tingle in delight.

"Do you know aught of this Major Hawke who comes to-day?" wearily,
said the listless girl. "Some one of these red-faced old relics of
my father's early life, I suppose!" The Rose of Delhi was gazing
wistfully out upon the wilderness of beauty in the tangled gardens,
sweeping far out to where the high stone wall shut off the glare
and flying dust of the Chandnee Chouk.

"Certainly not, Nadine!" softly said the governess. "This is only
a peopled wilderness to me!" Her heart smote her as the girl, with
a sudden lonely sinking of the heart, threw her arms around the
neck of her startled companion.

"I am so unhappy here--so wretched, this is but a gleaning white
stone prison, Justine! I stifle in this wretched land! Why did my
father bring me here to die by inches?" There was no pretense in
her stormy sobs.

"We are soon going home, Darling!" cried the affrighted Swiss. "Just
now your father told me that we were all to leave India forever,
and at once." And so, gently soothing the unhappy girl, orphaned in
her heart, Justine Delande escaped to the first essay of her life
in high decorative art. "There is some strange mystery of the past
in all this! He has a heart of flint, this old tyrant!" murmured
Justine, as with fingers trembling in haste she completed a toilet,
which later caused even old Hugh Johnstone to growl "By Gad! This
Swiss woman's not half bad looking!" A last pang, caused by the
keen secret sorrow of not daring to wear her diamond bracelet,
was effaced by the rising tide of indignation in Justine Delande's