face, and I may note in passing that this is often the case,
because the face is more directly the index of the restless and
unhappy soul within and can attain true beauty only when the soul
is in harmony with its source.

She was a little like her pale and wearied mother. She might
resemble her still more when the sorrow of this world that
worketh death should have had its will of her. I had yet to learn
that this would never be - that she had found the open door of
escape.

We three spent much time together in the days that followed. I
never tired of their company and I think they did not tire of
mine, for my wanderings through the world and my studies in the
ancient Indian literatures and faiths with the Pandit Devaswami
were of interest to them both though in entirely different ways.
Mrs. Ingmar was a woman who centred all her interests in books
and chiefly in the scientific forms of occult research. She was
no believer in anything outside the range of what she called
human experience. The evidences had convinced her of nothing but
a force as yet unclassified in the scientific categories and all
her interest lay in the undeveloped powers of brain which might
be discovered in the course of ignorant and credulous experiment.
We met therefore on the common ground of rejection of the
so-called occultism of the day, though I knew even then, and how
infinitely better now, that her constructions were wholly
misleading.

Nearly all day she would lie in her chair under the deodars by
the delicate splash and ripple of the stream. Living imprisoned