"Only Alonzo has promised to take me home some day," she sobbed; "I would not marry him—and I would die—never to see you again—to think of it! I could not live—No!"
"And why do you cry so?" remonstrated Nani. "Behold me!" her old face looked sharpened and blanched; two unshed tears glittered in her eyes. "I love Verona more than you do, and yet I shall never see her again. For me there is no hope; yet I do not weep. Verona has done good here, now she goes elsewhere—what says the proverb? 'Great rivers, medicinal plants, and virtuous people, are born, not for themselves, but for the good of others.' She goes to do good elsewhere, and I shall come and stay with you at Tundla, and we," stroking Verona's cheek, "will often talk of her."
"I will never forget you, dear, dear Nani," whispered the girl. "Be sure of that, and I will write to you often—and send you such pretty wools."
"Ah, core of my soul, no wool will make up for thee! And what of Johnny?"
"I would like to take him, but it would be selfish—here he has his freedom and all his friends." At the moment he was executing gymnastic feats among the lattice work; there was a rustle, a pair of watchful eyes, a swift patter, and Johnny, with a new blue ribbon round his neck, joined the party, and fearlessly climbed into his lady's lap.
"Aré, see, I have half a mind to take him to the Doon," announced Nani.
"No, no, Nani, let him stay here," pleaded Verona, "where he was first found. As long as he lives, he will be a happy little monument to you, and me—you saved his life, and I won his heart."
It was Verona's last evening at Manora. The Chandos bungalow was now untenanted, and she was staying with Mrs. Lepell. The two ladies and Salwey, who had come to say good-bye to his aunt, were strolling about the garden after dinner. To fitly describe Mrs. Lepell's garden would fill a small volume, for it was not alone her mere garden; it was her pride, her employment and her glory! In twenty years she had changed a bare straggling compound into a little Eastern paradise. The lawn was its chief feature; a large expanse of velvet turf, watered and clipped, and lined with borders of the choicest rose-trees—in some of which the bul-buls built their nests—it gave the impression of being full of sweet flowers, of shady nooks, of blossoming shrubs and graceful trees, and was the resort of many gay bold birds and brilliant butterflies.
The lawn lay immediately behind the house; beyond it were cool green pergolas shaded with ferns, and great patches of sweet pea; then came the maze of mango trees, thickets of lemons, and beds of tomatoes, gourds and lettuce. It was one of Mr. Lepell's jokes that his wife could not endure to see people promenading on her precious English turf! but to-night, she and two companions paced it slowly from end to end—and once and again from end to end. They spoke but little. At last Mrs. Lepell said: