while the weird beast disappeared like a yellow streak.

"Whatever is the matter?" he asked as I sank to the floor.

"Olivia's afraid of the _butcha_ otter!" squealed Hilda, while she
scampered about looking for the truant.

"Otter?" said I.

"Yes," said Mr. Royle; "they are baby otters that the fisherman found
at the side of the lake. I thought of sending them to the Calcutta
Zoo. They aren't very common in India."

"I'm _so_ glad!" I gasped; and Mr. Royle looked mystified. It didn't
seem exactly a reason for fervent gladness, but suppose they _had_
been mongooses? My life, so to speak, was ruined.

Staying in the house with Mr. Royle is rather like being with Colonel
Newcome in the flesh. He is such a very "perfect gentil Knight"--as
courteous to a native woman as to the L.-G.'s wife. The people round
about adore him and his wife; they are a kind of father and mother to
the whole district. There would be little heard of disloyalty to the
British if all the Sahibs were like Mr. Royle, He is so good--I'd be
almost afraid to be so good in case I died--but not the least in a
sickly way. He is a teetotaller, a thing almost unheard of in India;
and he isn't ashamed to be heard singing hymns with the children
before their bed-time; yet (why yet?) he is a crack shot, a fine polo
player, an all-round sportsman.

Both he and his wife are very fond of books. Mrs. Royle reads