indispensable. The barber is the general newsagent, and, as we part
with our beards in the morning, we learn from him all particulars of
the dinner at the general's last night, and of the engagement that
resulted between the pretty Missy Baba and the captain who has been
so much about the house; also when the marriage is to take place, if
the captain can get out of his debts, the exact amount of which Old
Tom knows. He can tell us, too, the reason why she "jawaubed" him so
often, being put up to it by her mother in the interests of a rival
suitor, and he has authentic information as to the real grounds of
the mother's change of tactics. But Old Tom is himself dependent on
Ayahs, and there are matters beyond his range, matters which even in
an Indian station cannot reach us by any male channel. They trickle
from madam to Ayah, from Ayah to Ayah, and from Ayah to madam. Thus
they ooze from house to house, and we are all saved from judging our
neighbours by outward appearances.

That scene in the Ladies' Gymkhana comes back and haunts me. What if
the impress of those swarthy lips on that fair cheek are but an
outward symbol of impressions on a mind still as fair and pure,
impressions which soap and water will not purge away! Yes, it is so.
The Ayah hangs like a black cloud over and around the infant mind,
and its earliest outlooks on the world are tinted by that medium. It
lies with wondering blue eyes watching the coloured toys which she
dangles before it, and takes in the elements of form and colour. She
pats it to sleep, and, on the borders of dream-land, those "sphere-
born, harmonious sisters, voice and verse," visit it in the form of a
plaintive ditty, which has for its simple burden,


Little, little fish