cynicism and petty distrust, as the bright mountain freshet sweeps away
the wretched little mud puddles and the dust and impurities from the bed
of a half dry stream. It was a new sensation and a novel era in my
experience of humanity, and the desire to get behind that noble
forehead, and see its inmost workings, was strong beyond the strength of
puny doubts and preconceived prejudice. Therefore, when Isaacs appeared,
looking like the sun-god for all his quiet dress of gray and his
unobtrusive manner, I felt the "little thrill of pleasure" so aptly
compared by Swinburne to the soft touch of a hand stroking the outer
hair.

"What a glorious day after all that detestable rain!" were his first
words. "Three mortal months of water, mud, and Mackintoshes, not to
mention the agreeable sensation of being glued to a wet saddle with your
feet in water-buckets, and mountain torrents running up and down the
inside of your sleeves, in defiance of the laws of gravitation; such is
life in the monsoon. Pah!" And he threw himself down on a cane chair and
stretched out his dainty feet, so that the sunlight through the crack of
the half-closed door might fall comfortingly on his toes, and remind him
that it was fine outside.

"What have you been doing all day?" I asked, for lack of a better
question, not having yet recovered from the mental stagnation induced by
the last number of the serial story I had been reading.

"Oh--I don't know. Are you married?" he asked irrelevantly.

"God forbid!" I answered reverently, and with some show of feeling.

"Amen," was the answer. "As for me--I am, and my wives have been