scarcely breathed, praying that she might speak again, but the
good minute was gone. She drew one or two deep breaths, and sat
up with a bewildered look that quickly passed.

"I was quite sleepy for a minute. The climb was so strenuous.
Hark - I hear the Flute of Krishna again."

And again I could hear nothing, but she said it was sounding from
the trees at the base of the hill. Later when we climbed down I
found she was right - that a peasant lad, dark and amazingly
beautiful as these Kashmiris often are, was playing on the flute
to a girl at his feet - looking up at him with rapt eyes. He
flung Vanna a flower as we passed. She caught it and put it in
her bosom. A singular blossom, three petals of purest white, set
against three leaves of purest green, and lower down the stem the
three green leaves were repeated. It was still in her bosom after
dinner, and I looked at it more closely.

"That is a curious flower," I said. "Three and three and three.
Nine. That makes the mystic number. I never saw a purer white.
What is it?"

"Of course it is mystic," she said seriously. "It is the Ninefold
Flower. You saw who gave it?"

"That peasant lad."

She smiled.

"You will see more some day. Some might not even have seen that."