“But—­but, I never heard—­no one ever told me—­” Then she stopped with tears in her eyes, and glanced at his empty sleeve.

“That I had left part of myself in India,” he said, finishing the sentence for her.  “Such, nevertheless, is the case.  Uncle there says that the yellow rascals were so fond of me that they could not bear to part from me altogether.  For my own part, I think myself fortunate that they did not keep me there in toto, in which case I should not have had the pleasure of meeting you here to-day.”

He had been holding her hand quite an unnecessary length of time.  She now withdrew it gently.  Their eyes met for one brief instant, then Janet turned away and seated herself at the table.  The flush caused by the surprise of the meeting still lingered on her face, the tear-drops still lingered in her eyes; and as George Strickland sat down opposite to her he thought that he had never seen a sweeter vision, nor one that appealed more directly to his imagination and his heart.

Janet Hope at nineteen was very pleasant to look upon.  Her face was not one of mere commonplace prettiness, but had an individuality of its own that caused it to linger in the memory like some sweet picture that once seen cannot be readily forgotten.  Her eyes were of a tender, luminous grey, full of candour and goodness.  Her hair was a deep, glossy brown; her face was oval, and her nose a delicate aquiline.  On ordinary occasions she had little or no colour, yet no one could have taken the clear pallor of her cheek as a token of ill-health; it seemed rather a result of the depth and earnestness of the life within her.

In her wardrobe there was a lack of things fashionable, and as she sat at dinner this evening she had on a dress of black alpaca, made after a very quiet and nun-like style; with a thin streak of snow-white collar and cuff round throat and wrist; but without any ornament save a necklace of bog-oak, cut after an antique pattern, and a tiny gold locket in which was a photographic likeness of Sister Agnes.

That was a very pleasant little dinner-party.  In the course of conversation it came out that, a few days previously, Captain George had been decorated with the Victoria Cross.  Janet’s heart thrilled within her as the Major told in simple, unexaggerated terms of the special deed of heroism by which the great distinction had been won.  The Major told also how George was now invalided on half-pay; and her heart thrilled with a still sweeter emotion when he went on to say that the young soldier would henceforth reside with him at Eastbury—­at Eastbury, which was only two short miles from Deepley Walls!  The feeling with which she heard this simple piece of news was one to which she had hitherto been an utter stranger.  She asked herself, and blushed as she asked, whence this new sweet feeling emanated?  But she was satisfied with asking the question, and seemed to think that no answer was required.