he has fed and tamed in
her loneliness. The poor slave of the house comes to her for comfort.
There is a little child who comes to her in secret; there is one older
who worships her and would listen to her forever if she might. This I
have seen when I have crept across the roof. By the mistress of the
house--who is an evil woman--she is treated like a pariah; but she has
the bearing of a child who is of the blood of kings!"

"You seem to know a great deal about her," the secretary said.

"All her life each day I know," answered Ram Dass. "Her going out I
know, and her coming in; her sadness and her poor joys; her coldness
and her hunger. I know when she is alone until midnight, learning from
her books; I know when her secret friends steal to her and she is
happier--as children can be, even in the midst of poverty--because they
come and she may laugh and talk with them in whispers. If she were ill
I should know, and I would come and serve her if it might be done."

"You are sure no one comes near this place but herself, and that she
will not return and surprise us. She would be frightened if she found
us here, and the Sahib Carrisford's plan would be spoiled."

Ram Dass crossed noiselessly to the door and stood close to it.

"None mount here but herself, Sahib," he said. "She has gone out with
her basket and may be gone for hours. If I stand here I can hear any
step before it reaches the last flight of the stairs."

The secretary took a pencil and a tablet from his breast pocket.

"Keep your ears open," he said; and he began to walk slowly and softly
round the miserable little room, making rapid notes on his tablet as he
looked at things.

First he went to the narrow bed. He pressed his hand upon the mattress
and uttered an exclamation.

"As hard as a stone," he said. "That will have to be altered some day
when she is out. A special journey can be made to bring it across. It
cannot be done tonight." He lifted the covering and examined the one
thin pillow.

"Coverlet dingy and worn, blanket thin, sheets patched and ragged," he
said. "What a bed for a child to sleep in--and in a house which calls
itself respectable! There has not been a fire in that grate for many a
day," glancing at the rusty fireplace.

"Never since I have seen it," said Ram Dass. "The mistress of the
house is not one who remembers that another than herself may be cold."

The secretary was writing quickly on his tablet. He loo