'I know you would,' said Grace simply.
'Oh! thank you,' said the poor fellow in a broken voice. 'It is infinitely good of you to say so; and indeed—indeed it is the simple truth. But'—trying to smile—'dying isn't of much use, is it? If you had died, you couldn't have saved Kit, and, if I had died, I should never have found you. You are sure you have everything you want?' he added, looking round with a sort of piteousness in his face. 'I know very little, you know, about what ladies want; but if there is anything—these Indians are wonderful people——'
'No, no; there is nothing,' said Grace. 'Wonderful! They are marvellous; they can almost create. I shall never forget what Hoosanee was to us—' she was speaking rapidly and in little broken sentences—she wanted to put him at his ease; but she felt so strange herself. 'Where is he?' she went on. 'In Gumilcund, I suppose?'
'Ah! poor Hoosanee!' said Tom, smiling freely now. 'He wouldn't be left, Grace. He fell in love with you, like everyone else; wanted to start off at once and find you alone; but of course, I couldn't allow that, so he came with me. I owe it to his love and devotion that I am here now.'
'Then he is in the camp. Poor brave Hoosanee! I should like to see him.'
'But I am sorry to say he is not in the camp. I sent him off to the mountains three days ago, to search for you there. I hope he will join us presently.'
'And have you been looking for me ever since I was taken away?' said Grace.
'I should have looked for you till my hair was grey and my limbs were withered, Grace. I have found you much sooner than I thought.'
'It may not be so long as I think,' she murmured. 'To-day it seems to me that ages—eternities—have gone over my head since the night I was carried away. This morning I was trying to think back and—I could not—'
There came a pitiful agonised consciousness into her face that frightened Tom. 'Don't,' he said beseechingly. 'There is no need. Put all those dreadful memories away! Let us go back, both of us, to the dear old days. Do you remember, Grace, our gardens that nearly touched, and the little wicket-gate, and the river? What a plague I must have been to you sometimes!'