Chapter II: Part 2

Like all wild beasts, the wolves retreated to their secret bower for a midday sleep, and took their stroll in the moonlight. So Carl was almost always in the dark, and his eyes grew so weak he began to blink like an owl in the sunshine. For sometimes he waked up when his wolfish companions were all fast asleep, and at such times he was apt to stray beyond the dense foliage of the korinda. Now and then the fierce blaze of the noonday sun shot a swift ray across the drying watercourse, where a fallen tree made a break in the thick masses of leaves that for the most part shut out sky and sun altogether. He would scramble over the rough ground, attracted by its brilliancy, and then, half-blinded by the unaccustomed light, stumble and fall. Many a sad hurt befell him, and many a time Old Gray Legs fetched him home; many a fight he had with chattering monkeys and sprightly-spotted fawns--fights which would have ended badly for Carl but for the vigilance of his foster-parents. But the scars and scratches, the bites and stings, taught him at last to find protection and safety by the gray wolf's side, until he became afraid to lose sight of her, and answered her slightest call as dutifully as the five strong cubs, who were now his sole playfellows.

He became the old wolf's constant care; for the perils which surrounded him increased when week after week wore away, and the ever-increasing heat dried up the last and deepest pool, which had remained to mark the course of the once dashing torrent. The blackening grasses rustled as the wolves rushed hither and thither, with their tongues hanging out of their mouths from thirst; and the young things cried for the water they could not find.

When the moon rose behind the rocky steeps which shut in the koond with its precipitous wall, the patriarch of the pack gave tongue, and called his hairy children to follow him out. The time had come for those five wolflings to obey the call, and Carl was as unwilling to be left behind as the gray wolf was to leave him. Out, out he went into the silvery moonlight, led by the two old wolves into the very midst of the pack, catching something of the excitement of the hunt as the wolves swept down the dried-up river-bed with an appalling howl, in pursuit of their flying prey. To keep up with them was impossible, and when he could neither run nor crawl, in his terror he scrambled upon his foster-mother's back and rode.

When that appalling howl rang through the midnight air, every sleeper in Noak-holly wakened in trembling fear; and yet a bit of white rag fluttering at the end of a tall bamboo would have made so good a "scare-wolf" that it would have kept the whole pack at a respectful distance.

After nights like these, Carl grew vigorous and strong, bounding into the air, and leaping like the young fawn they were pursuing, and running on all fours with astonishing swiftness.

Once he was almost left behind, as the whole pack scampered off suddenly at the unwelcome sound of the hunting-horn of a Rana, or small hill chieftain.

The child was left staring wistfully at the Hindu train; for, like the wolves, the Rana had chosen the midnight to come out with his hog-spear and beat the jungle for his share of the game with which the hills abounded. But the sight of the turbaned heads and the dusky faces, the bare black arms poising the long bamboo-handled spears, and the sound of their unearthly cries, aroused no thought of home in the heart of the baby hunter. They only terrified him. The boy was growing wild. With a leap and a yell he bounded into the air, for the Rana's dogs were upon him.

Out from the towering moonje grass rushed the returning wolves, hemming him round as they would the weakest of the pack, and fighting off the hounds.

Carl was down; but Gray Legs stood over him and brought him out of the fray unhurt, although the Rana's spear stuck in the ground within an inch of his naked chest.

"There is a boy in the midst of the pack," said the Rana's jogie or beater, who had thrown the spear--"a child of the fair people"--for so the Hindus amongst themselves usually call the Europeans.

*CHAPTER V.*

_*NOAK-HOLLY.*_

Alive in the jungle. These words, which had brought such comfort to little Kathleen in her childish simplicity, were torture to Mr. Desborough, as he pictured his boy dropped by the wolf in the midst of the pathless wilds, the dwelling-places of those ravenous beasts, and not of them alone. He thought of the birds of prey that lodged unheeded in those stately trees--the brooding vultures, the screaming kites. He seemed to see the poisonous hissing snakes, the stinging scorpions, and creeping things innumerable, that infest the trackless undergrowth of the hill forests.

"Tell me anything but that!" he exclaimed, shuddering. The search was renewed with an added desperation. By the water's edge, among the broad crinkly-edged lily leaves which starred the stream and formed fairy rafts for innumerable water-wagtails, he found a fragment of embroidered muslin, torn off by cruel teeth from Carly's tiny sleeve. He saw it was blood-stained. He saw no more, for the fierce sun shot its hottest rays upon his uncovered head. His hat fell as he stooped to secure it, and he sank unconscious on the slippery bed of the drying stream.

"Dropped with the heat," said the major, who thought all further search was vain, and he bade the servants convey their master home.

The house was now hermetically closed, every door and window shut up to exclude the heat. The well-moistened tatties cooled the hot air as it passed through them, and kept the darkened rooms just bearable.

It is the custom of most families in India to have two breakfasts: one quite early; the second, which is called _tiffen_, resembles the French _dejeuner_, and is ready a little before noon. The early breakfast had been forgotten by every one in Noak-holly that morning. The black servants were gliding noiselessly about; and when the major inquired for his little fairy Kathleen, they confidentially informed him that the little beebee would not eat.

"Bring her in to tiffen," said the major; and he strolled into the familiar dining-room, where he found his new acquaintance of the morning, Miss Bona St. Faine, seated in solitary state. At any other time, the odd expression of her face would have convulsed him with laughter. She was new to Indian ways, and was looking very blankly at an empty table to which she had been solemnly conducted by Mr. Desborough's butler, Bene Madho. She was feeling very hungry, understood she was summoned to breakfast, and saw nothing before her but flowers. Oliver, who had just emerged from the bathroom, appeared at another door.

"I wish," she said almost petulantly, "you would not leave me in such awkward fixes in a stranger's house. You might behave a little more like a gentleman, Oliver. In such circumstances as these no one likes to give trouble, but I am really getting ill for want of food."

"It is coming," said her brother, as the black servants, who had only been waiting for the major, made their appearance, handing round course after course of fish and curry and game.

Down flew a whole troop of impudent young sparrows. Some darted after the dishes in the servants' hands, and others set to work on the crumbs by Bona's plate, quite unabashed by the near neighbourhood of her knife and fork.

Little Kathleen was brought in by her ayah, a coolie following, anxious to obey to the uttermost the incoherent charges of their prostrate master--"Take care of my little Kathleen."

The stately Bene Madho brought her plate of stewed fowl and rice, the usual diet of children in India; but it stood untasted before her. The major patted her feverish cheek, afraid to allude to her lost brother, for fear of bringing on another passionate outburst of her childish sorrow. He sent the ayah away, thinking the child would only copy the lamentations and cries in which she indulged--a display of grief very distasteful to the English officer. His young companions sat silent and constrained, watching Kathleen.

"She will fret herself into a fever before night," said the major. "Weeping becomes dangerous with the thermometer at 110 deg.. I must intrust her to you, my dear young lady. Try and comfort her."

But from all Bona's endeavours Kathleen shrank. She did not want the strangers; she wanted her own mamma; she longed only to creep into some quiet corner and cry unseen. This was just what the major was charging Bona to prevent. The shy child fixed her large pleading eyes on the old soldier's face, and the white lips moved, but there was no word that any of them could understand.

They had fetched her away from her ayah, feeling as if the nurse must be in some way to blame for the catastrophe of the night, and was no longer to be trusted.

"She ought never to have the care of these children again," said Bona energetically. "Stranger as I am, I will remain with the little girl, if Mrs. Desborough wishes me. I will, indeed, if they are going to send the woman away."

"What a Job's comforter you are!" muttered Oliver, as the spoon fell from Kathleen's fingers in dismay.

"It was not my ayah let in the wolf; it was me," Kathleen sobbed. "Let me go and tell mamma all about it."

"Tell me," suggested the major, drawing her between his knees.

"O my dear!" exclaimed Bona, horrified. "Surely you never did. How could you be so naughty?"

Oliver got up and stood by the major, that he might not lose a single word of the faltering confession.

"I never can be happy until Carly's found--never, never!" murmured Kathleen, putting both her little hands into the major's, and repeating earnestly, "You will tell mamma it was all my doing."

The gravity of the look which stole over the major's face as he listened choked Kathleen's voice with sobs, for she felt every one would blame her, and she was shy and sensitive.

"How could you meddle with the blind?" exclaimed Bona. "Only think, my dear, of the terrible consequences!"

"Yes, talk to her, Miss St. Faine," said the major. "She must never do such a thing again."

Bona laid her hand on Kathleen's shoulder, but she shook it off, and darting away into the darkest corner of the hall, hid herself behind her father's door, dislodging a whole family of toads, who had crept indoors to find a shelter from the heat. Kathleen's kitten hotly resented this intrusion, and sprang after them with tail erect and bristling hair. The toads receiving many sharp pats on their broad backs from her uplifted paw, were driven across the hall, backwards and forwards, keeping Bona dancing on one foot as she tried to follow Kathleen. But at last she fled in disgust, as the whole toad family were sent leaping into her dress by pussy's officious paw.

"Oliver! Oliver!" she entreated.

He came to her help with a laugh, which seemed so out of place in the mournful house he felt ashamed of himself the next minute. He knelt down beside Kathleen. "I like you, my little woman," he whispered. "You took the blame on your own shoulders, like a brick. Oh, what little shoulders they are! Of course, a boy would have done so. Don't fret about how the wolf got in too much. They are awful creatures. I am a sailor boy. Terrible things happen at sea. My father was captain of a merchant vessel. I have been to Calcutta before with him. He died at sea. The mate brought the ship into port. Bona is only a school-girl, fresh from England. She was coming out to uncle, so they sent me on with her. Never mind her, she is such a fuss-fuss!"

Awkward as Oliver's attempts at consolation were, Kathleen felt they were sincere. She looked into his honest brown eyes and repeated her question--the question every one shrank from answering--"What will the big wolf do with Carly?"

"Iffley," called Mr. Desborough from the other side of the chintz curtain which did duty for a door, "stop those children's tongues, or I shall go mad."

The major laid an imperative hand on Oliver's arm and marched him off into the veranda, where a mat in a shady corner invited him to take the siesta he so much needed after his night-journey. The ayah carried Kathleen away in her powerful arms.

The stifling, burning heat grew more and more intense. The heavy sleep of sorrow slowly stole over the desolated household, and the weary day wore on. The coolies, who had been abroad since the dawn, returned one by one to eat their rice and repeat the same tale--"No trace! no hope!" There was nothing more to be done. There is no land like India for sudden calamity. Those of us who pass many years among its rice-fields and banyan trees learn a resignation and a promptitude in action not common elsewhere. To do quickly all that ought to be done, before it is too late, is so imperative that no one was surprised when Mr. Desborough announced his determination to send Mrs. Desborough and the two children still left to them to the hills immediately.

"This very night, if it were possible!" he exclaimed, as he caught up Racy, only to grieve the more over the loss of poor little Carly. A terrible fear of another midnight alarm oppressed the whole household. The syces lighted fires close outside the compound, to scare away any wild beasts which might be prowling about in the groves and thickets. Every precaution was taken.

The sun was sinking. The brief ten minutes of summer twilight had come when every one in India hurries into the open air. The long white line of road winding between the shady rows of trees was alive with traffic. Bona and Oliver stood ready for departure, watching the novel scene.

Straggling groups of workers from the indigo factory loitered round the gates of Mr. Desborough's compound--hideous-looking creatures with waist-clothes, hands and faces all blue: a whole troop of Bluebeards, which Bona thought would haunt her very dreams. They meekly drew aside and salaamed to the ground, as a gilded carriage, drawn by a pair of white humped oxen, swept by. A long line of carts, creaking under their loads of indigo pulp, quickly followed. The scantily-clothed villagers who accompanied them were uttering most unearthly cries to encourage their weary beasts. A deafening sound of splashing of water and stamping of feet told of the near neighbourhood of a drove of buffaloes returning to their homes for the night.

Oliver looked for them in vain. They were making a pathway through the pool, and only the tips of their noses were to be seen as they sniffed the evening air, or snatched a mouthful of lily-leaves with snorts of rejoicing; while groups of merry children on the opposite bank were washing all the clothing they had--a broad white calico sash or waist-cloth. Their washing was a curious performance. They banged one end of the sash on a smooth stone, just under the water, until it fluttered before them white as snow, then they turned it and washed the other end.

A group of travellers, resting under a tree on the opposite side of the road, watched the lighting of the fires with evident curiosity, as they passed a friendly hookah, or pipe, from one to another. They smoked, and listened to the remarks of the indigo-workers, who were charging the children to hasten home before the darkness gathered.

All were talking, all were discussing the disaster of the morning--rejoicing that the wolf had eaten the bullet of the sahib, and their children might sleep in peace.

Major Iffley was bargaining with a party of coolie wallahs, who had come from the village, to carry Bona's dandy to the judge's bungalow.

Mrs. Desborough put back the curtain of her tent, and waved a farewell to the brother and sister on the eve of their departure, and entreated the major to remain with them that night at least.

She was pale and calm, but the havoc which that day had made in her appearance had reduced her to a shadow of her former self.

"Not me only, but my loaded gun," he answered, as he hastened to assure her every precaution they could devise was already taken.

Bona and Oliver drew a few steps nearer, looking the sympathy they knew not how to express in words. But the curtain fell suddenly, and they saw no more of the mournful mother behind it. Even the major, old family friend as he was, would not, could not intrude on the sacredness of a grief like hers.

He shook hands with his new young friends, hoped for a happier meeting before long, and returned to the veranda of Mr. Desborough's bungalow. He loaded his gun with scrupulous care, and beguiled the weary night-watch by smoking an unlimited number of pipes, and growling at the numerous inmates of sun-cracked walls and retired corners, not to mention the disturbances of the punkah coolies, who cried out in terror every time a big Langour monkey stole across the lawn or a wild-cat leaped from the trees, one and all declaring that another wolf had ran away with the little beebee.

To have had a real skirmish with a wolf, a panther, or even a tiger, would have been less distasteful to the English officer than soothing the midnight fancies of the dismayed household, or escaping from the unwelcome attentions of Kathleen's pet lizard, which had left its favourite retreat behind the pictures in the dining-room for a midnight stroll in the veranda.

*CHAPTER VI.*

_*AWAY TO THE HILLS.*_

"Can you ever love me again, mamma?" asked Kathleen when Mrs. Desborough left the tent on the lawn for the first time, whilst the ayah took her place by baby Horace, who was slowly but surely recovering.

For three whole days, whilst Kathleen was left to herself, she had never ceased crying. The servants found her continually by the window of the bathroom through which the wolf had entered, leaning her burning head against one of the huge red pitchers which contained the supply of water for the day's use. Let no one say cold water, for there was nothing cold to be found anywhere. The bath towels were as hot to the touch as if they had been hanging in front of a blazing fire. The air was thick with tawny dust. The oppression was frightful. The excessive dryness made every breath feel like the blast of a furnace. Insect wings began to drop off all over the rooms, and were wafted into drifts by the waving fans from the ceiling, and their wretched little owners, who had lost them, were wriggling about the floor. The thousands of poor white ants had already done so much mischief that no one had any pity left for their forlorn condition. The bhisti, the coolie who does housemaid's work, came and swept them away. Wasps, crickets, and enormous horned spiders abounded, but were worse in the night than the day. Not one of the numerous families of birds which made their homes in the veranda would sing a note.

Sailor lay at his young mistress's feet, and followed her everywhere with a pertinacity that said very plainly, "She is all that is left to me."

The ayah had done her utmost to divert the child. Her dolls and playthings strewed the veranda.

Bene Madho brought her cakes and sweetmeats when he returned from the bazaar, which he visited daily. Four or five in the morning is the hour for marketing in India, and therefore the busiest time in all the day. He virtually kept his mistress's purse, and bought everything she wanted. His purchases that morning were numerous, for the preparations for the removal to the hills were hurried on by Mr. Desborough. He wanted to take Kathleen away, for in her great sorrow she would not eat or speak, and was always slipping off unseen, even from him. Children in India who are left to the black servants so often grow troublesome.

"See that she eats; mind and send her to sleep," he charged the ayah. But the ayah told him in her despair Kathleen would do neither.

The gentle touch of her mother's hand, and the fond, sad kiss on her parching lips, at last lifted the lead-like load which to Kathleen seemed breaking her heart, and she whispered tearfully, "Can you ever love me again, mamma?"

"Love you, my darling!" repeated Mrs. Desborough, in surprise at such a question. "Mamma must love her little daughter more than ever now, for she may soon have no one else to love."

"No, no, mamma, you do not know. I let the wolf in," lamented Kathleen under her breath.

"The wolf!" exclaimed Mrs. Desborough. "My child, the wolf that killed dear little Carly!"

"It did not kill him, mamma!" cried Kathleen vehemently. "The stranger boy said so. O mamma, could not God, who took care of Daniel in the lions' den, take care of our Carly in the wolf's mouth?"

The bhisti, who was coming in with his water-skin to fill up the great red pitchers against which Kathleen was leaning, ran to his mistress as she sank on the edge of the bath, overcome with the thoughts which Kathleen's wild words had suggested. It was the first hint which had reached her that there was any uncertainty about her poor little child's fate.

She could not in her motherly love take away from Kathleen the hope that Carly was still alive, the poor little sister's distress of mind was so great. But she saw Mr. Desborough's strong motive for hurrying them off to the hills. If the wolf which had seized one child was still prowling about the place, it might seize another in some unguarded moment.

"Let us take them away to-night," she said to him; and the effort to get ready, which had appeared so overwhelming when he proposed it, seemed now as nothing compared to the fear of the wolf's return. Beds were packed up. But beds in India are a simple affair. A thick quilted cotton _resais_, as they call it, serves for sheets, blanket, and mattress all in one. A supply of pillows is all that is necessary; bolsters are unused in India. They must also take calico for punkahs, and plenty of palm-leaf matting, which is so cheap it can be used for anything. Bene Madho had bought abundance of all these things, which the servants were packing in huge bundles, to be carried on poles between men's shoulders.

How they all worked throughout the day, despite the heat, and Mr. Desborough harder than anybody! An adventurous kite carried off a fork from the dinner-table, and a monkey sprang down from the roof of the veranda and snapped up Kathleen's doll, which it carried to the tallest tamarind tree in the garden. There it sat on one of the topmost branches, cuddling the doll in its olive-green paws, as if it were a great treasure. Kathleen did not mind it much. The gardener assured her he should find it, as he had found the fork, dropped among the flowers; and then it seemed so easy to Kathleen to think Carly might be found in the same sort of way. She never lost the hope which Oliver's words had put into her heart.

But to hear her say so was an added grief to Mr. Desborough.

In the evening, when they were dressed for the journey, papa took her on his knee and told her not to talk about the wolves to mamma any more. Then he bade her remember no one must believe all the servants were saying, for they were idolaters. They thought that monkeys were better than men, and that some of them were sacred, and they really worshipped them. They did not know any better. No one could be sure whether the tales they told about the wolves were true or not, so he wished her not to repeat them; it would frighten Horace.

Yes, Horace was better--going with them.

"There he is," said papa, pointing to the ayah, who was carrying him up and down the veranda, before the windows of the drawing-room where they were talking. Away flew Kathleen, holding out her arms to take him, and covering him with kisses.

"She will soon be herself again, with change of scene, and Horace for a playfellow," Mr. Desborough continued, turning to his wife. "Thank God, my dear, if the one child has been taken from us, the other is left."

By the close of that busy day everything was ready for departure. The long procession passed through the gates of the compound just as the glorious sun was sinking in its bed of ebony and gold; for deep black bars of cloud were crossing the flood of light which covered the western sky.

Mr. Desborough's horse was prancing in its impatience, while the coolies harnessed themselves to the curtained dandies. There was one for Mrs. Desborough, with Horace on her lap, and another for the ayah and Kathleen, so that the children could sleep away the greater part of the journey. Until the heaving of burdens and the buckling of straps were concluded, the ayah amused Kathleen by pointing to the setting sun, and gravely assuring her there were twelve suns, brothers, who shone by turns. This one was going away, and his elder brother, who was so strong he could kill a man, would come in his place. The ayah was very glad they would all be safe on the hills before the strongest of all the twelve took his turn. The younger brothers were much weaker; the youngest of all was so weak he could hardly melt the snow that fell on the mountains.

Kathleen thought that this must be one of the tales papa referred to.

The syce, who ran by the horse's head with a fly-flapper in his hand, was shouting to it to be quiet until the sahib was ready to mount. "O son of a pig!" he was crying, "O faithless, perverse one! have ye never learned to be still?"

Away they all went at last, the bearers keeping time with a long, monotonous, grunting sort of cry, to which the horses were too well accustomed to be frightened. They soon left the highroad, going at the rate of four miles an hour, by narrow paths, too narrow for any cart or carriage. Mounting wave after wave of hill, higher and higher, sometimes winding by the edge of a precipice, or climbing the steep side of a giant cliff, then almost tumbling down some mountain valley, on, on they went, with a slow and even swing, whilst the coolies laughed and chatted as if they were almost enjoying the heavy burdens which English arms could never have lifted. Up and up once more, as the moon shone forth with its silver radiance, bathing the stately forest trees with its soft, clear light, and making the dark shadows which rested on the deep ravines all the blacker by contrast. They were passing the two-storied stone-built castle of a mountain chief, perched like a gigantic bird's nest on the verge of a tree-crowned height. A bright and gurgling mountain stream was dashing and foaming by its side as it leaped from height to height. The travellers were sprinkled with its flashing spray as they crossed the edge of the torrent, little dreaming that news of Carl would await them there on their return. But now the scream of the night-owls, and the flap of the vultures' wings, and the ever-increasing cries of the jackals, echoed all around.

"But the darkest hour of all the night,
Is that which brings us day."

Oh, if Mr. and Mrs. Desborough could have understood the silent lesson that midnight journey might have taught them, it would have soothed their heartache. They could see no ending to their night of sorrow; they scarcely thought the soothing touch of time would ever dull the sharpness of their grief. But every night does end.

The first pale gleam of the coming day showed Kathleen the sloping roof of a white-walled bungalow, peeping amid a forest of pine trees high up overhead. Should they ever reach it? The flowers which covered those steep hillsides began to open their petals and drink in the drop of dew that was falling for each and all.

Racy woke up with laughing eyes and outstretched hands, clamouring for the bright, many-coloured dahlias which grew by thousands in their path.

The good-natured coolies stopped to gather them by handfuls, to Racy's infinite delight. The pleasure of pulling them to pieces and pelting the black shoulders of their bearers with them, found vent in little squeals of merriment that brought the first faint ghost of a smile to his mother's lips.

With the daybreak came many changes. Flocks of sheep and goats met them in the narrow path, making the crossing doubly dangerous. Some asses laden with grain were on their way to the Rana's castle, and their drivers drew aside to make their salaam to the English travellers, and exchange greetings with the coolie wallahs, and carry the news to the Rana's castle.

A most obstreperous cawing from hundreds of cunning-looking crows arose from the forest, whilst a regular chorus of wild laughter echoed through the darkest ravines. It was the morning song of the black-faced thrushes that congregate in unimaginable multitudes in these hidden solitudes. But sweeter than all was the lengthened flute-like note of the black-headed oriole.

Suddenly the path changed. They were going downhill beneath magnificent trees, yews and oaks rising from an undergrowth of creepers and roses, checkered with multitudinous flowers that were unknown to Kathleen and her mother. On they went, swinging to the bottom of the valley, through whole fields covered with pale-blue foxglove, over which myriads of bees were flitting.

Horace began to mimic the cry of the black partridges which abounded. "Tie-tara! tie-tara!" rang on every side, as the footsteps of the coolies disturbed them in their lowly nests. One more toilsome hill, and then the coolies paused on a small plateau on the verge of the dark pine wood. Before them stood the pleasant bungalow, with its hospitable doors wide open to receive the travellers. Its white-washed rooms looked airy and clean. A few native servants who belonged to the place hurried out to welcome them; and Kathleen, who was leaning eagerly forward, could see the graceful figure of a Hindu woman making cakes, which she flattened between her hands with astonishing celerity, and flung into a brass pan which stood near her over a quaint-looking brazier. The dandies were set down, and Mr. Desborough came to lift his wife out.

"Too much cover for snakes," he said, as he cast a sharp eye at the thick, tall grass spreading from the steps of the veranda to the very edge of the precipice. The half-made garden was more indebted to nature than art; but that only heightened the peculiar charm that overspread the place. Here and there the great bauhinia creeper wreathed itself into delightful bowers above the moss-covered stem of a fallen pine. Its strong tendrils, like furzy brown horns, caught the overarching boughs of the tallest trees and bound them in leafy fetters. Proud peacocks strutted about at will. A stately old stork seemed untiring in its endeavours to find the snake Mr. Desborough dreaded to discover. But, above all, the fragrant breezes from the vast pine forest seemed an earnest of returning health.

*CHAPTER VII.*

_*THE RANA'S SONS.*_

The first thing which attracted Kathleen's attention, when her father lifted her out of her swinging carriage, was the sight of a Thibetan woman milking the cows. She was dressed in dirty rags, with a torn blanket thrown over her head. But round her neck she wore three strings of beads, so quaint and curious Kathleen could do nothing but look at them. The beads were as big as hazel-nuts. One row was of coral and turkois; in another the beads were of a greenish hue, spotted all over like thrushes' eggs; the third was coral, with silver tags between. So the ayah took her to beg a cup of milk, whilst the breakfast was preparing. They made her a cup with a leaf and a thorn; and as the queer-looking milkmaid twisted it into proper shape round her slender fingers, she noticed the child's red eyes and colourless cheeks and heard the story of the lost brother. "O children of pigs!" she exclaimed. "To think a wolf in May would eat him up! No, no. There has been many a child brought up by the wolves, as I've heard tell. Perhaps it was its grandfather; who knows? It would not hurt it if it were."

She caught up Kathleen in her arms, and carried her to the edge of the cliff, pointing downwards to the tops of the mighty trees growing in the dark ravines between the hills they had been crossing--hills below hills, stretching away beneath their feet, so grand and vast and wild. The gray mud walls of the little Hindu village looked like an ant-hill in their midst. Kathleen felt dimly how the timid, gentle, imaginative Hindu men and women, who have lived all their lives within reach of the formidable beasts that range at will through those forest-glades, grow so afraid that their fear almost changes to reverence. They say they are all God's creatures, mightier and stronger than themselves. They dare not hurt them for the world; and they think when they die they shall be changed into them. They mix their fancies with all they see and hear, as her father had told her; but yet she could not help listening when the weird-looking milkmaid entreated her not to cry any more, but to see the glorious places where the wild wolves slept in the sunlight, and to think her little brother was there among them. Oh no; she did not believe he would want to come back. He would grow into a wolf, and be happy.

Kathleen felt frightened, for she saw that the ayah believed her. Then the Thibetan unloosed the wonderful beads from her neck and let Kathleen examine them. They were heirlooms which had been handed down for many generations. The coral and turkois had been worn by her great-grandmother; the coral with the silver tags came from her father's people. She always wore them; they were safer round her neck than anywhere. The ayah agreed with her.

Kathleen carried her leafy cup indoors, to show to her mother. A hasty breakfast was preparing--fowl and eggs, but no bread anywhere, only chupatties, the thin round cakes which the woman outside was making when they arrived. They very much resembled a dry crisp pancake. The fresh hill air gave the children an appetite, and they ate heartily.

"Papa," whispered Kathleen, "may I talk about the wolves to you?"

"Better not, darling," was the quick reply; "father is too busy to talk now."

Away went Mr. Desborough, ordering and arranging everything to insure the comfort of his wife and children; for he knew that he must soon leave them to enjoy their three months' gipsying among the hills. He trusted that picking flowers and chasing butterflies would soon occupy all his little fairy's thoughts, if he could but keep her from dwelling on the terrible remembrance.

Horace was soon fast asleep on his mother's lap, and Kathleen's eyes were blinking.

There were chairs and tables and charpoys in the bungalow, kept ready for the use of visitors. So as soon as breakfast was over, the ayah put Kathleen and Horace to bed.

The rooms were all on one floor, and as every door stood wide open, they were not out of Mrs. Desborough's sight a single moment.

The charpoy, or Indian bedstead, is only a wooden frame with cross-bars of webbing, and on this a mat or a resais is laid. The ayah fetched the pillows Bene Madho was unpacking, and all was ready. Going to bed is such a simple affair in India, for nobody undresses as we do in England. Dressing and undressing belong to the bath. The ayah covered the children with a large mosquito-net, and then flung herself on the matting beside them.

A few hours' refreshing sleep made them feel like different beings. But they were still very tired, and were quite content to sit together on the steps of the veranda, watching the mowers cutting the grass. It was happiness to Kathleen to have her little brother once again, and she devoted herself to the delightful task of making Racy laugh. There was a bird a little bigger than an English starling, with shining wings of copper colour, violet and blue, which hopped about their feet, and then flew off to perch on the cow's back, and good-naturedly catch the insects which were teasing it.

Presently they saw a curious procession coming up the hill--two Hindu boys riding on donkeys, with syces running beside them carrying scarlet umbrellas over their heads, ornamented with deep gold-fringes. Behind them rode their tutor, and after him four native Hindus, carrying trays on their heads, tastefully piled with fruit and vegetables and flowers.

"Early visitors," exclaimed Mr. Desborough, who was walking about directing the mowers.

The boys proved to be the two young sons of the Rana of Nataban, or "the brook of the forest," whose castle they had passed by the way.

"Look! look!" cried Racy, clapping his little hands, and making such a noise that all the strangers turned their heads and regarded him. The two young chieftains alighted, and advanced to Mr. Desborough, who held out his hand to the eldest, English fashion. The boy took it between both his own and dropped into it something which felt very like a little ball of cobwebs, but was in reality a tiny bag of musk. He then directed his servants to place their trays on the ground at Mr. Desborough's feet. They were a present from his father, the Rana. They were bright-eyed, intelligent boys, but as delicate and graceful as girls. Their tutor was a clever young Brahmin, who had been educated in the government schools, and longed, above all things, to visit London. He could speak English, and was teaching it to his pupils.

This was quite a relief; and when the formal greetings were well through, and the boys were seated one on each side of Mr. Desborough, he sent Kathleen to fetch the jar of English sweets which Bene Madho had bought for her consolation. It was just unpacked, and stood on the table near the window by which they were seated, and he perceived the large, dreamy eyes of his youngest visitor rested upon it very curiously.

Whilst she was gone for it, Horace came and stood between his father's knees. He certainly mistook the two young ranas for big dolls, as they sat as stately and grave as they could in their saffron-coloured dresses, embroidered belts, and heavy silver bracelets. Horace, with his curly flaxen hair and blue eyes, was equally interesting to them, and the drum with which he was playing still more so.

The old trouble had returned to Kathleen's eyes as she ran in for her jar of peppermint lozenges. She was thinking of the Thibetan woman and all she had said. "Oh, if Carl were alive in the jungle, could not they find him and bring him home?" Her little heart was full. She longed to pour it out to her mother, but her father's words restrained her. Mrs. Desborough looked so ill, so sadly worn, and kissed her so fondly, Kathleen could only venture to entreat her to come and look at the strange milkmaid, with her wonderful necklaces. She was hoping the Thibetan would repeat to her the strange things she had said about Carl.

Mrs. Desborough promised at once; she had not the heart to refuse her darlings anything, for fear they, too, should be stolen from her. She followed her little daughter into the veranda, putting on her gloves. They were black. The youngest boy, Aglar, had never seen a lady's glove before. He watched her intently, as if he thought her hands had suddenly changed colour. He spoke to his tutor in his soft, musical Indi; who gravely informed her the young Rana had such a longing to feel the lady's hand, might he be permitted to touch it?

Mrs. Desborough smiled, and held hers out to him.

Aglar rose, made his salaam, and softly felt her fingers all over. It seemed to afford him infinite delight. So, to amuse him, Mrs. Desborough took off her gloves and put them on again. The long row of buttons pleased him exceedingly.

"Give them to him," suggested Mr. Desborough, who was wondering how he could return the Rana's present, having nothing with him but just the necessary things his family required.

The transfer was made; the mystery of the buttons made easy, too, by the addition of a tiny button-hook. The little fellow was in ecstasies. Not so Horace, who set up a clamour to have his mother's gloves back, which amused them all.

Mr. Desborough was talking to the elder, whose name was Rattam, about his lessons. He was fond of reading, had made some way in English and Persian, and was much gratified with the gift of an English book on botany, which Mr. Desborough had brought with him, hoping to interest his wife in the lovely plants and flowers she was sure to find among the hills. It was very doubtful whether the new owner could possibly understand it, but he liked to examine the plates.

Mr. Desborough thought they were getting on, when Horace renewed his clamour, pointing at Aglar, and declaring, "He is nobody but a native. He shan't have my mamma's gloves. He shan't!"

Mrs. Desborough grew pink with annoyance, for she knew their young visitors would be highly offended, if they really understood English well enough to know what the child was saying. In vain his father frowned. He would not be quieted. Kathleen slipped round and filled his mouth with her peppermint, to stop his tongue.

"We are all spoiling him as fast as we can," muttered her father, with a bitter sigh, as he sent her across to Rattam, who regarded Horace with pure amazement. No Hindu child is ever permitted to be rough or rude. Kathleen shyly offered Rattam her jar, trying to make up for Racy's naughtiness by behaving as prettily as she could. Rattam examined her peppermints curiously, and then drew back, afraid to touch one, for it might be degrading to himself.

He dare not taste one, he said, for fear of losing caste by eating anything which might be improper for a Brahmin.

This horror of losing caste--that is, of forfeiting his position as a Brahmin, one of the highest class of Hindus, to whom all the others look up with reverence--is the bugbear of a Hindu gentleman's life, and Rattam was fully impressed with its importance.

Yet he was gratified; and although no persuasion could induce him to touch the peppermint, he expressed his thanks with the air of a prince, adding, "You must permit me to send you a bird of my own training, to be my vakeel" ("Ambassador," interpreted the tutor), "and remind you of me," Rattam went on; "and, I assure you, he is a very amusing fellow."

He spoke so carefully and so correctly, it made Kathleen think he had learned his English sentences ready before he came. She wished she could ask her ayah how she ought to answer him in Indi; but that was out of the question. If he understood not her reply, he knew by her shy little smile she was pleased.

"It is a hill-mina from Nepaul, with a remarkably good, rich voice--" He looked to his tutor, perplexed for the next word. It was not forthcoming.

"Does the little beebee understand Persian?" he asked.

Mr. Desborough shook his head, relieved to find his guest's English was not yet perfect.

"Persian is our French," said the tutor, making a sign to Aglar, who had not yet finished his examination of Mrs. Desborough's hands; but when he caught his tutor's eye, he dropped down on the ground by her side, sitting cross-legged, as still and stately as a little statue. He never raised his eyes or uttered a single word until a second sign gave him permission.

When the ayah appeared with the children's box of playthings, the two young visitors forgot themselves and their grand manners in the wonders of Kathleen's magic top, and behaved with an easy grace which was natural to them, and much more prepossessing.

"Let Aglar take it away with him, Kathy," whispered Mr. Desborough; "I will buy you another."

Mamma had slipped out during the exhibition of the playthings to consult with Bene Madho about the tiffen. She thought he might know better than she did what such fastidious young princes would condescend to eat.

He told her they never touched anything but butter, sweetmeats, and vegetables or fruit. Butter Mrs. Desborough could procure in plenty, but the sweetmeats ran wofully short. Salad and syllabub, with some of their own beautiful fruit, had to suffice.

The amount of butter the little princes consumed was something astonishing. No wonder Rattam was so fat. Aglar's hoarse cough distressed Mrs. Desborough. She always carried a well-filled medicine-chest about with her, for the sake of her own delicate children. So she found him some cough-drops, and a porous plaster for the chest, to lay on the empty trays her husband was trying to refill.

Kathleen relinquished a great many of her toys to please their dusky visitors. Rattam liked everything in pairs. He was highly delighted with her doll's tea-cups, as he said "there were three pairs." But he returned her the teapot. One of a sort looked mean in his eyes.

When tiffen was over, their interesting neighbours rose to depart, with the demure gravity of old men.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

_*THE INVITATION.*_

The night before Mr. Desborough's return to Noak-holly, he called Kathleen to him as he sat dreamily watching the glorious landscape as if he saw it not.

"Can my darling sing to me?" he said, softly humming the first notes of a tune she had heard him sing in the old times, when Kathleen was "her daddy's ae bairn," and the cot stood empty.

He put his arm round her waist, and taught her as he used to do, beating time with his other hand.

"Go bury thy sorrow, the world has its share,
Go bury it deeply, go hide it with care."

She turned and looked in his face.

"Go on," he said, in the quiet, decided tone Kathleen always obeyed.

"Go think of it calmly, when curtained by night;
Go tell it to Jesus, and all will be right."

She sang it after him, drawing a little closer, for her father was not often like this, until they came to the last verse--

"Hearts growing a-weary with heavier woe,
Now droop 'mid the darkness--go, comfort them, go!
Go bury thy sorrows, let others be blest:
Go give them the sunshine, tell Jesus the rest."

"Is my little girl too young to understand what that means?" he asked, stroking her hair.

"Yes, I do understand, papa," she answered thoughtfully.

"Your mother's sorrow is heavier than ours," he went on, "just because she was Carly's mother; and Racy is pining for his twin-brother, just because he was his twin. It is that which makes him so techy and troublesome. Will my Kathleen try to comfort them when I am gone?"

Instead of the promise he expected there came a rush of tears, so hot and bitter he was taken aback.

"What is the matter, my love?" he asked.

"The dreadful misery to think I let the wolf in!" she sobbed.

"We will bury all that," he answered. "It will not bring sunshine to mamma to see you crying. Think! what ought you to be to poor mamma?"

"Carly and Kathleen, too," she murmured. "But I can't undo it."

His arm went round her very closely; it answered her better than words. No fear of Kathleen talking to poor mamma about the wolves after that night. A new object was before her--how to give others the sunshine.

Her father had scarcely left them when Rattam's messenger arrived with the promised bird, and an invitation to the Sahib Desborough to visit the Rana at his castle. Aglar's mother, the Ranee, added her entreaties that the beebee, who had given her youngest son the little breastplate against the weather (which was endued with such a wonderful charm it had hushed the noise in his breast and given him the vivacity of a panther) would let a grateful mother look upon her face and beg a similar charm for her other son. "The women of your people, sahib," said the letter, which was evidently written by the tutor, "can come and go. It would demean ours to descend the stair of their own home; but they are dying to see more of the wonderful magic the beebee Desborough possesses."

The Rana's peon or foot-soldier, who had brought the letter, stood watching Mrs. Desborough as if she were some superior being. He had shuffled off his shoes as a mark of respect before he approached her, and now stood before her salaaming at every interval when she happened to raise her eyes.

Of course there were a few crows strutting about the veranda, and little fretful Racy was afraid of their sharp beaks. Kathleen was trying to tempt them away by scattering crumbs. They were so tame they soon ran after her to get them.

"More magic," thought the peon, bowing himself to the ground, as she came near to him to look at the wonderful bird Rattam had sent her.

It was jet black, with a coat as glossy as satin, and a lovely dark eye, full of fun and intelligence. Its beak and claws were deep orange. It was looking about very curiously, pricking its ear to every sound. Kathleen drew her finger across the gilded wire of its cage, and it called out in a rich, sweet voice--a wonderfully rich voice, and yet an odd one--"Ram, Ram, baher!" just as he had heard Rattam and Aglar call to one another. The ayah told her it meant "God, God, brother!" which is the Hindu way of speaking, just as English boys would say, "Good-morning, brother!"

With her nurse and her bird talking Indi, Kathleen thought she should soon learn enough to understand Rattam if he came again.

Mrs. Desborough wrote her reply, and promised to visit the Ranee when her husband returned.

Little mischievous Horace was fitting on the peon's slippers, and quite ready to dispute possession with the "man in petticoats," as he called the peon. Kathleen and the ayah pursued him half round the veranda. They would not have got the slippers away then without a roar, if Kathleen's wonderful bird had not begun to make a creaking sound, like a rusty hinge, which it imitated exactly, and then as suddenly changed its note to the cheerful crowing of a cock. This diverted Horace amazingly. The peon recovered his slippers, put up his umbrella, and departed with the English beebee's answer.

But there was many a long day to wait before the visit could be paid. Mrs. Desborough was glad, for she had no heart for visits, although she thought it only right to go, as no one but a lady is scarcely ever permitted to enter the homes of the higher classes of Hindus. In the meanwhile the invigorating air of the hills was restoring the children to health and spirits. Mrs. Desborough hoped Horace would forget some of his provoking sayings, which he had caught up on the journey.

The Thibetan milkmaid had gone away to her own people before Kathleen could persuade her mother to go and talk to her.

But Kathleen would describe the dark-skinned woman, with her dirty rags and glittering beads, so earnestly and so frequently, that her mother began to suspect there was something more she had not told her. "Well?" she would say questioningly; and then Kathleen would stop short, remembering her father's words.

Mrs. Desborough asked the ayah what the Thibetan had said.

"Nothing, nothing," was the quick reply. "We only tried to comfort the little beebee, and stop her tears, that fell like evening rain."

The ayah was frightened, for her mistress turned pale and faint at the most distant allusion to her dreadful loss. So she led the children away, and filled their pinafores with rice to feed the fishes.

Whilst Horace was throwing it by handfuls into the basin of the fountain, which was soon a moving mass of heads and tails, the ayah drew Kathleen away.