"You may, if we can raise a small teapot. Now there's the bell; run away to your dinner."

A proud, not to say puffed-up, child was that which ran across to the big bungalow in a newly starched frock and wide black sash. In the verandah Angel found the two young men, who welcomed her cordially, and made her sit between them and pour out tea. And what a pouring out it was; what a slopping of milk it entailed, a dropping of the lid of the teapot into the sugar-basin, and a spoon into the hot water! Hosts and guest made tea and made merry together. There was a cake, too, in which "the three" evinced a profound interest, and Angel chattered incessantly to them and to her companions. Her satisfaction was complete when she was conducted all over the premises and into the stables, where Sally Lunn condescended to eat a piece of sugar-cane from her hand. This visit was the precursor of many. Angel was accorded the freedom of the bungalow, and spent many happy hours within its walls, looking at pictures, making tea, or mending gloves for her bachelor hosts.

Discipline at home was considerably relaxed. Colonel Wilkinson was feverishly busy making ready for his move, and Great Sale, getting old furniture re-covered, glued up, and varnished. Already the catalogue was in the printer's hands, and the adjectives "splendid," "unique," "handsome," and "magnificent" were in extraordinary prominence.

Thanks to the preparations, which were going forward, Angel was spared to her neighbours for many an afternoon. She was not a tiresome child, as Shafto freely admitted; she was noiseless, the dogs liked her, the bearer tolerated her, and when Gascoigne was absent she was content to curl herself up in a chair with a book or a stocking.

Whenever he could afford time her cousin treated her to a drive; but in these, the last days of a truly fearful hot season, driving had ceased to be a joy. All the world was waiting for the rains, and gazing with strained expectation at the great bank of black clouds to the westward, on which the sheet lightning danced every night in dazzling diagrams. This cloud-bank coming nearer, oh, so slowly! embodied the longed-for rains.

For advice and guidance respecting his new charge, her cousin repaired to Mrs. Rattray. Mrs. Rattray had been Mrs. Wilkinson's friend, and she was a kind-hearted, practical woman. There were other ladies who would gladly have advised the inexperienced young guardian, but he did not believe in a multitude of counsellors.

Mrs. Gordon was charming, but she was too young—a mere girl herself! Mrs. Dawson did not care for children, and was alarmingly stiff and formal; so when it was possible he snatched half-an-hour in order to confer with Mrs. Rattray over letters and telegrams, and matters connected with Angel's passage, outfit, and destination.

Late one afternoon he called on this lady by appointment. Angel was with him when he drove up to the Rattrays' neat bungalow, which stood back from the road in a small enclosure, full of pretty shrubs and flowering trees. It had two gates, both opening into the principal thoroughfare in Ramghur.

"I'm going in here, Angel," announced her cousin. "I won't be more than ten minutes, and you can wait in the cart."

"All right," she assented, but tendering two eager hands; "may I hold the reins?"