Walter gave a sigh—was it of disappointment, or of relief? He could scarcely have defined his own feelings. Almost intuitively he bent his steps towards the dwelling in which Flora resided, but paused at the entrance to listen to the delicious tones of her voice. He found the young lady at the piano. Flora had just finished her Italian song, and received her visitor with a smile.
"I thought that you were forgetting us," she said; "I have been wanting you for a practice."
Silently Walter Gurney placed the letter in Flora's hand, and watched her face to see what emotions it might call forth.
"The committee show some sense," the lady remarked, returning the letter. "I hope that now you will give up for ever your mad idea of re-visiting the Eagle's Nest."
"But my promise?" murmured Walter Gurney.
"You are not bound by so foolish a promise. Suppose that I promised to spend a week in the house of a friend, and on my arrival found all the building in flames! Does honour compel me to stay and be burnt?"
"The case is not quite to the point," said Walter. "I have passed seven years in the Eagle's Nest, and my danger would not be greater, but much less than it was at the first. When I entered it, I had not amongst the Afghans a single friend, save one poor child; now I have seven friends, Christian friends, to help—or desert!"
"Oh, I cannot argue on such matters," said Flora, turning over the leaves of her music-book to find some particular duet. "But really, Walter—Mr. Gurney—you should turn your mind from such projects, as regards Afghanistan or any other place. The profession of a missionary is not quite that of—of——-" She hesitated, not wishing to give offence. "I mean, that with prospects like yours, you might do a great deal better."
These few words gave Walter acute pain; they betrayed such utter want of sympathy in what regarded the spreading of the Gospel, in the woman whose favour was to him as the very sunshine of life.
Flora ran her fingers lightly over the keys. "It is for the bass to begin," said she.