Two years after the eventful morning of her departure from Madras, Hester was seated one afternoon in her favourite nook in the Rectory garden. The painful past had not failed to leave its traces on the deep-hearted girl. The gaiety, the "laughing light" of youth was changed to soberer hues. But the unnatural reserve which at first seemed to paralyze her had been replaced by a quiet shining peace of heart, a rare power of sympathy for others, and an inventiveness in ministering to those in sorrow. This spiritual beauty seemed reflected in face and form. There was a perfection of unconscious grace about every movement, and though the English roses on her cheeks, of which her husband had been so proud, had faded, the tender bloom of health was not lacking in her soft colouring and clear, earnest eyes. The black clinging dress which she still wore suited well her fair wavy hair she sat bending over her book.

After the first year of mourning, to her parents' satisfaction, Hester was not unwilling to take part in the social life round her. Visitors had come and gone who had been dearly welcome to her in a way that none can understand who have not been part of "an alien land on a foreign strand," knit together by many common memories. The coming of Colonel and Mrs. Fellowes had been a great joy to her; while, to her mother, it had proved an opportunity of hearing some pages from that short year of wedded life which had hitherto been folded away even from the eyes of those nearest to the young widow.

Hester had taken up all her daughterly duties with quiet faithfulness, proving a cheerful companion to her younger brothers in their holidays, though Charlie was conscious of a change. More than once, for instance, when he had tried to elicit some news of his friend, Mark Cheveril, Hester seemed to grow dreamy and preoccupied, changing the topic as soon as possible. He decided that there must have been a coldness between these two friends.

"I don't wonder," he remarked to his mother. "If Rayner was half what old Colonel Fellowes told me of him, Cheveril couldn't have stood him; so naturally there was a rift between Hester and him."

Mrs. Bellairs, whatever her thoughts were, proved almost as reticent as her daughter. More than one suitor had sought the hand of the young widow, but Hester's quick, firm decision had always been adverse to their hopes. "She will never marry again," acquaintances agreed. Only her mother, though she gave no opinion, thought she knew some one who might one day be able to persuade her daughter to allow him to replace the house of sand which had crumbled away, by a fair house founded on a rock of true love. But she kept her own counsel.

As the days went on nothing transpired which gave any clue to what the future might bring. No letter from Mark Cheveril ever reached the Rectory now; but Hester had still one link with her short wedded life which she clung to. Many a thin blue page crossed the sea, dated from an address unknown to the fashionable residents in Madras. And these letters were responded to by gracious, loving words which gladdened the heart of the lonely man, and not only his, they were often shared with one whom long since Mr. Morpeth had come to regard as a son.

"Mr. Cheveril is the most be-fathered man I know," declared little Mrs. Samptor. "He is the well-beloved boy of our surly Collector and the precious son of David Morpeth, and Samptor has a softer side to him than he has ever showed to any other young man."

Mr. Morpeth had often paid visits to Mark in his bungalow, and there was no more honoured guest at the Collector's table than the old Eurasian, and no more popular man in the little station of Puranapore. Through him, Mark was kept much more in touch with Hester than from Charlie's brief epistles from his London chambers. Often indeed all mention of his sister's name was purposely omitted. So when on Mark's first furlough home he desired to reach her, it was not to Charlie he turned, but decided on more direct methods.

When Hester heard footsteps approaching the walnut tree under which she sat, reading the brown volume of poems which had reached her one afternoon at Clive's Road, when she sorely needed its ministry, she took them to be her brother's.

"Come here, young man," she called, "sit at my feet and learn wisdom from Browning!"

"Nothing will please me better, Hester," answered a familiar voice that was not Charlie's.

"Mark—you! I never even knew you had left Madras," exclaimed Hester. "Why ever did Mr. Morpeth not give me that bit of news? Have you just arrived?"

"I went to Shropshire first to see my old uncle who has been ailing. He lives—or rather vegetates—in an ancient black-timbered mansion all his lone; but he is a very independent old fellow. I was kept there longer than I reckoned on, owing to something unexpected turning up. Then I had to go to London about some business. I looked up Charlie at his chambers, but he wasn't to be found——"

"Oh, Charlie will be overjoyed to see you! He and Cecil are out shooting rabbits just now. I do hope he'll be back soon."

Mark did not re-echo that hope. In fact he prayed it might be some time before the walnut grove was invaded by any. His eyes were resting eagerly on Hester. He perceived with joy that the healing process had been at work, binding up the old wounds and restoring serenity to the once sorely troubled life.

"I must tell you, Hester," he said with a frank smile, "that I don't feel a stranger to any of your doings. Dear old Morpeth preserves your letters in lavender and gives me a share of them."

For a moment Hester was startled, remembering that she had shared many of her most intimate thoughts with the wise saint with whom she felt a close bond; then she answered with a smile as frank as his own.

"No, I don't mind. You know so much of those past days, Mark. You could understand much that was only meant for the dear old man."

There was something natural and spontaneous in Hester's tone which had the effect of banishing Mark's fears concerning this first meeting with one who, every day since they parted, had become more enshrined in his thoughts.

"But how can I have been so many minutes without asking for your beloved Collector?" she said; and though the topic was congenial, Mark grudged the digression from more personal matters. "Mr. Worsley is quite a family friend here now, you know. He spent a week of his furlough with us and took everybody by storm. Father and mother were so happy with him, and he with them. He seemed like a delightful balm; and yet I remember when I wouldn't listen to your praise of him and felt sure he must be the surly bear people said he was! But, Mark, I must tell you, he made some rather sceptical remarks about your being a Eurasian. I think father was rather shocked at his levity. He said it was only a hallucination of yours—though an excellent one—seeing the Eurasians needed friends so much."

"Then I suspect the Collector will have a crow over me now!" said Mark, with a laugh. "What do you think, Hester? I discovered a box of papers in a lumber room at Cheveril. It had never been opened seemingly since it was sent home from the East after my father's death. He was Uncle Mark's younger brother, you know, a lieutenant in the Indian Army; and I find that my mother who was always believed to be an Indian—and a princess to boot—was after all an English girl, lost at the time of the Mutiny, though she had a happier fate than some, for she was adopted by a good Ranee. She was only seventeen when my father married her, and she died at my birth. My father died soon after, and I was sent home to my grandparents at Cheveril; very likely the old cedar-wood box was part of my baggage! I've always understood from Uncle Mark that owing to my father's hasty marriage there was a coldness between my grandparents and him, and that letters ceased between them, though his early death was said to be a great blow. Probably they heard misleading rumours of the choice of a girl from the Ranee's palace. It was a romantic affair, of course, and would be sure to set tongues wagging. Anyhow, the truth has been disclosed at last by this old chest which looks so Indian that I expect it was part of my mother's providing by the Ranee. My mother, by the way, was a daughter of a General Worsley. I can't help thinking and hoping that she must have been of the same family as the Collector; but that will all be cleared up by and by."

"And are you glad or sorry, Mark?" asked Hester, with a wistful look in her eyes.

"Well, to know the truth is always best, don't you think?" said Mark simply. "But I'll tell you who is jolly glad—my uncle! He says he rejoices there has been no 'blot on the scutcheon' after all! He is in great excitement, and has had his lawyer down to examine the old papers which he might have discovered long ago."

"But then you mightn't have been the cordial succourer of so many Eurasians. Indeed, I feel sure you will prove no less their friend in days to come, though there is no blood-tie; but I must say, Mark, for many reasons, I'm grateful to the old cedar-wood box for holding its secret so long! Even Alfred, in his heart of hearts, admired your courage, and it was all on the side of good for him," said Hester, wondering why it was so much more easy to speak that name to this friend than to any of her home people.

Mark went on to tell her that his return to India would no longer be to the familiar Puranapore. Since the Collector was about to retire, he acknowledged, he was nothing loth to have a change, especially since an attractive post had been offered to him in the North, though it would necessitate a speedy return to the East.

He now bent forward suddenly, saying:

"Hester, would you risk the black water again and go with me? You have all my love and my worship—will you be my wife? I once banished my love as a forbidden thing and tried to be your loyal friend——"

"You did, Mark," murmured Hester, with bowed head. "Right loyally you did——"

"But now—the present is ours, Hester, the present and the future. You will make it golden for me if you will grant me this. Hester, didn't you invite me to come and learn wisdom at your feet as I came under this tree?" asked Mark, with a glowing mien, flinging himself on the ground and looking up into her drooping face.

"No, it was Charlie I invited."

"My answer, Hester! I have waited long," he pleaded, looking at her with all his soul in his eyes. "I know now too well that I loved you before—before that other ever saw you."

Hester felt as if she knew it too. And she also knew that as the first man who had wooed and won her was false, this one was wholly true. Stretching out both her hands to him, she said:

"Yes, Mark, I will venture the black water again with you! Where you go I will go. My love and trust are wholly yours—and have been since—since that morning we stood together on the deck of the El Dorado."

Jarrold & Sons, Ltd., Printers, The Empire Press, Norwich.