is a blameless existence one leads. I think I would soon grow very
good, for there is no temptation to be anything else. One can't be
very frivolous when there is no one to be frivolous with; nor can one
backbite and be unkind, for there is no provocation. As for being vain
and fond of the putting on of apparel, what is the good when one is
the Best People if one wears a garment of any description?

Although there is nothing to do, the days never seem too long. After
_chota-hazri_ I generally go for a walk with the children. There is
one good broad road passing the bungalow which leads away to the Back
of Beyond, but we prefer the little tracks worn by the feet of the
natives, which criss-cross everywhere. Jean won't stir a step without
a horrid, dilapidated rag doll called Topsy. I do dislike the faces of
rag dolls, their lack of profile is so gruesome, and Topsy is a most
depressing specimen of her kind; but Jean lavishes affection on her.
A woman-child is an odd thing. I remember being taken into a shop to
choose a doll, and I chose a most hideous thing with curly white hair.
No one could understand why, and I was too shy to tell. It was because
the doll was so ugly; I felt sure no one would buy her, and I couldn't
bear to think of her loneliness. The boys christened her "Mrs.
Smilie," after a lady of that name whom they thought she resembled,
and the poor thing came to a tragic end. They were playing at the
execution of Mary Queen of Scots, in the shrubbery, seized on "Mrs.
Smilie" to play the title role, and with brutal realism chopped off
her poor ugly head. I arrived just in time to see the deed, and rushed
swiftly, with fists and feet, to avenge her fate.

Well, we set off every morning on our pilgrimage, Jean calling herself
"Mrs. Jones," and walking primly till we reach what we pretend is the
seashore, where she forgets her dignity and rolls about in the sand.
A certain kind of tree that Dr. Russel has planted round about the
bungalow makes a noise exactly like waves, so it is easy to pretend
about the sea. We meet many pilgrims on their way to some holy place,
and we create quite a sensation in the little clusters of huts--they
could hardly be called villages--that we pass through. The inhabitants
crowd around us, saying "Johar," which I take it is Santali for
"Salaam," and we repeat "Johar" and grin broadly in reply; and the pie
dogs sniff round us in a friendly way. The other day we met a boy who,
on behol