On the same day as Alfred Rayner made his call on Truelove Brothers, Mrs. Fellowes, with Hester seated by her side, was driving in her little victoria towards Vepery. They had made a slight dÉtour by the lines of the Native Infantry, which was some distance from the residential quarter, and had now left behind the quiet corner with the officers' bungalows and reached the First Line Beach.

"I always like this bit," remarked Mrs. Fellowes. "Somehow it reminds me of one of the quays of Newcastle where I used to visit a dear friend when I was a girl. I suppose all busy seaport places have a family likeness. This suggests to me one of the vanished haunts of my girlhood, and has always made this First Line Beach pleasant to me."

Hester led her friend to share with her the pleasant reminiscences of the past, and their talk flowed on till the sight of the polo match in progress on the green island proved a distraction. The spectacle was being watched by crowds of spectators from the well-filled grand stand, and at the palings the natives clustered, scanning the feats of the agile riders with shrill delight.

The ladies in the victoria did not halt long in the neighbourhood of the island. Their destination was further inland, to the crowded quarter of Vepery.

"When I told the Colonel that you and I were going to make an impromptu call on Mr. Morpeth, he said it was rather unfair," said Mrs. Fellowes. "That, being a bachelor, we should have given him warning."

"Mr. Morpeth looks so calm and detached—almost like a fakir, I don't think anything could take him by surprise," returned Hester with a smile. "Anyhow I'm going to make my visit at last. I have long wanted to see Mr. Morpeth at home, and you know he did invite us to come any afternoon. I don't think he'll mind our going without warning. You see, we never have any time left the day we are at the Girls' Club."

"I'm sure he won't mind," agreed Mrs. Fellowes. "It's only Joe's red-tape fussiness. I once took Mrs. Campbell of Puranapore to call on him when she was staying with us, and his reception of us was charming. But I really don't think there is anything of the fakir in Mr. Morpeth. It always strikes me what a delightful family man he would have made, but instead he has opened his heart to his poor despised race and lives for them. But I've been thinking he has been looking more lonely and sad lately. He has a sorrowful preoccupied air he didn't have when we first knew him. Ah, here we are at Freyville!"

"What a neat, home-like gate!" exclaimed Hester. "I haven't seen anything so tidy since I left Pinkthorpe. How carefully tended his garden looks! How can he manage it? Our compound at Clive's Road was looking quite brown and withered even before I left it."

She looked round with admiration on the well-kept borders, carefully trimmed shrubs and hedges, and the well-watered flowers.

"It's all of a piece—outside and in," said Mrs. Fellowes. "The fact is, my dear, we are too much birds of passage to do justice to our homes here. They are merely camps to us, but to these sons of the soil they are real homes; and that's what Mr. Morpeth wants to make them for his poorer brethren of the Eurasian community, who are too often contented to crowd together in the most miserable sheds. Then Mr. Morpeth gets much better service than we can. His staff is not scattered to the winds every few years like ours. The residents are able to have their retainers growing grey in their service, and they become as perfect as the servants of the best, and fast dying out type, at home. Here comes one of these now! Well, Mootoo, is your master at home?"

"He is, ma'am, and very pleased will he be to see you," said the man, showing his white teeth as he salaamed. One could see from under the edge of his artistically-folded turban, a suspicion of grey hair. His snow white tunic fell in graceful folds about his tall figure as he noiselessly led the way to introduce the visitors.

"This hall is my envy," said Mrs. Fellowes. "It is all paved in real marble. Some of those older Madras houses are so. I do love those black and white chequers. What a poor substitute our rattan matting is, or even when the chequers are copied in chunam."

As they lingered to admire some of the massive hand-made furnishings of the hall they heard the sound of voices.

"Oh, what a pity, he has company to-day! I should have preferred a nice talk with him all by ourselves," whispered Mrs. Fellowes.

"Only one company, Missus," said Mootoo, smiling, having overheard her remark as he prepared to announce them.

Mr. Morpeth, of whom they first caught sight, was bending forward in his easy-chair with an air of interest listening to the conversation of his visitor, Mark Cheveril.

"Ah, good! A meeting of friends!" exclaimed the old man in a gleeful tone. "This is what Mootoo would call a lucky day for me!"

"For me too," said Mark, as he shook hands with the ladies, a happy light coming into his frank eyes. "And it follows on a disappointment, too. I've just been to Clive's Road on my way from the station to find its mistress absent."

"Now, Mr. Cheveril," broke in Mrs. Fellowes, "if you had only had the intuition to drive on to Royapooram you would have found the absent bird there."

"I did think of it, for the boy volunteered the information that Mr. Rayner was in Calcutta and 'Missus done gone to Royapooram,'" returned Mark. He glanced now at Hester with keen eyes, and was satisfied to note that she was looking better and happier than when he had last seen her.

"But if he had made that round, Mrs. Fellowes, where should I have come in?" asked Mr. Morpeth. "The fact is I look upon him as my peculiar property for the day, seeing I lured him all the way from Puranapore to open our new Reading-room for our young men. Wasn't that a good move, Mrs. Fellowes?"

"Excellent—I am glad! And if I didn't know that you eschewed females on these occasions, I should suggest that we should come to hear Mr. Cheveril's speech, shouldn't you, Hester?"

"Indeed I should! But mayn't we, Mr. Morpeth?" asked Hester, her winning smile evoking a return one from the old man. "You are master of ceremonies, are you not?"

"It wouldn't do, believe me," replied Mr. Morpeth, shaking his head. "Our masculine efforts would have no chance. The lads would be too much fascinated by the unwonted presence of English ladies."

"Singular number, please, Mr. Morpeth," said Mrs. Fellowes promptly. "I don't think an old body like me would distract them. But I suppose he knows best, Hester, we must give in. He is very impartial, you see, he won't come to our Girls' Friendly. We must accept the scruples of an expert."

Mootoo was now bringing in tea, which was daintily served on a richly carved old silver tray. The cups and saucers being of old Chelsea china, while the lovely Cutch work silver service belonged to the more artistic period of that style.

"Every time I come here I ask the same question like a regular Mrs. Gamp," laughed Mrs. Fellowes. "Where do you get this delicious blend of tea? It's the most refreshing cup I ever get anywhere," and she sipped the fragrant beverage from the delicate Chelsea cup. "And those scones, aren't they perfect, Mr. Cheveril? Never did I taste their like except in the Highlands of Scotland!"

Mootoo, who was serving, showed his keen gratification by a quiver of his eyelids, these scones being his special triumph, for Mootoo could cook excellently as well as do "butler" work, and with juggler-like rapidity had turned out the scones and cakes which Mrs. Fellowes declared would bring down reproaches upon her from her husband when he observed she had no appetite left for dinner.

Tea being over, the older lady suggested that their host should allow them to see some of the interesting things with which his house abounded, and declared she would lead the prowl. Mark had already made the acquaintance of some of these treasures.

"I was just saying to Mr. Morpeth," he remarked, "that in this Indian house he had carried out the chief function of an old country mansion at home—that of being the receptacle for storing things one cannot carry about with one in a roving life."

"Yes, that's what the Colonel's always lamenting," broke in Mrs. Fellowes. "There can be no relic-gathering in the Anglo-Indian's lot. And after all, these possessions are the making of a family—collections of old letters, heirloom portraits, mementos of persons and events—why, one can't keep anything of the kind in India! I once had a lock of Prince Charlie's yellow hair—purported to be so, anyhow—among my treasures. The poochees ate it in one week! No, all that sacred storing of precious things is denied to us poor wanderers over the great restless ocean," wound up Mrs. Fellowes sadly.

The delightful shelves of books seemed to be calling Hester's attention, and Mark Cheveril was in his element introducing her to some of his old favourites of which she had only heard from him. Presently Mr. Morpeth was called to the verandah to see two young men who had come in to consult him about some final arrangements for the coming meeting, and Mrs. Fellowes went to converse with the parrot, who always claimed her attention on her visits to Freyville.

Mark and Hester, continuing their explorations, came upon a shelf among the rows of books which seemed to be given up to miniatures and daguerrotypes. One of these was the portrait of a young man with a rarely beautiful face which caught Hester's eye.

"I feel sure this is a portrait of Mr. Morpeth when he was young," she remarked, after scanning it.

"If so he has sadly changed," returned Mark, as he looked at the young spirited face with bright, dauntless-looking eyes, and compared them with the sad, meditative grey orbs into which he had been looking before the ladies joined them.

"And this, I suppose, must be his sister! She looks too young for his mother. Pretty face, isn't it?" said Hester, handing Mark another old daguerrotype in its leathern case.

"Superficially pretty, perhaps," returned Mark. "No, I don't admire the face," he added, and was about to replace it on the shelf without further comment, when Hester said:

"Let me see it again! It reminds me curiously of some girl—I think—I've seen either here or at home. Those eyes look familiar and the shape of that nose—I know who it's like. It has a look of my husband! How odd! I'm sure he isn't girlish-looking," she added with a laugh.

Mark took the portrait into his hand again and examined it attentively. "Yes, perhaps there is a likeness—about the eyes especially."

He was still looking at it when they were joined by Mrs. Fellowes and Mr. Morpeth.

"Ah, you are looking at my little gallery of old portraits," he said. "I fear they are not very artistic But I've got some portfolios of old engravings that are worth looking at. I have them carefully stowed away, one can't leave such things about. The monsoon makes such havoc on all pictures—even under glass, not to speak of the insects."

"Is this a relative of yours, Morpeth?" asked Mark, holding out the old daguerrotype. "Your sister, perhaps!"

"No, not my sister, alas, I never had one! That is my late wife."

"Your wife!" exclaimed Mrs. Fellowes, coming forward to look at the picture. "Forgive my accent of surprise, dear friend, but do you know neither the Colonel nor I ever knew you were married. We have always set you down as a bachelor!"

"Well, I have been so for many a long day. My wife died a year after we were married," he added, a pained look crossing his face.

Mrs. Fellowes, after a close survey of the portrait, replaced it on the shelf, saying to herself as she did so:

"Wouldn't have been much of a companion to the dear man if she had lived, if I can read faces!"

Hester, seeing the look of sadness in Mr. Morpeth's eyes, hastened to make some digression, and turned to admire an exquisitely carved ivory box which stood on the same shelf as the portraits.

"This is beautiful workmanship, Mr. Morpeth. I am specially interested because I have a box rather like it which I greatly admired, and still do, though I can see now the great superiority of yours. My husband presented me with mine when we were engaged to be married. Of course, he believed it to be the finest ivory, so his disappointment was great when an expert, to whom he was showing it lately, pronounced it to be only bone! I assured Alfred I thought it was just as beautiful as before, but he's never been able to look on it with favour since. I confess I can see, on examining yours, the difference between the true and the false."

"Yes, I can vouch for this one," replied Mr. Morpeth, "that it is at least genuine, for I gave the man the bit of ivory out of which it is carved. It's years ago now. The man was a poor worker who had lost both his legs, but his hands stood him in good stead. He was the most perfect ivory-carver I've ever seen. He was a bit of a genius in other ways too. His designs were often original. If you examine this box closely you will see there is a whole history carved on its top and sides. He became a Christian and loved gospel themes, and these are some scenes from the life of Our Lord. See, here He sits with Mary at His feet listening to His words, and there He is walking on the sea. Aren't those billows wonderful—carved out of such a hard material as ivory?"

But now Mrs. Fellowes remarked that though they had only made a beginning in their examination of his treasures, they must really set out for home, or the Colonel would begin to get anxious about them. She turned to Mark to try to persuade him to give them some hours before he left for Puranapore on the following day, but he said he must return in the early morning as some matters were requiring his attention at the Revenue Office, and that the Collector and he were to start on tour the day following.

Mrs. Fellowes and her guest said good-bye, and were already seated in the victoria when Mr. Morpeth came round to the side of the carriage at which Hester sat, and laid a little parcel in her hand.

"It's only the ivory box! Will you accept it as a little memento of your first visit to a lonely old man? Let this replace the false one. Use it freely—keep your mother's letters in it. I got the secret of restoring stained ivory from the carver, and I'll share it with you when the little box needs a cleaning."

"Oh, but really I cannot deprive you of this priceless treasure," cried Hester, with a genuinely troubled air. "No, it must not go from your keeping!"

"If it goes to yours it will please me more than you can guess," returned Mr. Morpeth, his pathetic grey eyes pleading more than his words.

"Then I shall keep the little box with its beautiful carved histories as my best treasure as long as I live," said Hester, her eyes glistening with tears as she clasped the packet in both hands and looked into the donor's face.

The two gentlemen stood bareheaded in the sunset glow to watch them drive off, the turbaned Mootoo behind them, framed by the graceful festooning creepers of the verandah, while the parrot called from its perch: "Come back soon, master lonely!"

"Very pat for once, Polly," said Mr. Morpeth with a smile, as he scratched the bird's neck; while Mark stood with folded arms and earnest eyes watching the disappearing carriage.

"I shall never forget the picture those two made standing there," said Hester, looking back towards the verandah. "Those sad eyes of the old man wring my heart. How good it is that Mark seems to love him like a son."

"Yes, my dear, we've had a very pleasant visit, though it was impromptu. We'll be able to tell the Colonel how well it turned out."