Autolycus, looking very worried, is busied with the task of preparing
the evening meal. One of the _chuprassis_, his gaudy uniform laid
aside, and clad in a fragment of cotton, is sluicing himself with
water and praying audibly. The _dhobi_ is beating our clothes white on
stones in the tank. In the village the women are grinding corn; the
oxen are drawing water from the well. The wood-smoke hangs in wisps on
the hot air, and the song of the boys bringing home the cattle comes
to me distinctly in the stillness. The sunset colours are fading into
the deep blue of the Indian night, and the faithful are being called
to prayer.

At home they are burning the whins on the hillsides, and the Loch o'
the Lowes lies steel-grey under the March sky.




THE LAND OF REGRETS




_Calcutta, April 1 (Monday_).

... The flesh-pots of Calcutta are wonderfully pleasant after jungly
fare, and there is something rather nice about a big airy bedroom with
a bathroom to correspond, hot water at will, and an _ayah_ to look
after one's clothes, after the cramped space of a tent, a zinc bath
wiggling on an uneven floor, and Autolycus fumbling vaguely among