despair. While Nevil was imbibing impressions of Indian Art, Lilámani
was secretly weighing and probing the Indian spirit that inspired it;
sifting the grain from the chaff--a process closely linked with her
personal life; because, for India, religion and life are one.

But no shadow had clouded the joy of reunion with her father; for both
were adepts in the fine art of loving, the touchstone of every human
relation. And in talk with him she could straighten out her tangle of
impressions, her secret doubts and fears.

Also there had been Rama, elder brother, studying at college and loving
as ever to the sister transformed into English-wife--yet sister still.
And there had been fuller revelation of the wonders of India, in their
travels northward, even to the Himalayas, abode of Shiva, where Nevil
must go to escape the heat and paint more pictures--always more
pictures. Travelling did not suit her. She was too innately a creature
of shrines and sanctities. And in India--home of her spirit--there
seemed no true home for her any more....

* * * * *

Five years later, when Roy was six and Christine two and a half, they
had been tempted to repeat their visit, even in the teeth of stern
protests from Jane, who regarded the least contact with India as fatal
to the children they had been misguided enough to bring into the world.
That second time, things had been easier; and there had been the added
delight of Roy's eager interest; his increasing devotion to the
grandfather, whose pride and joy in him rivalled her own.

"In this little man we have the hope of England and India!" he would