showed his hand. Nothing was easier than for his whilom friend to maintain that he had given the orders, and dismiss his report with an imputation against his sanity. From the hero of the hour, he would topple down to a fever-shattered

schemer, who had been foiled in an endeavour to ruin his senior. Even his service would weigh little against such a charge. Not only was he to be robbed of all credit, but he was to be sacrificed to the aggrandisement of this poltroon as well. It was war to the knife, in which honour, friendship, and truth were to be thrust aside.

"Havildar Major!" he shouted.

Bhim Khan appeared saluting in the doorway.

"My witness, Mr. Malleson," he remarked calmly. Then he added: "Since this city is dangerous to you, an apartment will be prepared in the Palace and a file detailed as your guard. The Rajah is too ill to be disturbed. I need detain you no longer.”

The Resident gasped, swore savagely, and retired without dignity.

Bhim Khan smiled with due respect until his sahib explained the situation in a few terse sentences.

"Honoured one, whose smile is my life, this baboo sahib must not rob us. Truly his writing will turn the eyes of the State with anger upon we who have bled."

Hallett nodded gravely.

Dropping his voice, Bhim Khan continued: In the battalion was his kinsman, who should follow the messenger; he was a man of discretion: surely both despatch and messenger would be lost.

Hallett nodded his reputation was at stake.

:

In the city, stones should be thrown at the baboo sahib, unless the honoured one preferred bullets.

Hallett smiled, but intimated that bullets would be regarded as an unnecessary excess of zeal. In six days the Commissioners would arrive, during which time many things might happen. Whereat Bhim Khan saluted, and departed with a joyous heart to see that they did.

So it came to pass that Malleson's report never reached the Government, that he was stoned in the streets of Ferzabad, and that, venturing forth again, his pith helmet was shattered by a well-aimed musket ball. By the will of Allah, assisted by the dramatic way in which his guards described him as being blown from the muzzle of a gun, the Rajah died of fever otherwise fear. Then came certain Parsee gentlemen from Bombay, naturally anxious as to large outstanding debts. Having been received by Major Hallett, they were lodged in the Palace until wanted. The nobles of the State arrived to do honour to their royal dead, and were similarly accommodated. To all appearances these various gentlemen were honoured guests, except to the men of the 100th Sikhs, who regarded them as prisoners. In the meantime the Rajah of Ferzabad was Major Hallett, and the two million people thereof, knowing it, were of humble mien.

With the advent of the Commissioners, Malleson came forth, strong in the wisdom of long service to the State, to find that a week of power had changed his rival to a stern, shrewd ruler of men. In vain he struggled against the testimony. of the officers of the battalion and the native princes: while one established his desertion, the others testified that he had encouraged the extravagance of their Rajah. Throughout one awful morning the man fought desperately for his life's work. Then, alone with his judges and enemy, the Parsee merchants were produced. They did not hint at bribery-they proved it; and with one venomous glance at his rival, Malleson went forth, ruined.

Afterwards the "big gun" of the Commission took Hallett aside and said: "We are not in the least obliged to you, Major Hallett, for having let us in for the

government of another State in the famine districts. But enterprise belongs to youth, and upon the conduct of this affair I congratulate you. As a soldier you are expected to be brave, but the manner in which you put your hand on the native princes and avoided a possible civil war shall be brought to the notice of the Government.... Hem ! you were fortunate in the death of the Rajah. Speaking in my private capacity as your friend' ... he paused to add stress the word, "I

to

understand you are preparing to go home. At this time such a course will be fatal to the very brilliant future which I trust is awaiting you."

So three stories ran through the land. One, which was official, treated of valour, tact, determination, and remarkable administrative ability. Another was for private circulation only, and spoke of ingratitude to friends, base treachery, and vulgar trickery. The last was read at home by a weeping woman between the lines of her lover's letter. Ambition, love

of

"The last was read at home by a weeping woman between the lines of her lover's letter."

power, pride of race, what did love weigh against them in the heart of a man who

had been a king? So the proud woman wrote, telling him that above all duties was the one he owed to her.

Wilfred Hallett had done his duty to the State, fought for his own hand, and won. He had ruled, tasted the sweets of power and the glory of adulation. What wonder that he flung love after friendship and self-respect, and pursued his road to fame alone?

HARRY LANDER.

LES LAVEUSES DE NUIT.

(An old French author records a superstition which long prevailed among peasants, that at certain seasons Night-spirits could be seen and heard, washing in running water the shrouds, and chanting the death-songs, of those destined to die within the year.)

Τ

HE clouds are flitting, the sky is dim,

Though brightened with splashes of light,
The birds are ceasing its surface to skim,

The hush is upon us of Night;

Yet hark! oh, hark!-from mortal throat
Come not the sounds that towards us float,-

Beat and beat, and the white folds wring:
The dirge of the Winding-Sheets we sing.

The shrouds of the Elders first we lave,
Who've bravely their long race run,
Dip in the stream's translucent wave,
Lay them out one by one;

Spread them abroad in the grass to lie,
Waiting the call of the By-and-by.

Beat and beat, and the white folds wring:
The dirge of the Patriarchs we sing.

The cerements take of the Way-worn next,
With whom Life has sternly dealt,

Whom sorrow has tried, and storms have vext,
Who sunshine have scantly felt;

Light be the texture of fine web spun

That covers the Toilers, their hard course done;

Beat and beat, and the white folds wring:
The dirge of the Labour-spent we sing.

Gather the plaits in a gentle hand,

Their masses with soft touch bathe,

Ere the rounded limbs of the Infant Band

In their draperies we swathe,

While memories sore and lost hopes crowd
The snowy depths of pure Childhood's shroud;
Tenderly beat and silently wring:

The dirge in a mother's heart none may sing.

E. C. CORK.