h lies thickly over the village in a mantle of
white.

I think Joyce is asleep most of the way back. "I feel as if I were
drugged," she says as we haul her up the gangway.

Next day at sunrise we are off.

After golden hours of placid slipping down the shining waterway we pull
up at about five for the night, and having finished tea we four sally
forth for a walk, little dreaming what is going to happen.

Joyce's mother is a most attractive woman. She is well read, very keenly
alive, and has travelled a great deal. She and I have much in common,
and, I must say, as I help her across the paddy fields I forget all
about you two.

It is not until we turn to go home that I miss you.

"They can't be far," I say reassuringly, and give a loud cooee, but
there is no response.

"They can't possibly come to harm here," I say. "There is nothing to
hurt them," and I shout again.

"Perhaps they have circled round and gone back to the ship another way,"
Joyce's mother suggests, and we turn. Darkness falls very quickly here,
and it is dark before we get on board, but in answer to our anxious
questions we find no one has seen anything of you.

Joyce's mother is very brave and sensible, but I can see that her heart
is torn with anxiety. I try to comfort her by telling her that you are
as good as a man, and have been brought up to look after yourself, but
it makes little difference. She agrees, however, to remain on the
steamer while the captain and I and a couple of Lascars with lanterns go
forth again.

What a night we have of it! We wander far and wide, calling and waving
the lights with no result, and when we come back in the grey dawn, with
troubled hearts, there is still no news.

"Someone has taken them in," says the captain. "They're queer fellows,
these Burmans; they daren't go out at nights for fear of spooks. You'll
see they'll bring them safely back in the morning."

And he is right, for, as the sky flashes rosy red, we see you afar off
coming across the fields. A sight you are, indeed, as you come nearer,
with your torn clothes and scratched faces! But Joyce's mother gives a
cry of joy and precipitates herself across the flat and along the
gangway, hatless, and clasps her daughter in her arms as if she would
never let her go again. You and I are not so emotional, but I'm jolly
glad to see you again!

You shall tell your story in your own words. I wrote it down exactly as
you told it to me, so that your people