My servant dismounted and led his horse, asking from every one
where the "Kedarnath" could be found, and eager black eyes
sparkled and two little bronze images detached themselves from
the crowd of boys, and ran, fleet as fauns, before us.

Above the last bridge the Jhelum broadens out into a stately
river, controlled at one side by the banked walk known as the
Bund, with the Club House upon it and the line of houseboats
beneath. Here the visitors flutter up and down and exchange the
gossip, the bridge appointments, the little dinners that sit so
incongruously on the pure Orient that is Kashmir.

She would not be here. My heart told me that, and sure enough the
boys were leading across the bridge and by a quiet shady way to
one of the many backwaters that the great river makes in the
enchanting city. There is one waterway stretching on afar to the
Dal Lake. It looks like a river - it is the very haunt of peace.
Under those mighty chenar, or plane trees, that are the glory of
Kashmir, clouding the water with deep green shadows, the sun can
scarcely pierce, save in a dipping sparkle here and there to
intensify the green gloom. The murmur of the city, the chatter of
the club, are hundreds of miles away. We rode downward under the
towering trees, and dismounting, saw a little houseboat tethered
to the bank. It was not of the richer sort that haunts the Bund,
where the native servants follow in a separate boat, and even the
electric light is turned on as part of the luxury. This was a
long low craft, very broad, thatched like a country cottage
afloat. In the forepart lived the native owner, and his family,
their crew, our cooks and servants; for they played many parts in
our service. And in the afterpart, room for a life, a dream, the