at does your child have?" we inquired respectfully. "Barley-water and
milk, two-and-a-half ounces every two hours--that's five tablespoonfuls,
you know." "And Leela's?" "Oh, Leela's child is delicate. She has to
have Benger. Two ounces every two hours; and it has to be a long time
digested." "Do all your children have their food every two hours?" Lola
looked surprised, and Leela giggled: how very ignorant we seemed to be!
"No, only the tiny ones; our babies are very young. After they get older
they have more at a time and not so often. That child there," pointing
to another mat, "has Condensed, as we haven't enough cow's milk for them
all. It suits her very well. She has six ounces at a time; once before
she goes to sleep, and then none till she wakens in the morning. She's a
very healthy child." "How do you know the time?" we asked, prepared for
anything now. "Oh, we have watches. This is mine," and a toy from a
Christmas cracker was produced; "Leela's watch is different" (it was
indeed different--a mere figment of the imagination), "but she can look
at mine when she wants to." "Why does your child sleep with Leela's?"
(All the other infants had separate sleeping arrangements.) Lola looked
shy, and Leela looked shyer. These little matters of affection were not
intended for public discussion.

By this time the rain had cleared, so we prepared to depart, and the
further entertainments provided for us by the cheerful tribe that
evening do not belong to this story. We escaped finally, damp with much
laughter in a humid atmosphere. "Come every evening!" shouted the tribe,
as at last we disappeared, and we felt much inclined to accept the
invitation.

The kitchen is a busy place in the morning, and again in the evening,
when the fresh milk is carried to it in shining aluminium vessels to be
sterilized or otherwise dealt with. But even in the busiest hours there
is almost sure to be a baby set in an upturned stool, in which she sits
holding on to the front legs in proud consciousness of being able to sit
up. Or an older one will be clinging to the garments of the busy
workers, or perched beside them on a stool. Once we found Tara and Evu
seated on the window-sill. Ponnamal was making foods at the table under
the window, and the little bare feet were tucked in between bowls and
jugs of milk. "But, indeed, they are quite clean," explained Ponnamal,
without waiting for remark from us, for she knew what we were thinking
of her t