, to recognise in the elegant horsewoman, his own wife, and in the supposed officer, Mark Cheveril. Hot indignation soon mastered his surprise. His first impulse was to alight there and then, and confront the couple. But how could he, with becoming dignity, he reflected bitterly, step out of a shabby country-bandy, travel-stained and haggard after a late night at the Palaveram mess?

The sad offices for poor young Hyde would not have detained Mr. Rayner beyond the afternoon of Christmas Day, but he had been prevailed upon to remain and share the festivities of the mess, after which there had been an adjournment to the card-table. It was in the same dawn on which the riders had started for St. Thomas's Mount that he had risen from his night's play, a considerably poorer man than when he sat down. On the previous day, he had driven out in the carriage of one of the officers who had made an appointment to meet him at the Club, but for his return journey he had arranged nothing, and could only commandeer a country vehicle.

The fact of his humble equipage, and even more the consciousness of his haggard, ill-slept appearance, decided him to abstain from showing himself in the tell-tale morning light. Lying well back in the carriage, he covered his face with his sun-topee. He perceived with chagrin, however, that he might have spared his precautions, so engrossed were the riders in their own talk that they did not even turn their eyes towards the humble bandy.

"So this is the game of my most virtuous wife! Why, she's no better than Leila Baltus would have been under similar circumstances! No sooner do I leave her to her own devices for a single afternoon than she gallops off with a cavalier! Where do I come in, I wonder," Mr. Rayner muttered with a bitter snarl. "No doubt she'll say he's an old friend and all that, but I'll not listen to any of her excuses—nor yours either, Mister Mark. You can find a lady for yourself. You'll not steal my property! By Jove, it would be a good joke to offer him the dark beauty, Leila Baltus, since they are of the same caste! But one thing I can do—and I'll manage it if they don't quicken their pace. I'll hurry on and give them a nasty surprise at the other end—that's to say if they condescend to return to my house. Good, I know a short cut!"

He was now a little in advance of the riders and considered it safe to shout from the window, directing the driver to the shortest route.

"Look here, bandy-wallah, I'll give you double fare if you race me to Clive's Road in double quick time!"

The horse was a rough powerful animal, and by dint of frequent applications of the whip, "the fare" was landed at his destination some minutes before the arrival of the riders.

"I do believe Alfred's back from Palaveram already!" exclaimed Hester, as they turned into the compound in Clive's Road. "That must be his hired carriage. What a pity he didn't send for his own comfortable office-bandy instead of that wretched thing!" she added, glancing at the humble vehicle which the bandy-wallah was recklessly guiding on to the turf skirting the avenue to avoid coming into contact with the riders, though there was ample room for both.

"He must have come at a great pace," observed Mark, glancing at the foam-flecked horse. "That horse looks thoroughly pumped out!"

"Oh, poor Alfred, he's always in such a hurry to get back to his writing-table! You'll come and have breakfast with us, Mark? Of course, you must! You will help me to recount everything we've seen. You really owe Alfred a visit since you wouldn't come to our party. He'll be delighted," Hester was adding, while Mark helped her to dismount.

"Speak for yourself, madam," said the master of the house, suddenly emerging from behind one of the green blinds of the verandah, with an angry scowl on his face. "I decline to invite your cavalier to my house!"

Hester flushed, while her companion looked pale and startled. Was this to be the sequel to his harmless effort for Hester's enjoyment?

"Alfred, what do you mean," stammered Hester in dismay, gazing at her husband. His angry frown was intensified by his unkempt appearance, for he had not had time to visit his room.

"Mean!" he repeated. "Well, this time I mean exactly what I say! This house happens to be mine, and I shan't invite a man to breakfast who has stolen such a dirty march on me. Be off with you!"

"I fail to understand your words or your attitude, Mr. Rayner," returned Mark, looking sternly at the haggard face.

"You do? Then I'll enlighten you! What right had you in my absence to drag my wife out on horseback, when you and she know well that I entirely disapprove of such an exercise for a lady? You have insulted me! You have tampered with my reputation, I tell you." His voice rose almost to a scream as he continued: "I'll be the laughing stock of Madras—all those Artillery officers at the Mount—I expect it's there you've been! I caught sight of you on the road. Ha, you didn't think the injured husband was dogging your steps, did you? I'm only thankful you didn't come on to Palaveram and disgrace me there, Hester, but it's bad enough as it is."

"Alfred, you are not yourself," said Hester, distressfully, going up to her husband and putting her hands on his shoulders. "You don't look well! I don't think he knows what he's saying, Mark. You must excuse him," she added, turning beseeching eyes on her friend.

"If I'm not well it's you that have bowled me over. Oh, my goodness, what a pass things have come to," laughed Mr. Rayner hysterically, throwing himself down on a chair, and covering his ghastly face with his hands, he began to whimper.

"I'd better go," whispered Mark, taking Hester's trembling hand in his. "Forgive me for the trouble I have caused you."

"There's nothing to forgive—all the other way. Alfred will see that when he is well again," said Hester, glancing at her husband's cowering figure.

Mark looked at him and then at his wife with a look of ineffable sorrow and pain, then he strode quickly down the broad flight of the verandah steps, mounted his horse and rode away, the syce leading the beautiful Arab which had carried its rider to such pleasant pastures that morning.

Hardly had the sound of the horse's hoofs died away when Mr. Rayner removed his long thin fingers from his face and stole a timid glance at his wife, who stood motionless, her back turned towards him as she gazed out after the retreating rider.

"Now look here, Hester," he said, clearing his throat. "You've played me a shabby trick and no mistake, but I'm not vindictive. My maxim is, you know, to forgive and forget! I'm not sorry I got my teeth into Cheveril, but I quite see now how the whole thing happened. He asked you to ride with him and you did—that's all! Come, let's kiss and be friends!"

He seized one of Hester's hands as she was moving away and raised it to his lips, but for once his swift repentance was wholly repellent to her. She quickly perceived that he was anxious to act a part, that his calmness was only feigned, that he still nursed a bitter grudge against Mark. She could see it in his eyes, in the sinister air with which he listened to her brief restrained narration of the simple circumstances which had led to this morning's expedition.

"All is right between us, Hester! I accept your apologies," he said patronisingly, as he rose briskly from his chair and hurried to his morning bath.

When they met at breakfast it was Hester who was silent, and looked jaded and stricken, while her husband seemed eager in his efforts to be specially polite and agreeable.