Rudyard Kipling 193 ing across the road to write a letter to Dick, when she was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse. How Torpenhow had managed in the course of twenty hours to find his way to the hearts of the cavalry officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to discuss with them the certainty of a glorious revenge for France, to reduce the colonel to tears of pure affability, and to borrow the best horse in the squadron for the journey to Kami’s studio, is a mystery that only special correspondents can unravel. “I beg your pardon,” said he. “It seems an absurd question to ask, but the fact is that I don’t know her by any other name: Is there any young lady here that is called Maisie?” “I am Maisie,” was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat. “I ought to introduce myself,” he said, as the horse capered in the blinding white dust. “My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best friend, and — and — the fact is that he has gone blind.” “Blind!” said Maisie, stupidly. “He can’t be blind.” “He has been stone-blind for nearly two months.” Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. “No! No! Not blind! I won’t have him blind!” “Would you care to see for yourself?” said Torpenhow. “Now, — at once?” “Oh, no! The Paris train doesn’t go through this place till tonight. There will be ample time.” “Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?” “Certainly not. Dick wouldn’t do that sort of thing. He’s sitting in his studio, turning over some letters that he can’t read because he’s blind.” There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining