CHAPTER XVII.
THE LUCK OF THE BABA SAHIB.
“WHAT is it, doctor?” cried the Commissioner impatiently, as Dr Tighe ran up the steps towards him at a most unwonted pace.
“It’s a boy—as fine a child as ever I saw in my life—and both likely to do well,” was the gasping response.
“What in the world do you mean by coming and telling me such a thing as that at this moment, sir?” demanded Mr Burgrave, whose habitual calmness was fast vanishing under the strain of the events of the night. “Are you aware that the enemy will probably be inside the fort in a few minutes, and that I am just about to give the order to fire?” He leaned over the sand-bags again to listen to the tramp of advancing feet.
“I tell you, it’ll make all the difference in the world to the men!” cried the doctor. “For Heaven’s sake, exhibit some interest, even if you don’t feel it, or they will credit you with ill-wishing the child.”
“Ill-wishing? Nonsense! No one need wish the poor little beggar worse luck than to come into the world at such a peculiarly inopportune moment.”
“Inopportune? Why, he brings good luck with him. Doesn’t he, Ressaldar?”
“It is the best of luck, sahib,” answered Ghulam Rasul, with a complacent smile. “Will your honour bear the salaams of the regiment to the Memsahib, and entreat her to name an hour when it will be fitting for a deputation representing all ranks to pay their respects to the Baba Sahib?”
“The fellow talks as though we had a lifetime before us!” grumbled the Commissioner morosely. “Surely they are within easy range now, Ressaldar?”
Ghulam Rasul advanced to the parapet, and peered narrowly over the sand-bags which capped it. “I know not how they come on so steadily, sahib,” he said hesitatingly, when he stood erect again. “Perhaps it might be well for your honour——” but he was interrupted by a frantic shout from both gateway turrets at the same moment.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire! The Colonel Sahib!”
“It is the luck of the Baba Sahib,” said Ghulam Rasul calmly, as Mr Burgrave and the doctor raced one another for the nearest turret. The doctor, not being hampered with a crutch, reached the goal first, and saluted the advancing force with the information that they had just missed being blown into smithereens.
“All well, I hope?” said Colonel Graham, as the guard of the turrets descended tumultuously to unbar the gate.
“All well, Colonel, and the garrison increased by one since you left. And what about the guns, if I may ask?”
“The guns? Oh, they’re at the bottom of the canal,” was the answer that stupefied Dr Tighe, as the forlorn hope began to file through the gateway.
“Then you were successful after all,” inquired the incredulous voice of Mr Burgrave from the steps.
“Oh, I see it! I see it!” cried Dr Tighe, laughing wildly. “You settled the guns, Colonel dear, and then you came home another way, while the enemy are all waiting for you under the hill at this moment! Oh, pat me on the back, somebody, or I’ll die!”
“What’s wrong with you, Tighe?” asked Colonel Graham in astonishment, as the doctor sat down upon a pile of the sand-bags that had been taken away from the gate, and fairly wept.
“If you’d been through what I have to-night, going backwards and forwards between life and death, as I may say, and expecting those fiends to break in any moment—why, you would be glad to find yourself and other people still alive,” was the incoherent reply, as Dr Tighe accepted a sip from the flask which Winlock held out to him. “But I beg your pardon, Colonel Graham and gentlemen, for this exhibition,” he added stiffly, as he rose and smoothed down his coat. “It was the thought that there’s a chance now for Mrs North and the child that bowled me over.”
“The child?” cried Fitz. “Is it a boy, doctor? Oh, good luck! Three cheers for the Luck of Alibad!”
Colonel Graham waved his helmet, and led the cheering with a will, until the rousing sounds echoed beyond the circuit of the fort and revealed to the startled enemy that their prey had escaped them. In the rage caused by the shock of this discovery they forgot their customary prudence, and leaving their cover, pressed forward to the walls. The troops had been marching all night, but every man hurried to his station without a moment for food or rest, in the conviction that the crisis of the siege had at last arrived. The attack was only half-hearted however, although the enemy had provided themselves with scaling-ladders, in the evident expectation of being able to push their assault home. The absence of the support upon which they had counted from their cannon on the hill upset their plans, and although Bahram Khan could be seen urging his followers forward even with blows, and setting them the example himself by advancing to the very foot of the wall, they did not so much as succeed in planting one of the ladders. When convinced that the attempt was hopeless, the Prince drew off his forces with considerable skill. A detachment of marksmen posted behind the plane trees made it impossible for the defenders to show themselves at the loopholes, and thus the assailants escaped with but little loss, though it was indubitable that in this, their first attack in force, they had suffered a defeat.
“Oh, I do feel so perfectly happy!” cried Mabel. “Think of all the horrid doleful things we were saying last night, Flora. And now Georgie is getting on all right, and the baby——”
“And such a baby!” said Flora gravely, contemplating with deep interest the morsel of humanity which was lying in Mabel’s arms, wrapped in a shawl. It was with most unflattering reluctance that Mrs Hardy and Rahah had consented to confide their precious charge to two amateur nurses, however well meaning; but Mabel took a high view of her privileges as an aunt, and the baby had been entrusted to her and Flora for a short time, on condition of their promising faithfully to bring it back if it cried.
“And our men are all safely back, and we have won a victory, and everything is splendid!” Mabel went on. And yet she did not disclose the chief cause of her abounding satisfaction. She was free once more, and she felt that a load had been removed from her mind. But if she told Flora, Flora would think that her plain speaking the night before had brought about this happy result, and ungratefully enough, Mabel did not care that she should think so. “I feel as if I should like to dance,” she broke out. “Do dance, Flora.”
“And shake the dear baby?” asked Flora reproachfully.
“Salaam, Miss Sahib!” said a voice from the doorway, and they turned to see Ismail Bakhsh standing in the semi-darkness of the passage, shaded by the matting curtain. “Is it permitted to the meanest of his slaves to kiss the feet of the Baba Sahib?”
“Oh yes, you can see him,” said Mabel, guessing at the tenor of the request, and she held up the baby. It was not by any means her intention that Ismail Bakhsh should take the child from her arms, but this he did at once.
“Oh, you’ll make him cry!” protested Flora.
“Nay, Miss Sahib, he will know me, that I am the servant of his house. Was I not for ten years Sinjāj Kīlin Sahib’s orderly, going in and out with him?”
“All the same, I don’t quite see how that should make you an authority on babies, my good man,” murmured Flora, and told Mabel Ismail Bakhsh’s qualifications for the post he had usurped. But the baby lay quite quietly in his arms, as though it recognised the force of the ancestral tie.
“The Baba Sahib has the eyes of Nāth Sahib, not of Kīlin Sahib,” was the self-constituted nurse’s next remark, delivered in a tone of keen regret.
“True, but some children’s eyes change colour, just as kittens’ do. Perhaps his will,” suggested Flora, gravely and consolingly.
“Georgia wouldn’t like that,” objected Mabel, when this was translated to her.
“I’m afraid poor Mrs North won’t see much of him, if the regiment have their way,” said Flora. “Do you know what Ismail Bakhsh is saying now?”
“I shall carry the Baba Sahib daily into the air, that he may grow tall and strong,” the old man was announcing. “And as soon as he learns to walk I shall bring a little pony—a very little pony, Miss Sahib”—this in answer to the protest he discerned in Flora’s face—“and I shall teach him to ride without saddle or bridle, that he may be like his grandfather, and I shall instruct him in the use of arms, so that when he joins the regiment with the Empress’s commission he will have no occasion to learn anything. He is to be a soldier from the day of his birth.”
“Oh, how his father would have loved to teach him to ride!” murmured Mabel, with tears in her eyes.
“The regiment will be his father, Miss Sahib. Is he not the son of Sinjāj Kīlin?”
“No, he isn’t!” cried Mabel, “and I don’t know why you should persist in leaving out his own father. Have you forgotten him already?”
Flora translated the question, and the old man answered it solemnly. “The Baba Sahib has no father until he has avenged him, Miss Sahib. We shall tell him of all Nāth Sahib’s doings, and how he was lured to his death by guile, but he must not take his name upon his lips until he can say, ‘Now there is not one left alive that had any part in that accursed deed, for I his son have tracked them out and slain them all.’”
“I don’t think Georgia will quite approve of the principles in which the regiment proposes to educate her boy,” said Mabel.
“Oh,” said Flora, “he says—‘The Memsahib is but a woman, though something more than other women. This is our business. Is not the Baba Sahib the seal of the General, left behind to rule us?’ You know the story, don’t you, Mab? When General Keeling died the chiefs heard that he had expressed a desire to be buried in England—which was not true, by-the-bye—and they came to say that if his seal was left in Khemistan, they would obey it as if it was himself, so that his body might be buried where he wished. But he is buried in the churchyard here, you know, by his own desire.”
“May we be allowed to take part in the baby-worshipping?” asked Fred Haycraft’s voice at the end of the verandah. “We couldn’t find any servants to announce us, so we were obliged to walk in.”
“Poor old Anand Masih is seeking a little rest after the exciting events of the night,” laughed Mabel. “Walk softly, please, and come quite to this end of the verandah, so as not to disturb Georgia.”
“We felt shy because we couldn’t send in our cards properly,” said Fitz, who was Haycraft’s companion, “but when we saw you had a visitor already, we thought we might venture in. What a nice smart nursemaid Mrs North has set up!—eh, Ismail Bakhsh?”
“True, sahib; I am the Baba Sahib’s bearer,” responded the old man, with simple dignity. “Every night when I am not on guard I shall bring my mat and lie in the verandah here, to guard his sleep.”
“That’s a queer idea,” said Haycraft. “Has the Memsahib asked you to look after him?”
“Nay, sahib; but many seek to destroy the lion cub, for fear of what he will do when he is full-grown.”
“I wonder if there’s anything in that,” said Fitz. “Can it be that Bahram Khan’s men directed their fire purposely upon this courtyard, knowing that Mrs North was here?”
“There are enemies within the walls as well as without, sahib,” was the answer, as Ismail Bakhsh rocked the baby gently in his arms.
“I say, I believe I could do that!” said Fitz. “Let me have a try.”
“No, no,” said Mabel; “you’ll only make the baby cry, and hurt his nurse’s feelings. We want you and Mr Haycraft to tell us what really happened last night, and why you left us to endure such agonies of suspense for hours. I believe it was simply that we might think all the more of you when you got back.”
“Then I hope you do,” said Haycraft, “for he deserves it. Go ahead, Anstruther; you left the fort first. I’ll cut in later on, and spare your blushes.”
“What in the world are you driving at?” demanded Fitz. “Story? bless you, ladies! I’ve none to tell. We got across the irrigated land and into the hills just as we had intended, settled ourselves in our cache, and then sent up our rockets and opened fire. At first it was exactly like upsetting a beehive, there was such a rushing about and shouting in the camp underneath and all over the town. But we hadn’t allowed for one thing. Bahram Khan is far cleverer than we thought him. He could tell by the sound of our firing that we were only a small party, and he guessed at once that our attack was nothing but a feint, arranged to cover a dash on the guns. So he didn’t waste any time in trying to rush our position, but simply left us alone, which was truly mortifying, for we had been looking forward to no end of fun among the rocks, leading the fellows off on false scents, and astonishing them with unexpected volleys, and all that sort of thing.”
“Fun, indeed!” cried Mabel indignantly. “You ought to be thankful they let you alone.”
“I’m sorry, Miss North. I didn’t know your heart was so tender towards the enemy. At any rate, they escaped us that time, you see. Well, as soon as we made sure that the tide of battle was taking its way elsewhere, we evacuated our sangar, and started off at the double for the rendezvous. But there were difficulties in the way of getting there. While we were slipping and sliding down into the valley, making for the canal, we heard tremendous firing in the direction of the bridge, which sent our hearts into our sandals, for we knew that the Colonel’s column had no business to be anywhere near there.”
“Yes, I cannot make out how you managed to get so far to the right,” said Flora, addressing Haycraft, and speaking more in sorrow than in anger, as beseems the arm-chair critic.
“We didn’t manage anything of the sort,” answered Haycraft. “As a matter of fact, we were not there at all. The only explanation we can suggest for the mysterious fusillade is that the Commissioner and his command were making a record display of wild firing from the walls here—simply blazing away in every direction—and that some of their bullets fell among the enemy posted at the bridge-head, and started them off too. We were marching by compass on the right road when we heard them a good way off, repulsing, as they imagined, an attack in the rear. They can’t make out that their shooting is much better than ours, at any rate, for some of their bullets went wide too, and fell into our ranks, which threw the native followers into an awful panic. One or two men got flesh-wounds, that was all, but the doolie-bearers and bhistis scattered in a moment, and tried to hide. We had to rout them out of all sort of places, but at last we did think we had found them all, though it seems now that one of them succeeded in getting away. He is being dealt with—suitably—at this moment.”
“And do you mean to say,” asked Mabel, as Fitz laughed grimly, “that you all went on as if nothing had happened, and never returned the fire?”
“Why, that would have given the whole thing away. Our only chance was to leave them to blaze away at one another, and go straight for the hill. But this is still Anstruther’s innings.”
“Well,” said Fitz, “when we heard the firing we instantly occupied a fine strategic position in a hollow at the base of our cliff, with the canal in front of us, and one of the men and I scouted a little way along the bank. What we found out was very exciting indeed. The men at the bridge-head had discovered their mistake by this time, and ceased firing, but we saw why they were in such an agitated state of mind. The bridge had been repaired, and they were guarding it! More than that, Bahram Khan was even then—as we crouched there—bringing up his men to cross the canal, and invest the water side of the fort, so cutting off our fellows as they came home. I can tell you it was a pretty tough job to wriggle along like a snake, and take advantage of cover, when one wanted simply to tear back to the rest and consult what was to be done. You see, there was just this in our favour. The enemy didn’t know exactly where our men were, and so long as there was no noise on the hill, they would remain in doubt, for they weren’t likely to risk their lives by going up to see. Sure enough, they waited discreetly, spreading themselves out over the irrigated land below the hill on both sides of the canal. That gave Winlock and me our cue, and when I got to the Colonel——”
“But you haven’t said how you got to him!” cried Mabel and Flora together.
“My turn!” said Haycraft blandly, laying an authoritative hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “Sit and squirm, my boy, while I sing your praises. He swam the canal, ladies, in the dark and icy cold, and took over with him the end of a rope made of the men’s turbans. Winlock and the rest waited to guard the crossing, while this fellow climbed the hill, and by the best of good luck, found us at the top. We had taken the guard round the guns absolutely by surprise—they were all asleep, in fact, without a single sentry—and settled things almost in silence. Not a shot was fired, and everything was so quiet that Woodworth started the bright idea of bringing the guns home with us instead of destroying them. It really seemed quite possible, for the drag-ropes were there ready, and it would have made all the difference in the world to us to have a couple of cannon. But when Anstruther turned up, like a very dripping ghost, and informed us that the way was blocked, and we couldn’t even get home ourselves, much less take back the guns in triumph, things began to look a little blue. We might stay where we were, or we might try to cut our way through, but the prospect wasn’t very cheerful either way.”
“No food or water on the hill, and the enemy holding all the plain below,” summarised Fitz tersely.
“And therefore,” went on Haycraft, “the Colonel lent a willing ear to the aspiring civilian before you, who offered to lead him right round through the hills and bring him in at the main gate of the fort, the very last place where the enemy would think of expecting him. So the drag-ropes came in useful, after all, for we pulled the guns to a nice steep place overlooking the water. We had to be awfully quiet, of course, though the hill was between us and the enemy, but we spiked the guns and rolled them over into the canal. Then we marched down, and got across by the help of the drag-ropes, which Winlock and his men hauled over with their string of turbans. We got pretty wet about the legs, but nothing to Anstruther. He led us right round, as he had promised, and at the end we actually marched right through the town without meeting a soul. The men were told to break step, lest the tramp should be heard; but the enemy were all ever so far off, watching affectionately for our reappearance on the other side of the canal. They hadn’t the slightest suspicion of our real whereabouts. Of course, if we had known which way we were coming back, we might have done a lot of things—taken some dynamite and blown up General Keeling’s house, perhaps—but it’s no use repining about that now.”
“Repining? I should think not!” cried Flora. “You’ve had a whole night of marching and counter-marching, and strategic movements and capturing guns, and you come home to find a nice little fight waiting for you before you can lie down to sleep, and yet, when you are in the very act of playing Othello to two Desdemonas, you pretend you aren’t satisfied!”
“Oh, we haven’t made enough of them,” said Mabel briskly. “They think we ought to have met them at the gate, and cast the flowers out of our best hats before them as they marched in. I’m sure this morbid thirst for appreciation oughtn’t to be gratified, for their own sakes. Now I am going to take the boy back to his mother. His brains will certainly be addled if Ismail Bakhsh rocks him up and down much longer.”
“What’s happened to the Commissioner?” asked Haycraft, as Mabel disappeared with the baby. “We rather thought we should find him here.”
“I don’t know,” said Flora. “He hasn’t been in this morning. Oh no,” as Haycraft lifted his eyebrows, “they haven’t quarrelled. They were quite friendly last night. I daresay he’s busy.”
“It is because of the Baba Sahib that the Kumpsioner Sahib has not come,” remarked Ismail Bakhsh calmly, pausing at the corner of the verandah, and addressing no one in particular.
“Our friend understands English too well,” muttered Haycraft to Fitz. “But what can he mean—that Burgrave dislikes babies, or that he is jealous because Miss North is so much taken up with it?”
“The Kumpsioner Sahib will not come here in the daytime,” was the dark reply. “That is why this unworthy one will keep guard here at night, sahib.”
“What maggot has the old fellow got in his brain now?” asked Fitz, when Ismail Bakhsh had disappeared down the passage.
“I really think this valued family retainer is getting a little bit cracked,” said Flora. “Do just imagine the Commissioner creeping in here in the dark with a dagger to murder the baby!”
“Or smothering it with pillows!” chuckled Haycraft.
“Well, I only hope Ismail Bakhsh won’t go and shoot some one by mistake,” said Fitz.
“There is a deputation from the regiment waiting at the end of the verandah, anxious to interview your son and heir, Mrs North,” said Dr Tighe in the afternoon of the same day.
“How nice of them! I wish I could take him to them myself,” said Georgia.
“You must leave that to his proud aunt,” said Mabel. “But surely we ought to smarten him up a little, Georgie? I wish we had a proper robe for him. How would that white embroidered shawl of mine do to wrap him in?”
“No, tell Rahah to get out the shawl which the native officers gave me for a wedding present. It is in the regimental colours, and that will please them more than anything.”
“Now, don’t excite yourself,” entreated Mabel. “You are getting quite flushed over the boy’s toilette. Do leave him to us. Surely Mrs Hardy and Rahah and Flora and I can dress one baby between us?”
“Well, mind that if they hold out the hilts of their tulwars, you make him touch them with his hand, and the same if they bring any present.”
“Oh, Flora will prompt me. Don’t be afraid, Georgie. The boy’s first public appearance shall do credit to us all, and the regiment too.”
But when Mabel stepped out into the verandah, carrying the gorgeous bundle, she was met by Ismail Bakhsh, who held out his arms with an air of proprietorship which she resented. “No, no!” she said, shaking her head vigorously; “I am going to hold him.”
“Nay, Miss Sahib, am I not his bearer? Was I not for ten years orderly to Sinjāj Kīlin Sahib? Have I not served Nāth Sahib and the Mem——?”
“Don’t hurt his feelings, Miss North,” laughed Dr Tighe.
“Well, he can stand beside me and lift the boy’s hand to touch the swords and presents and things. People will really have to understand that he belongs to us as well as the regiment.”
The honourable post assigned to him served to mollify Ismail Bakhsh, and he took his stand beside Mabel with immense dignity. The members of the deputation were all in full uniform, and advanced to pay their respects strictly in order of rank. All unconsciously, the baby itself struck the right note at the very outset. When Ressaldar Badullah Khan came forward and held up the hilt of his sword, there was no need for Ismail Bakhsh to guide the little hand to it. The glittering metal, rendered dazzling by a ray of light which came through a bullet-hole in the curtain, seemed to catch the baby’s eye, and the aimless movements of both arms which followed were immediately interpreted as indicating a desire to seize the sword.
“Shabash! Shabash!” came in eager accents from the men behind. “He is the true son of Sinjāj Kīlin. The sword will never be out of his hand.”
Badullah Khan retired, much gratified, and Ghulam Rasul, taking his place, was careful to hold his sword where the light fell upon it. Again the baby stretched out its arms to the gleam, and this was accepted as confirming the omen. The rest of the deputation were content when Ismail Bakhsh raised the baby’s hand to touch their sword-hilts, and the same was the case with regard to the two or three gold coins which were brought forward as a mark of respect. The bearer of this nasr was just retiring when an untoward incident occurred. There was a sudden whirr, and a bullet, piercing the matting curtain, ploughed up the skin of Ismail Bakhsh’s wrist and passed through the fleshy part of his arm, before burying itself in the wall behind him. The group in the verandah stood staring at one another. Flora declared afterwards that Mabel dropped the baby in her fright, and that it was only rescued by a frantic effort on the part of Dr Tighe, but Mabel repudiated the accusation with scorn. Certain it is that her nephew was still in her arms the moment after, when a cry of “A hit! a palpable hit!” came from the nearest tower, following closely upon the report of a rifle.
“Are you trying to pot the baby, Winlock?” shouted the doctor, recognising the voice, and stooping under the curtain to step out into the courtyard.
“No, but I’ve sniped the sniper. There’s no cover on Gun Hill now, and I saw his head when he raised it to fire. No harm done, I hope?”
“Well, the Luck of Alibad very nearly came to an abrupt and premature end. Take the child in, Miss North, and reassure the mother. Master North has had his baptism of fire pretty early in life.”
“What can have made them fire in this direction now that we have the curtain?” asked Flora, as she brought out a pair of scissors to slit up Ismail Bakhsh’s sleeve.
“I see how it is,” cried the doctor. “The curtain doesn’t quite reach the ground, and the sight of such an assemblage of spurs, shining in the sun, showed the sniper that something was going on in this neighbourhood. It’s a happy thing that Ismail Bakhsh was standing in front of the baby.”
“Ah,” said the old man, with a delighted grin, “the Baba Sahib is altogether ours now. We have paid our respects at his first durbar, and we have been under fire with him already. Surely the Ressaldar-Major Sahib and those who are absent with him will be mad with envy of us!”
“And you have shed your blood for him,” said Dr Tighe, as he bandaged the arm.
“Nay, sahib, it all belongs to him. He has but taken toll.”
“Isn’t he perfectly sweet, Georgie?” Mabel was demanding at that moment, by way of diverting Georgia’s mind from the danger to which the baby had been exposed. Kneeling at the side of the bed, she was trying, with conspicuous lack of success, to tempt her nephew to play with her hair. “Don’t you think he’s the most delightful baby that ever was born?” she asked again.
“Of course,” said Georgia, smiling. “I am almost as proud of him as Dr Tighe is, and that’s saying a good deal.”
“And he’s so good,” resumed Mabel, referring to the baby, not to the doctor. “He has scarcely cried a bit, and that is such a comfort under the circumstances. It would have been so discreditable if the Luck of Alibad had cried whenever a shot was fired, but he’s a regular little hero.”
“Well, he has no lack of nurses, if that’s good for the temper,” said Georgia. “Oh, how I wish his father could see him!” she sighed suddenly, as the baby moved in her arms and looked straight before it with solemn grey eyes.
“Perhaps he can,” suggested Mabel softly.
“Why, Mab! what do you mean?” cried Georgia, her face flushing.
“I only meant that many people think they are allowed to know what is happening on earth,” explained Mabel, with some hesitation. Georgia laid her head upon the pillow again with a little moan of disappointment.
“You will talk as if Dick was dead!” she said. “I thought you had heard something—that he was here, perhaps.”
“Oh, Georgie!” cried Mabel, in strong remonstrance. Then, remembering that exciting topics ought to be avoided, she changed the subject. “What do you mean to call the boy? Have you decided?”
“St George Keeling,” was the unhesitating reply. “Dick has always said that if he had a son he would name him after my father.”
“Then you won’t call him after Dick? Oh, Georgie!”
Georgia smiled triumphantly. “Oh yes, I shall insist upon that. If Dick chooses two names, I’m sure I have a right to choose one. Richard St George Keeling North—it’s rather long, isn’t it? but Dick won’t mind.”
“Then I suppose,” said Mabel, feeling her way timorously, “that you are not thinking of having him christened just yet? Mr Hardy was asking me whether you would like it to be soon, as things are so uncertain.”
“Before his father comes back? Certainly not,” said Georgia, with so much decision that Mabel dared make no further protest. She attacked Dr Tighe, however, upon the subject when she saw him next.
“You thought that poor Georgia’s delusion would pass away when the baby was born, but she is as fully convinced as ever that Dick is alive,” she said, with something of triumph.
“I know,” acquiesced the doctor, “and I am disappointed. But the delusion is bound to disappear in course of time—when she sees his grave, if not before. And I’d have you remember, Miss North, that she’s likely only hoping against hope now. Her reason may be assuring her that he’s dead, while her heart fights against the notion. To try to combat this hope of hers would only make her stick to it all the more. Let it alone, and it will fade away naturally.”
Much against her will, Mabel promised to obey. It seemed to her that it was both wrong and cruel to allow such a state of uncertainty to continue; but as the days passed on without any further suggestion that Dick was alive, she began to be satisfied that the delusion was fading fr