It was the day of the great ball of the season. Alfred Rayner had often expatiated to Hester on the delights of this festivity at Government House at which he had been present in the previous year. He now looked forward with glee to make his entrance with his beautiful wife on his arm. Judging from his gaiety of spirit, one would have thought that the painful incident on the return of the riders from St. Thomas's Mount was entirely effaced from his mind, though only two short days had actually elapsed since it had occurred. To Hester the days had brought no mitigation of her pain, although her husband seemed to take it for granted that she shared his preoccupation concerning the ball. He could not help perceiving, however, as he looked across the table this morning that she seemed pale and strained, just when he was eager she should be looking her very best.

"I'll tell you what you need, Hester—the best recipe for looking as fresh as my English rose must do to-night. You drive to the beach this afternoon. Don't go gadding with anybody, just sit in your carriage and let the sea breeze fan your cheeks, then there's no doubt who will be the belle of the ball to-night! I wish I could have gone to the beach and kept guard over you, my dear; unfortunately I have an appointment after business hours to-day. But if my wife carries the palm to-night this her 'humble slave' will be in the third heavens!"

Hester was nothing loth to fall in with her husband's suggestion. The prospect of a quiet hour within the sound of the waves was welcome to her. She felt weary and dispirited, and had thought many times of telling her husband she did not feel able to join in the festivity of the evening. The episode, which seemed to have passed all too lightly over him, had left a deep mark on her sensitive heart. Not only did she feel wounded and shamed at the exhibition her husband had made of himself, but she mourned the loss of her faithful friend. After being so wantonly insulted, never, probably, would Mark Cheveril and she meet again. Not even his chivalrous kindness could be proof against the unjust taunts levelled against him by the man she now felt ashamed to own as her husband. She suspected indeed that his attitude that morning was assumed on purpose to put a stop to the friendship, and in losing Mark, she felt sorrowfully, she had lost her only real friend—except indeed, Mrs. Fellowes. But never, even to her, could she unfold the pass to which her husband's extraordinary behaviour had brought matters. She must go on suffering in absolute silence, she decided, with a more conscious effort at resignation to her lot than she had yet made. Truly the tools were sharp, she thought, with a long-drawn sigh, recalling Mark's parable of the rough block in the making. Much indeed was being chiselled off, but as Mark had said, they must trust to the Master Sculptor.

Only yesterday there had come to Hester what she interpreted as a farewell gift from the friend she might see no more. She knew the token must be from him, though the brown book bore no evidence as to its sender. She felt sure it was none other than Mark when she read the marked poem. That metaphor of the Potter's Wheel had already become like an inspiration to her. The book lay on her knees now as she drove to the beach, and drawing it from beneath the carriage-wrap, she turned to the poem to ponder once more its deep meaning in reference to herself.

All her life she had been brought up in a religious atmosphere, though her attitude towards that side of life had been in part more traditional than personal. It was only lately since the sore need of her heart craved a refuge that she had come to find the "very present help" for herself, and now every hour of every day she was seeking it and finding it. During the last hours she had travelled far on that eventful journey. She felt that till travelling days were done, and perhaps in the "new beginning" of which Mark had spoken, she would always connect the crisis in her life with the noble words of "Rabbi Ben Ezra."

The carriage had now drawn up on the long terraced promenade which skirts the sea shore—the then favourite meeting place of Madras residents at this evening hour. On this afternoon, however, society was evidently reserving itself for the entertainment at Government House, and was conspicuous by its absence. A regimental band usually played at the Marine Villa, but the stand was unoccupied now, silence and emptiness reigned.

Hester did not regret either the music or the company. She directed her coachman to draw up at a point where she always thought the breeze seemed to blow freshest from the sea, and sat engrossed in her book, though the light was fading. She heard the footsteps of two pedestrians on the asphalt pavement, but did not raise her eyes. Presently the pair returned from their stroll, and this time one of them halted in front of the landau, saying:

"Good evening! Like us, I see you have come for a whiff of the sea breeze!"

Great was Hester's surprise when she heard the familiar voice.

"Mark," she exclaimed, and the face which had worn such a wistful expression lit up with pleasure. Once again, at all events, she was destined to exchange greetings with her friend. But she now perceived that he was not alone. On the pavement stood an elderly man, his dark searching eyes surmounted by a pair of rather fierce eyebrows, a smooth shaven face revealing a sensitive mouth and well-formed chin. The searching eyes were fixed on her with a distinct air of interest.

"My chief wishes to make your acquaintance," pursued Mark. "Mr. Worsley—Mrs. Rayner."

"We passed you when we were proceeding on our prowl, but you were so intent on your book my young friend seemed timid about disturbing you," said the Collector, with a smile and an amused glance at Mark. "But I was not to be cheated out of an opportunity of meeting Mr. Cheveril's old friend."

There was a mixture of courtesy and kindliness in his manner which proved a ready passport to Hester's heart, and also brought a joyous smile to Mark's face; for this was not, he knew well, the tone of greeting Mr. Worsley was used to give to the ladies of the station. Underneath his manner to little Mrs. Samptor there was always a veiled though kindly contempt, while Mrs. Goldring's portion was often an unmistakable scowl. But in his manner to Hester there was a winning combination of immediate belief and liking, something fatherly too which Mark had occasionally felt in his attitude to himself. Another carriage now made its appearance and drew up alongside of Hester's landau.

"I felt sure that these were your syces' liveries, my dear," called Mrs. Fellowes, not at first perceiving that Hester was engaged in conversation. Then she observed the two gentlemen, and Mark quickly went round to shake hands, claiming her as one of his earliest friends in Madras.

Meanwhile the Collector pursued his talk with Hester, saying presently:

"Now, Mrs. Rayner, take the advice of an experienced Madrassee, descend from your chariot, and have a walk in this delightful sea-breeze. No doubt you are due to-night at Government House like Cheveril and myself. We must obey orders, I suppose, and put in an appearance for a little. I hope your friend will enjoy the ball. Puranapore is a dull place for a young man, little company except a sombre old fellow like me."

"Oh, but he told me he was so happy with you, Mr. Worsley. I think it made me feel a little jealous, as I was his only friend here at first."

"That's where we stand, is it? All the more reason we should make it up, Mrs. Rayner. Nothing is more conducive to driving away evil spirits of all kinds than a walk on the sea-shore."

Mr. Worsley smilingly offered his hand to Hester to help her to alight.

"Cheveril, we're off for a stroll," he said, looking back at the young man, who still stood by the side of Mrs. Fellowes' carriage; and he now suggested that she should imitate the example of her friend. She acquiesced, and they were soon following the other pair of walkers.

"I always know from the pose of my chief's head whether he is happy with his companion or not. Unfortunately he too often shows that he is not so," said Mark.

"You seem entirely satisfied with the result in this instance, Mr. Cheveril," returned Mrs. Fellowes, with a frank smile. "But who could be otherwise? She is so dear and sweet."

"Well, the fact is there is triumph to me as well as satisfaction. I didn't exactly have a bet with Mrs. Rayner, but I prophesied that when she met Mr. Worsley she would come under his spell; while she evidently thought the reverse would happen. I feel quite easy in my mind now. I can see the spell is mutual."

"I expect Mr. Worsley is not a man who always does himself justice by any means. The Colonel sometimes deplores that he gives so much more encouragement to the Mahomedans than to the Hindus at Puranapore. The Campbells are friends of ours, so perhaps we hear most on the other side."

"Yes, that's a vexed question," replied Mark gravely. "But the Collector is getting his eyes opened to some things that were hidden from him for a time. Events are marching. You see he is so often away on tour. The town of Puranapore is but a very small corner of his dominion. His District is immense, and he takes as much interest in it as an English squire does in his acres—very much the same kind of interest too. His pride in land reclaimed and made to blossom is delightful to see. He has often made me ride miles out of the way with him to show me such a tract with its changed face. He would have made an ideal Forest Officer if he had not been Collector of the Revenue. Lately when we were camping, he pointed to a once fever-haunted jungle he had redeemed by draining the dreaded area. He smiled and said, 'I was just thinking last night as I read Tennyson's "Northern Farmer," that I could point to this bit of land made wholesome as my only good deed, like the old farmer who pinned his hope of salvation to his "stubbing of Thornaby waste!"'"

"You speak of his reading Tennyson, Mr. Cheveril? I thought one of his peculiarities was that he never read—that there wasn't a book to be picked up in his house? I've heard his bungalow at Puranapore described as the most dismal of abodes."

"Oh, yes, the Collector does read at times, and he does what is better, he thinks. He has a more original mind than most people, I assure you," argued Mark, not willing to admit the truth of the assertion concerning the absence of anything like a library from the Collector's shelves.

"Pity he doesn't hit it off with his wife, isn't it?" remarked Mrs. Fellowes, who, Mark could see, was one of those who had imbibed a prejudice against the man he had come to love. "Perhaps you didn't know he was married, Mr. Cheveril, but he is! His wife lives in Belgravia and he here. It is said he didn't even go to see her the last time he was at home, and yet they are not legally separated, and I believe, he sends her heaps of money!"

"Well, you see, I don't know the Honourable Mrs. Worsley," said Mark shortly. In one of his rare moments of self-revelation the elder man had laid bare to the younger the history of an ill-assorted marriage and its consequences, which, Mark decided, more by inference than from details, was the source of much that had warped a life, which Felix Worsley himself described as like "a blasted jungle tree"; though Mark thought he could still trace in it the noblest characteristics of the English oak.

"Well, I must say the Collector of Puranapore has a warm partisan in you, Mr. Cheveril," returned Mrs. Fellowes warmly, "and I like you for it!"

The pair in front had now turned their steps and came towards them.

"I'm reminding Mrs. Rayner that if I walk her off her feet she won't be able to dance so lightly with you to-night as I desire to see, Cheveril," said Mr. Worsley, with a smile which his Assistant had learnt to love.

On being introduced to Mrs. Fellowes he seemed to find that he had various links with her and they paired off together, leaving the two old friends in company.

"Oh, Mark, how delightful he is," exclaimed Hester, her face all aglow. "I haven't seen anybody so nice since I parted with my father!"

"Ah, then you have capitulated, just as I hoped. But I'm not going to be hard on you for your former state of siege. I knew the victory was sure, and it has come partly because he took to you at once, I could see. My chief is sometimes rather bearish, I admit. I tremble for the offences he may give at the gathering to-night. He's a grand bit of marble, Hester—to take up our simile of St. Thomas's Mount!"

"But has the chipping process begun, Mark? Though he was so nice to me I confess he talked very hopelessly, very cynically, about some things."

"Oh, yes, the process is going on! But we must not forget in that process one day is as a thousand years with the Great Sculptor," said Mark softly, as he glanced up at the dark blue vault where the great moon was already rising, silvering the vast expanse of waters.

"But, Mark," said Hester, suddenly preparing to plunge into the topic which he fain would have avoided, "how can you meet me like this—how can you ever speak to me again after what happened that morning? Oh, the shame, the misery of it," she added, her voice faltering. "And I was so anxious that poor Alfred should come under your influence! You remember I was pleading for that on our ride home, little thinking that all was going to end as it did—that things were going to happen so soon that would make a great gulf between you. Will you try to believe that really he was not himself that morning? Something at Palaveram must have upset him dreadfully or he could never have spoken so to you. Can you ever forgive him?"

Mark felt glad that Hester should treat the episode in this light and not as a proof of her husband's utter unworthiness.

"Surely we must make allowance for others when we need so much forgiveness for ourselves," said Mark, in a moved tone. "I saw your husband was much unnerved. I hardly think our morning ride could be the cause. Try to forget it, Hester! Treat it like a bad dream—we awake and it is gone."

"Oh, thank you! You don't know how your words comfort me. I thought you would never speak to me again. Now I must tell you what it was that brought me any comfort. It was that poem—'Rabbi Ben Ezra'—in the book you sent me. That it should come from you, who I feared would not look at either of us again, seemed to me the doing of an angel!"

"A very earthly messenger, I assure you," said Mark, shaking his head. "But I'm glad you came on that poem. It has been a possession to me for long."

"It will be a possession to me always," returned Hester in a moved voice. "But what am I thinking of? I must really be off home at once. Alfred may be there and wondering what keeps me," she added, with a frightened air which went to the young man's heart.

He led her at once to her carriage, and saw the lamps duly lit; then after a hurried good-bye to Mrs. Fellowes and the Collector, she was driven swiftly away.