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Wylie, I. A. R. (Ida Alexa Ross), 1885-1959

"The Native Born or, the Rajah's People"

"She loves him," was the concluding thought that flashed
through his mind as Stafford appeared around the corner. He meant to
say something in tender jest to her, but the words died on his lips
and he felt that the hand upon his arm had tightened. It was the only
sign which Lois made that a sudden change had come over her horizon.
She said nothing, but in the same moment that the Colonel's eyes
rested on her in half tender, half teasing query, she knew
instinctively that her happiness had shattered against a rock which,
hidden beneath a treacherously calm sea, had struck suddenly at the
very foundations of her world.
Stafford was coming toward them slowly, his head bent. It was not his
face which, like a bitter frost, froze the overflow of her happy heart
to icy fear--for she could not see it. It was his attitude, his
movements, above all a terrible return of that presentiment which
already once that day had darkened her hopeful, cheery mood. Do what
she would, she could not move to meet him. She could only stand there,
clinging to her guardian's arm, the smile of welcome stiffening on her
pale lips. The Colonel was the first to speak. He held out his
disengaged hand with a frank movement of pleasure.
"Glad to see you, Stafford," he said. "I was beginning to think the
fever had really got hold of you. What has caused the delay?"
"Delay?" Stafford repeated dully, looking from one to the other.


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