on the ground. Before he was up a sowar's lance was through his body.

The whole thing was over in a few seconds, and Guy was back by the side of Bradford, who was again on his feet. He sprang forward, and catching hold of Guy's stirrup, called out, Come along, it's all right; only my arm.' There was a wild yell from the other side of the nullah, and several shots were fired, but without effect; and in a few seconds more they got over the brow of the spur. As they did so, a dozen more men came galloping back to help them, headed by old Gulab Singh, and the rest of the squadron were pulling up. They had turned the moment they realised that anything had happened, but only one man had seen Guy go back. He was a young fellow, hardly more than a boy, the son of a native officer, and a gentleman by birth. His unshaved beard made a soft, downy fringe round his face, and as a rule his eyes and manner were rather sleepy; now he looked bright and animated. Guy thanked him, and said, 'You helped us splendidly, Atar Singh. That fellow might have done for us both.'

The boy laughed. 'It was nothing, Sahib,' he said; 'my luck is very good.'

The enemy crowned the spur, shouting and firing, but it was too late, and they had no further loss.

Directly they were out of range they examined and bound up Bradford's arm. It was not very bad apparently, a clean flesh wound; when his horse fell he had not been wounded, only shaken and half-stunned. 'I don't know how to thank you, old fellow,' he said; but for you I should have been cut up to a certainty.'

'Oh no; you were all right. Atar Singh was close up.' 'Not close enough. Well, it's no good talking about it; you know what I feel.'

Bradford was able to ride, and they mounted him on a sowar's horse. As they moved on again, a big English officer rode up with half a dozen sowars at his heels. Guy recognised Major Russell.

Are you all right?' he said to Bradford.

Yes, thank you, Major. A slug through the arm; it's not bad. But I have had a shave; Langley just saved me.'

‘It was a shave; I was out there watching the business with my glasses, and saw your affair quite clearly.' Then he turned to Guy: 'Well done, Langley; I never saw anything better in

my life, and I thought it was you. You ought to get a V.C. for it, and it won't be my fault if you don't.'

A V.C., Major!' Guy said, and there came over him a flood of astonishment and delight which made his eyes shine.

‘Oh, I have nothing on earth to say to it, of course; and it may be out of the question. I am only telling you what I think myself. Any way, you did a fine thing.'

Russell rode away, leaving Guy's brain in a whirl of happiness. Could it really be possible that such luck would come to him? A quarter of an hour ago nothing had happened; and now perhaps he had won what he would have given almost anything to win. It seemed too good to be true.

Bradford said, 'You see I was not far wrong; I shall do my level best any way.'

But there was no time for talking about Victoria Crosses. The firing was still going on; there was plenty of work for them before the day was over.

That night they took all the sleep they could get. They were tired with their day's work, and they were to go out again next morning. But before he turned in Guy sat for half an hour in the empty mess-tent writing a letter to his wife. Bradford had made the most of Guy's exploit, and every one in the regiment had been full of praise and cordiality. It had covered him with confusion, but it had made him very happy; and in his excitement and joy he felt he must write and tell her all about it.

The beginning of his letter was taken up with a description of the fighting during the past week. It ended as follows

Now, my darling, I am going to tell you what I hope will make you very happy. You told me to bear my sword with honour, and your dear lips were laid upon it. Do you remember? I have never forgotten. To-day, when we had got round the Siah Sung heights we were hotly engaged, and being nearly surrounded on ground where cavalry could not act, we had to retire. While we were doing so Bradford's horse was shot, and he fell heavily, and was half-stunned. The squadron was retiring at a canter over the brow of the hill, and I was the only one who saw him fall. I went back to help him, and was just in time to prevent his being despatched by two of the enemy, who came at him with their long knives. One of them I cut down, and the other I rode over; one of the men came up just at the moment and ran him through. Then we got Bradford off; he was wounded in the arm, but nothing serious. When we had got clear, Russell of the Quartermaster-General's Department rode up to

us, and told us he had seen it all. He spoke very warmly, and ended by saying I ought to get a V.C. for it, and that it should not be his fault if I did not. Bradford has been very nice about it too, and so have the Colonel and the others. My darling, are you pleased, and are you a little proud of me? I never thought of a V.C. when I did it, and I don't really see what else any one could have done; I could not have ridden away and left him. But they seem to think I did well. My greatest pleasure in it all is the thought of you. I know you well enough to be sure that this letter will warm your heart. Of course I may not get the V.C.; Russell warned me of that. You must not say a word about it to any one, and you must not be disappointed if it does not come. I never thought of it till he spoke. Whether it comes or not, I have done what you told me to do; I have borne your sword with honour. Now I must get some sleep. We go out again in the morning. Gough is within a march of us, and I think to-morrow will see the final break-up of our siege; he ought to be attacked to-night, but people seem to think the enemy have lost heart. They did not attack well to-day, and they suffered heavily; the villages were full of their dead, and they carried away all they could. Good-night, my own. You won't fret about it if I don't get the Cross? I shall reproach myself if I have only caused you disappointment in the hope of giving you pleasure. If you want to make me happy, you won't be troubled about that, or about anything on earth; not even if I were to fall, as many better men have done. I should like to feel that even that would not make your life sad.

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

Good-bye, and God bless you. Are you not glad now that I met you, and that I left the Thirtieth? Have you not brought me wonderful good fortune?-Ever your own,

GUY LANGLEY.

CHAPTER XXXV

HAPPINESS

HELEN spent her Christmas at Syntia. She had come down from Simla in the beginning of November, when Mrs. Aylmer left, and had taken a small house in the cantonment. She could not face Sangu all alone. Mrs. Graham had gone to England, and the place was almost deserted. Syntia was familiar and more or less homelike even now. The Aylmers asked her to go to them, and so did the Hunters; but she would not do either. She preferred living by herself, and they did not press her.

She was at Syntia when the news of the Kabul rising reached India. A few days later, on the 15th of December, it was known that the British force had been checked if not defeated, and that it was now surrounded and besieged by an enemy of ten times its numbers. Men recalled to mind the disasters of the first Afghan war and the recent massacre of the Mission, and awaited in painful anxiety the arrival of further news. For the poor women who had son or lover or husband in Kabul the next ten

days were very terrible. At any moment the veil might be lifted, and who could tell what horrors might be behind it?

There were no doubt some grounds for hope and even confidence. The tone of the last telegrams had been cheery enough, and the force was a good one. Still it had been surrounded and shut up; and our people were now fighting for their lives in the snow, two hundred miles from our border.

Helen Langley suffered with the rest. She tried to be steady and brave, and to pray with faith; but it was very hard.

On Christmas morning she drove over to church at the Civil Station. The recollection of that happy Christmas three years before had come upon her with irresistible force; and though she knew the contrast would be a painful one she could not

help going.

There would be a certain bitter sweetness in it; and perhaps it might do her good.

She had no carriage of her own, and the little ticca gári which they brought her was very straight-backed and uncomfortable; but it was a beautiful bright morning, and she did not find the drive very tiring. When she arrived she told the driver to stop outside the church compound,' and waited until every one had gone in. Then she walked into the familiar porch, and went quietly up the stone staircase to the gallery. No one saw her come up, and she sat down at the back unnoticed. There were hardly half a dozen people round the harmonium; Hunter was one of them, but she knew none of the others. The whole place was changed already, as is the way in India. The harmonium was being played, very badly, by the wife of the new clergyman. Little Sladen was gone; Arthur Goldney was gone too, and Oldfield, and the Andersons. When Helen stood up she could see the eastern end of the church, and her father's pew under the pulpit. It hurt her to see it occupied by strangers. The new Commissioner sat at the end, where she used to see her father's wavy brown head which always looked so young. In the seat where Guy used to sit, when he came, there was no one. It was a dull service, and the church looked empty and neglected. The decorations were scanty, and instead of the happy crowd of 1876 there were only thirty or forty people; and her heart was cold and sad.

When the Te Deum came she forced herself to sing, and Hunter caught her voice at once. He turned round with a smile in his eyes; and then seeing her white face, drawn by ten days of terrible suspense, he got out of his place, and came in his boyish affectionate way and stood by her side. It gave them both pleasure. They were the only two of the old set left.

When the service was over the rest of the little choir walked out. Hunter stayed and talked to her and tried to cheer her up. After a few minutes she said: 'Now we really must go. Mrs. Hunter will be wondering where you are. I suppose most of the people are gone by this time.'

They walked down into the porch and found Mrs. Hunter in some indignation at her husband's absence. Every one had driven away except herself and her two guests, a civil officer and his wife, who were staying with the Hunters for Christmas. The grassy compound was empty, except for their carriage and Helen's little midge.'