turned forward, ever watchful of the welfare of her people, her iron
bridges and macadam roads representing the very essence of modern thought
and progress.

With paternal care of her officials the British government has provided
_dak_ (mail) bungalows at the end of each day's journey which are open to
every foreign traveler. They are comfortable little houses set on piles.
Each one has a spacious living room, with a large teakwood table and
inviting lounge chairs. In a corner stands a cabinet of cutlery, china, and
glass, all clean and in perfect order. The two bedrooms are provided with
adjoining baths and a covered passageway connects the kitchen with the
house. All is ready for the tired traveler, and a boy can be hired for a
trifling sum to make the punkah "punk." Such comforts can only be
appreciated when one has journeyed for months in a country where they do
not exist.

Our last night on the road was spent at a _dak_ bungalow near a village
only a few miles from Bhamo. We were seated at the window, when, with a
rattle of wheels, the first cart we had seen in nine months passed by. That
cart brought to us more forcibly than any other thing a realization that
the Expedition was ended and that we were standing on the threshold of
civilization.

As Yvette turned from the window her eyes were wet with unshed tears, and a
lump had risen in my throat. Not all the pleasures of the city, the love of
friends or relatives, could make us wish to end the wild, free life of the
year gone by. Silently we left the house and walked across the sunlit road
into a grove of graceful, drooping palms; a white pagoda gleamed between
the trees, and the pungent odor of wood smoke filled the air.

The spot was redolent with the atmosphere of the lazy East; the East which,
like the fabled "Lorelei," weaves a mystic spell about the wanderer whom
she has loved and taken to her heart, while yet he feels it not. And when
he would cast her off and return to his own again she knows full well that
her subtle charm will bring him back once more.

* * * * *

The next morning we entered Bhamo. It is a city of low, cool houses, wide
lawns and tree-decked streets built on the bank of the muddy Irawadi River.
Only a few miles away the railroad reaches Katha, and palatial steamers run
to Mandalay and Rangoon. We called upon Mr. Farmer, the Deputy
Commissioner, who offered the hospitality of the "Circuit House" and in