form is rather like the too famous retreat of Colonel Monson : Ghore par haudah, háthi par zin. In English, adapted to the circumstances, ' Dogs in cages and dicky-birds in muzzles.' However, there you are, and still the best of correspondents, though I no longer have to rely on you for home news. We used to dream of being together when India had no more use for me; instead of which we find ourselves comparing notes on settling down in different places.

It is good to be here in English country, among bright English faces, hearing the rich Western talk. And yet there is a kind of Asiatic home-sickness with it. One does miss the cheerful brown babies (clear, lustrous bronze, not the muddy tint that comes of mixing negro and white), and the coppersmith with prehensile toes who sits hammering in his open shopfront, while a small boy next door is making his first copy of bold square Nagari letters in an equally open manner, and quite unmoved by the noise. And I am sorry to think that I may not expect to see my old friend Ram Singh again. I have told you of him--a poor gentleman with nothing in the world but his bit of land and his grandfather's tulwar, which he carries tucked under his arm, according to the privilege of Native States. And he will look any one, from the Viceroy downwards, straight in the eyes, and talk to him with the most perfect manners, knowing what he owes to himself as a Rajput of ancient family, and assuming that the Englishman knows it-as, if he is worth his salt, he does. Walter Scott would have understood Ram Singh down to the ground. (I hope to live to see the public understand ; that is the only final security against the formulising creatures of pens and ink who infest all governments, even the most God-granted.) There must have been such people in the Highlands, almost within living memory.

I have broken off for a hunt in my battered copy of Colonel Tod's · Rajasthan,' one of the most fascinating and worst arranged books in the world. At length I find the story of the young Rajput sepoy, who, being alone in charge of an elephant, was set upon by about fifty robbers, fired on them, and was cut down and left desperately wounded. Having been brought into camp, 'he was firm, collected, and even cheerful ; and, to a kind reproach for his rashness, he said, “What would you have said, Captain Sabib, had I surrendered the Company's musket without fighting?” All this packed away in a casual footnote. Compani ká

bandúq is dead and buried, and John Company too; but the Rajput breed is there still, and, moreover, can shoot straight as well as fight, now that there is something better than the musket of our ancestors to shoot with,

But this is Tolcarne, and I am no longer a Political, but a squire, or squireling, of Wessex; and you ask me for the news.

6

Vegetables you shall have as soon as it pleases the elements and Enticknap. Talk not to me of terrifying curates, but teach me how I may be delivered from grovelling before Enticknap. A certain dignity is expected of me' by the traditions of the service, but what is a poor man to do who knows nothing of English gardening? I have corresponded with official superiors, interviewed holy men of several religions, clean and dirty, clothed and unclothed, in their right minds and otherwise, and all unshakeable in argument (Harry knows the other end of one of those stories; I mentioned, by the way, to the Mullah at parting, as a piece of family news, the impending arrival of Harry's battery in camp, and we heard no more of the tribal saint growing half a cubit a week in his grave); and I have wholly failed to make any impression on a globe-trotting anti-opiumist; but your gardener is the only true infallible. Enticknap says the almonds are blighted like. Do I know what he means? No. Why don't I ask him? What? Would you have me tamper with the foundations of belief? Perhaps you may know, though. Enticknap admits no difference of opinion in matters of gardening, but I believe him to admit that you are capable of understanding his reasons. Anyhow, there is no almond blossom yet.

As to our people-animals first, of course. Merlin the ancient, who was young and frisky when I last went out, is confirmed in his opinion that I am really the same person. Songstress, apparently so called from being of a rather silent habit, and of even more melancholy looks than a basset-hound has any right to be, has taken a sort of quiet fancy to Margaret. Curates' legs do not interest them, naturally. Why should they? Bishops' legs, now-nice tight gaiters all over, buttons to take hold of-are quite different. Dear old Bishop Abraham was irresistible to the college beagles at Eton. It was against etiquette for him to notice their existence-and he didn't. Mr. Weekes must either be nervous about dogs, or generally anxious about his own person, or-as indeed you most plausibly conjecture-at a pass for something to say. He is but a kutcha sort of young

padre, or it might be juster perhaps to say in literal English, half-baked, for he may make a man yet. Just now he is distracted between shyness and zeal to improve in cycling (it will be so useful to him for visiting his flock in a scattered parish); Margaret is the only person here, for the moment, who knows much about it, and she conducts us on easy rides fit for beginners; she says she won't answer for the consequences if either of us is turned loose on these roads before she certifies us quite safe. If I am a good old man she holds out hopes that in a few weeks more I may ride all the way down the hill to Little Buckland. You know the curve and the steepness thereof-no, you don't; looking down a hill from a bicycle is quite unlike looking down it in any other position. At present, that caution-board is more formidable to me than any Ghazi's green turban to any soldier, Our cousin Jem of Silvertoe is said to be a mighty man of wheels; I am writing to him for some general advice, as Mr. Weekes, having an inordinate respect for every kind of authority, and having heard of Jem in that capacity from some Oxbridge friend, would not rest till I did. That youth would rather be stuck on the devil's pitchfork-being the real proper devil-than wafted to heaven on the wings of an unlicensed seraph. However, Jem ceases from his lectures in a week or two now, so there is no harm in asking him. Weekes is, so far, less able on his machine than I am, but he has got up the slang elaborately, and indited a list of questions for Jem which I don't more than half understand. . . Margaret sends me packing to dress for dinner. What a treasure is a methodical daughter! . . . I came home to enjoy a spell of being governed.

Monday night. Also not to have a mail day to think of. This Aryan brother is going to say abby-nay when he likes, now he is mustered out. Yes, we like the Folletts already. The little old gentleman is quiet, seems dry at first; I thought we should never get much forwarder. But never make formulas about people till you know them (did not you teach me that principle ?), and best not then. Towards the end of his return visit, Margaret mentioned that the eminent restoring architect, Mr. Newpoyntz, had been seen at the station. Not to do anything to the church, Mr. Vicar?' says I. Saving my cloth,' says he, 'I would sooner curse him with the curse of Ernulphus than have him touch a stone of it.' 'Is it so?' cried I, and took down the little "Tristram Shandy' that used to go my rides with me in one

pocket to balance the Penal Code in the other. 'Indeed, Sir
Richard,' said he, just a little taken aback, with the book in his
hand, and a queer little pucker about his lips, by the virtue of
this book, I am bold to profess myself a humble admirer of the
late Mr. Sterne-as a man of letters.' So thereupon we are
friends not yet so far as the friend of friends and enemy of
your
your enemies footing; we shall see. Nobody can tell me to what
school of theology Mr. Follett belongs, and that I like well, too.

For one fruit of our acquaintance, the Vicar is to show me in
Selden's Titles of Honour,' when I am next at the parsonage,
some profitable matter for Sir Augustus and the Honourable
Order.

I note your family news, and perceive that my training in the political department is not to lie rusty. Meanwhile, I guess many things will answer themselves. There is surely something I forgot—yes, we call the new cart horse Job,' because there is nobody else he looks like. From your loving brother, these-nay, we have royal names, and it pleases me to sign as a sovereign. Sur ce, Madame et sœur, que Dieu vous ayt dans sa tressainte garde.

RICHARD ETCHINGHAM.

P.S.-I have read Only a Woman's Heart.' Minnie I think it excellent. What I mean is the title. I believe it was her own invention.

You can tell
Not that

III.

From Miss Elizabeth Etchingham to Sir Richard Etchingham.

DEAR, oh dear, oh dear-the vegetables have never come. Elements and Enticknap permitting or not permitting, send, best of brothers, a mildewed beetroot or a frost-bitten cabbage at once. Remember that our immortal feelings, not our mortal appetites, are at stake, and in such a case a very turnip's top may prove ambrosia.

'Lady Clementine Muir never buys a cabbage. The cabbagetide flows in fast from Muir Hall. Mrs. Carstairs neveryou love me, Richard, send a leaf or root.

As

I was very glad to have your letter. To see your handwriting on any but the transparent envelope, stamped with the far-away

a

looking light-green stamp, gives me a shock of pleasure, and somehow I am not wholly sorry that you in Wessex do in a manner regret the Land of Regrets. The Land of Regrets does not get its share of sentiment. Our countrymen and countrywomen pass years and years of life there, and--unless there is a child's grave to leave for ever also—can apparently say an eternal farewell to India with not the slightest pulling up of themselves by the roots.

Yes, I seem to know your friend, Ram Singh, his nice honour, his gentle manners, and high courage, and I wonder if he is the Rajput Colonel Newcome-Colonel Newcome with a prouder ancestry behind him.

I wish you would make a book of Indian heroes for the children's reading by and by. (It goes without saying nowadays that by the children’ we mean Charles and Minnie's boys.) These recent Frontier campaigns have brought forth deeds of heroism sufficient for the filling of many chapters. I wish you would tell, with other stories of valour, of the Sikhs who last June, by that garden wall in the Tochi Valley, lost their lives to cover the retreat of their wounded comrades. I wish you would put into print the names of Subadars Sundar Singh, 1st Bengal Infantry, of Narain Singh and Sundar Singh, 1st Sikhs, who, seeing all the British officers wounded, got together a party of their men, making a most determined stand, and covering the withdrawal whilst themselves under heavy fire. The wording of the despatch concerning that Tochi Valley garden-wall site, which I read first in the copy of The Madras Weekly Mail,' sent by Colonel Leagrave to Cynthia, stuck in my memory like a burr. "The conduct of Subadar Sundar Singh, 1st Punjab Infantry, at the place where he died was most heroic. At this place many other men also behaved with great heroism. All those who fell there gave their lives to cover the withdrawal of their comrades.'

You will like the boys. Your namesake is an attractive creature, and little Harry a Puck-like spirit. Their Uncle Harry, who, from the first, found great favour in their sight, proved in levee harness a ravishingly splendid spectacle. 'I speak gwuff and wear a sward like Uncle Hawey, Harry now declares, and since the levee day he and his brother try with more assiduity than success 'to speak gwuff.'

I don't know if everything is spoilt by use, but the faculty