hem?" for the lilies in the garden
are supposed to be safe from attack. Chellalu looks up with frank, brown
eyes. "For you!" she says briefly in Tamil; but there is a wealth of
forgiveness in the tone as she offers her armful of flowers. Chellalu
wonders at grown-up hearts which can harbour unworthy suspicions about
blameless little children. As if she would have picked them!

"But, Chellalu, where did you get them?" and still looking grieved and
surprised and forgiving, Chellalu explains that yesterday evening the
elder sisters went for a walk in the fields, and brought home so many
lilies, that after all just claims were met there were still some
over--an expressive gesture shows the heap--so Chellalu thought of her
Ammal (mother) and went and picked out the best for her. Then by way of
emphasis the story is attempted in English: "Very good? Yesh. Naughty?
No. Kindergarten room want flowers? No. I" (patting herself approvingly)
"very good; yesh." With Chellalu, speech is a mere adjunct to
conversation, a sort of footnote to a page of illustration. The
illustration is the thing that speaks. So now both Tamil and English are
illuminated by vivid gesture of hands, feet, the whole body indeed;
curls and even eyelashes play their part, and the final impression
produced upon her questioner is one of complete contrition for ever
having so misjudged a thing so virtuous.

[Illustration: "AIYO!"

(Fingers and toes curled in grieved surprise.)

"Did you think I would have done it?"]

But Chellalu wastes no sympathy upon herself. She is accustomed to be
believed; and perfectly happy in her mind, casts a keen glance round,
for who knows what new delights may be somewhere within reach!
"Ah!"--the deep-breathed sigh of content--is always a danger signal
where this innocent child is concerned. I turn in time to avert
disaster, and Chellalu, finding life dull with me, departs.

Then the little scarlet figure with its crown of careless curls scampers
across the sunny space, and dives into the shadow of a tree. There it
stays. Something arresting has happened--some skurry of squirrel up the
trunk, or dart of lizard, or hurried scramble of insect, under cover out
of reach of those terrible eyes. Or better still, something is "playing
dead," and the child, fascinated, is waiting for it to resurrect. And
then the song about the lilies begins again, only it is all a jumble
this time; for Chellalu sings just as it comes, untrammelled b