It required some stretch of imagination to connect Nan's dainty freshness with musty bibelots at an auction.

"Nan, is that quite true? Is there nobody else at all?"

"Not a soul, Boy. I don't want to marry anyone. I enjoy life intensely as it is. What possesses you men to think that we women spend our days dreaming about getting married, as if it was the be-all and end-all of our lives?"

"So it ought to be. "There's no pleasure in life but is sweetened by companionship, and no companionship half so sweet as marriage,' said Eldred vigorously misquoting Burton. "Nan, do say you'll marry me. You know you love me. You said so yesterday. . . .”

...

"I didn't," said Nan, shifting her position lazily, and tucking her skirt tighter round her neat ankles, while a faint glow came into her cheeks. "I only said that I liked you more than . . . lots of other men." ""Than anyone else I know' was the exact remark. Truth is even more than grammar, Nan," said Eldred. "If you like me more than anyone else, why don't you marry me?"

To his masculine mind this seemed quite unanswerable. Voices behind him caused him to turn.

"D! There's the Nicholsons' punt," and round the bend came another punt with four people in it, and he never got another chance of proposing again that day-and though he made the most of such chances as he got in the few remaining days of his leave, he had finally to depart without the much-desired answer.

All he got was a promise that change of feelings on the subject, which he must realize were quite unlikely, would be duly reported. Also a little cameo ring, because he would write such mad letters and not fasten them properly, and as he hadn't a

signet ring he could have this one, which she hardly ever wore.

All cold comfort for a man whose whole world hung on her lightest breath, who literally worshiped the ground under her little high-heeled shoes.

The ring, perhaps, was the most comforting thing of all, since it showed that the "mad" letters were not unpleasing to the recipient. He used it at every port on the way out, and every mail after arriving in India. Each long letter, madder, more passionate than the last; each one a proposal in itself. Nan would answer fairly regularly in chatty, cheery letters, talking of every subject under the sun except the one about which the whole soul of the man hungered to hear. She was a good letter-writer, and had a knack of portraying in a few words the people she met, and giving her impressions of them.

At last he wrote to say that as all hiş letters did not seem to have the slightest effect, and she did not seem to know her own mind, he would stop writing until she did. Perhaps some of the men she was always talking about might help her to make it up, and then he might get an answer.

It was a foolish, ungentle letter to write; but the continual hungering for her was telling on him, and hope deferred is poor diet for a lovesick man. He hoped, in a misguided fashion, that it might force Nan's hand.

When he had posted it he was sorry, and waited longingly for the answer. But no answer came, for her letters stopped abruptly the very week that war broke out, which was the mail he calculated ought to have brought the

answer.

In his pig-headedness he wouldn't even write when the regiment went on service to Africa. He had said that he would not write; and so he

didn't, though he would have given all the world to take back that foolish letter and continue on the old terms.

"Ismith sahib agie," said the lean Indian bugler to Ward, who stood at the parapet of Mirima Camp gazing down the long grass slope to the river, crossing whence the narrow bushtrack wound upwards amid the tangled yellow grass and the queer-shaped aloes with their tall stems, looking for all the world like fantastic candelabra.

Behind him, in a patchwork of vivid African sunlight and heavy shadow, were the men's huts-rough little twisted grass affairs nestling among the tall cocoanut-palms of the scattered plantation, which, owing to its comparative openness, offered a suitable site for a camp both from the point of comfort and defense.

Lining the perimeter were a number of sepoys in various stages of dress and undress, but each with rifle and bandolier, hastily turned out at the alarm given by the lookout, who, perched in a high crow's nest on the tallest tree, had discerned the movement of troops in the bush below. A few minutes' tension, and then the recognition that they were friendsIndians, too; and then, as they drew nearer, men of the regiment and the keen-eyed bugler recognized the officer with them.

"By Jove! so it is," and Ward ran down the slope to greet his friend.

"Hulloa, old thing! You're looking fit. Somewhat different to what you were when I watched your stretcher going down six weeks ago." Smith had been invalided down with fever. "How long have you been out of hospital?"

"Three weeks or so; they sent me for a joy-ride to Nairobi after I got out. Then headquarters being full of wars and rumors of wars, they collected

all the 'fits' and a new draft and told me to bring 'em out here. Phew, it's hot and sticky today, and I've got some thirst. I've brought you down some beer, because I thought you would probably be weary of ration rum and muddy sparklet."

The column entered the camp and the men were instantly surrounded by groups of friends, all eager to hear the latest news, for post duty in East Africa is not the most thrilling of amusements, except when Brer Boche turns out in force, and then as a rule it is too thrilling to last long, or used to be in the first year of war, when Ward and Smith found themselves at Mirima.

The camp was ten miles from the next post, and the daily paper was not forthcoming daily, or even weekly, and mails were few and far between. Barring occasional shots with itinerant Hun patrols and patrolling towards Kigomani, a German post across the border some twelve miles to the south, existence at Mirima was, to say the least of it, monotonous. One's chief occupation was trying to keep one's men fit, and reducing, or endeavoring to reduce, the sick rate from fever. Of late both sides seemed to have adopted the "live and let live" policy.

The men were dismissed and the two officers walked over to the grass hut which served as dining-room and mess generally. At the back of it were the officers' tents, covered with thick grass roofs, in an endeavor to make them sunproof, but even with these additions it was safer to keep your helmet on inside in the middle of the day.

"Come and get a wash," said Ward, leading the way to his tent.

Smith unbuckled his straps, and slipping off his belt with its dangling attachments-revolver, glasses, waterbottle, and so forth-threw it down on the camp bed with a sigh of relief,

for he had been afoot since dawn, and it was now close on midday. He pulled off his turban and mopped his forehead, and then made for the washstand to sluice his head and arms in the tepid water.

Then lighting a cigarette he entered the mess-hut, where Ward was watching with thirsty eyes the boy unpacking a dozen precious bottles of Pilsener.

"Can't offer you much, I'm afraid. Whisky and sparklet; lime-juice and ditto; or your own beer. Which is it to be?"

"Lime-juice for the moment. We'll save the beer for tonight."

The Madrassi boy produced an aluminium mug and the one surviving glass tumbler, and measured out the lime-juice, filling it up with thick tepid sparklet, and handed the nectar to the Sahibs.

"Cheer-O," said Smith as he took a long gulp. "Here's luck," replied Ward. "The cook will have some grub up for you shortly. I expect you could do with a meal when you've dowsed that thirst a bit." everyone?"

"Where's

Smith.

inquired

"Brown, Elliot, and Co. are out on the usual patrol stunt, and the C.O.'s gone with them. They'll be back tonight. What's the latest from headquarters? Are we going to chase the square-head or is he going to come down on Mirima like a wolf on the fold? I wish he would, 'cos we've put in no end of work on the camp, and I wouldn't mind taking on several hundred of him now."

His glance traveled out of the door over the defenses of the camp, which were stoutly built, for the men had worked hard and the C.O. was of an engineering turn of mind, so that the camp would have stood quite a lot of enemy attention.

"Much talk of an advance farther

East, but then that's always on the tapis. I've brought down a couple of 'secret urgents' for the C.O., which looks hopeful. Also Edwards when he gave me the orders to come out here said I should probably be in time for something amusing."

Smith brushed a mosquito off his bare knee and reached for his drink. He was cheery, irresponsible-looking subaltern, with light, rather rebellious hair, and a round boyish face with twinkling blue eyes. He never appeared to take anything seriously, not even his own C.O.; and if there was a muddy end to a stick, he would certainly get hold of it. But you could trust him to have a smile or a jest in the most impossible of circumstances, wherefore his brother officers and his men loved him exceedingly.

"Good egg," said Ward, filling his pipe. "Got a match on you?"

Smith dived into his haversack and tumbled out all sorts of odds and ends, for, like himself, it was very much in the schoolboy stage, and was always crammed with miscellaneous objets d'art from old pipes to bits of string. In getting out the match-box he tumbled out some papers.

"Hulloa, I'd forgotten these. . . There was a mail in the day I left, and I brought these letters along for you."

He sorted out the papers, and passed three letters over to Ward. "Hope I haven't lost any; I didn't count them."

There was a hungry expression on Ward's face as he leaned across for the letters. "Thanks muchly. Here's food coming. I'll just slip over to my tent and wash. I'll be back in a minute or two. Carry on with tiffin."

He went over to his tent, and, sitting down on his bed, looked over the letters quickly. A bill, a letter from his bankers, and one from a friend in France.

"Not even a card from her, and this must be after the New Year mail."

He stared out into the hot, white sunlight with blind, unseeing eyes, his mind back in the dear days on the sleepy river at home before the wardays redolent of sweet memories of Nan. "Not even a little card at Christmas." True, he hadn't sent one, but then he had said that he wouldn't write. She could have sent him a card, for that wouldn't have meant anything at all-merely served to show him that he was not absolutely forgotten.

Mail after mail he had scanned his little packet of letters, hoping for the sight of her dear handwriting, and now the last of the Christmas mail had come and brought nothing. He looked at the postmarks: yes, one of them was dated 30th December, well after Christmas, so that even if she had forgotten the posting date for the Christmas mail, she must have remembered when the day itself came round.

Had she given up thought of him altogether? Was she hopelessly offended by that asinine letter of his? He longed to write to her, but his absurd obstinacy stood in the way. Just two months from now would be her birthday, and perhaps he could write a line for that, without climbing down from his pillar of senseless pride.

"Come along, Ward-tiffin's getting cold." Smith's voice broke in on his thoughts.

"Coming in half a second," and putting the letters in his pocket, he hastily washed and entered the mess-hut.

Late that evening the C.O., after reading the letters Smith had brought, sent for Ward.

"Little job for you, Ward. I want you to take your double company and push out towards Kigomani tomorrow. Camp this side of the river, and proceed for the next two or three days to disport yourself conspicuously in the presence of the enemy, and try to make him think that we are really up to something.

"There's a big show coming off down-stream the day after tomorrow, and I'm taking down the right wing to join in. Your job is to prevent the Huns withdrawing any of their troops from up this way. You can take Smith with you, as you will want a second B. O."

The early part of the night was spent by everyone except Elliot, who was cursing fate because his double company was to stop at Mirima, in getting ready for the morrow, overhauling kits, making loads of stores, and generally attending to the hundred and one details which precede a push of any sort.

Dawn next day saw Ward's double company trailing out of Mirima, a little column of 170 odd rifles and a machinegun, accompanied by a string of fantastically clad (or should one say "ornamented"? for of clothing properly speaking there was hardly a trace) savages bearing load after load of ammunition, rations, bedding, and God knows what else balanced on their heads. Smith, with forty rifles, went ahead as advanced guard, while left and right in the bush could be seen the figures of the flankers as they passed across the occasional open spaces.

The march was uneventful, and they reached the spot selected for the camp without firing a shot or seeing any signs of the enemy other than the mute traces of his hand, which lay heavy on spoiled crop and village alike. Before falling back he had cleared the country effectually, and even when they reached the small village near which they intended to camp there was not a living thing to be seen anywhere.

of patrols across the river, which was just fordable at this point, and they had their first brush with the enemy on the way to Kigomani. Smith returned late in the evening very elated with his day's work.

"Rattled them no end this afternoon," he said on his return. "We bumped into a picket of theirs about a mile and a half across the river. They fell back like blazes, and we chased 'em like stink until we got to about a mile from Kigomani, and ran into something a good deal stronger. They began to get rid of lots of ammunition and seemed viciously inclined, and when they tried to get round my flanks I thought I'd better make tracks for home. We found two of their dead from the picket and think we bagged a couple more, and they never touched us. Fancy we shall be able to frighten them more than a little if we keep on same like stunts. They won't dare to send away any men as long as we are hanging about here, and as we've got the ford, they won't be able to get round behind us."

The ford in question was about 600 yards from the camp, and was the only one for seven or eight miles in either direction. Since there were no bridges the camp would be safe, and even if they stirred up a hornet's nest and had to fall back in a hurry, once across the river it would take the enemy all his time to force the passage; and if he tried to do so, well, he would be playing our game in the best of ways. But Ward felt that that was too much luck to hope for.

"Any machine-guns?" he queried. "None in action anyway, but my orderly said he thought he saw one coming up just as we cleared out. Probably it was, because anything over about fifty square-heads generally has a machine-gun in tow. Wonder why they didn't use it?"

"Wanted you to come a bit closer, I expect. They generally try to draw on patrols that way. You suddenly

find yourselves with their machineguns on either flank, and then unless you're nippy, you're for it proper. A patrol I sent out last week got had that way. By the grace of God they only lost one man, and the rest went to ground and came away quick. Well, tomorrow we'll go out in force and scare them a bit more, and when they're fairly buzzing we'll wander home again."

Next morning they went out with the greater part of the double company, crossed the river, over which a picket was left to ensure the road home, and proceeded toward Kigomani. Evidently they were expected, for they were fired on early: presumably by a few men placed on the roads in front, because when they got up to the place whence the shots had come there were no trenchesonly a handful of empty 410 cartridge

cases.

"Arab screens on the paths," said Ward. "We shall find something interesting soon. Tell those scouts of yours to keep their eyes skinned, and the flankers to keep wide. We want to make gentle advances, but we don't want to be drawn into any specially loving embraces."

The column slowed down a little, while the advanced guard nosed forward once more until they got close to the scene of the previous day's scrap, when they were greeted by a ragged shower of lead-one bullet passing through Smith's turban.