the washing which returned skilfully repaired.

I suspect I am getting bitter and ironical, and it will be wise to
stop, for we are fickle creatures, the best of us, and it is quite
possible that, in the mild twilight of life, in the old country, I
shall find myself speaking benevolently of the Dhobie, and secretly
wishing I could hear his plaintive monotone again counting out my
linen at four rupees a hundred.



THE AYAH



I was roaming among the flower-beds and bowers of a "Peri's
Paradise," known in Bombay as The Ladies Gymkhana, when I was
startled by a voice like the sound of a passionate cart-wheel
screaming for grease. "Lub ob my heart," it cried, "my eshweet,
don't crei! don't crei!" The owner of the voice was a woman with a
negro type of countenance, as far as I remember, but her figure has
remained with me better than her face. It was a portly figure, like
that of a domestic duck in high condition, and her gait was, as Mr.
Onoocool Chunder Mookerjee would say, "well quadrate" to the figure.
Engulphed in her voluminous embrace was a little cherub, with golden
curls and blue eyes dewy with passing tears--a pretty study of
sunshine and shower. The great, bare arms of the pachyderm were
loaded with bangles of silver and glass, which jingled with a warlike
sound as she hugged her little charge and plastered its pretty cheeks
with great gurgling kisses, which made one shudder and think