“How dreadful!” Dinah whispered again.  “And she was left—­all alone?”

“Quite alone except for the natives, and they didn’t find her till the day after.  She was pacing up and down the ledge then, up and down, up and down eternally, and she refused—­flatly refused—­to leave it till he should come back.  She had spent the whole night there alone, waiting, getting more and more distraught, and they could do nothing with her.  They were afraid of her.  Never from that day to this has she admitted for a moment that he must have been killed, though in her heart she knows it, poor girl, just as she knew it from the very beginning.”

“But what happened?” breathed Dinah.  “What did they do?  They couldn’t leave her there.”

“They didn’t know what to do.  The shikari was the only one with any ideas among them, and he wasn’t especially brilliant.  But after another day and night he hit on the notion of sending one of the coolies back with the news while he and the other men waited and watched.  They kept her supplied with food.  She must have eaten almost mechanically.  But she never left that ledge.  And yet—­and yet—­she was kept from taking the one step that would have ended it all.  I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t have been better—­more merciful—­” He broke off.

“Perhaps God was watching her,” murmured Dinah shyly.

“Yes, I tell myself that.  But even so, I can’t help wondering sometimes.”  Scott’s voice was very sad.  “She was left so terribly desolate,” he said.  “Those letters that you saw last night are all she has of him.  He has gone, and taken the mainspring of her life with him.  I hate to think of what followed.  They sent up a doctor from the nearest station, and she was taken away,—­taken by force.  When I got to her three weeks later, she was mad, raving mad, with brain fever.  I had the old nurse Biddy with me.  We nursed her between us.  We brought her back to what she is now.  Some day, please God, we shall get her quite back again; but whether it will be for her happiness He only knows.”

Scott ceased to speak.  His brows were drawn as the brows of a man in pain.

Dinah’s eyes were full of tears.  “Oh, thank you for telling me!  Thank you!” she murmured.  “I do hope you will get her quite back, as you say.”

He looked at her, saw her tears, and put out a gentle hand that rested for a moment upon her arm.  “I am afraid I have made you unhappy.  Forgive me!  You are so sympathetic, and I have taken advantage of it.  I think we shall get her back.  She is coming very, very gradually.  She has never before taken such an interest in anyone as she took in you last night.  She was talking of you again this morning.  She has taken a fancy to you.  I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind!” Dinah choked a little and smiled a quivering smile.  “I am proud—­very proud.  I only wish I deserved it.  What—­what made you bring her here?”

“That was my brother’s idea.  Since we brought her home she has never been away, except once on the yacht; and then she was so miserable that we were afraid to keep her there.  But he thought a thorough change—­mountain air—­might do her good.  The doctor was not against it.  So we came.”