miling expression, barely human, and that seemed to me to spell
"killing" quite distinctly and without any evil intent, like the
expression on a Greek head I have only once seen, a youthful
combatant--a cheery unintrospective look, a tough round neck, raised
chin, oblique eyes, and the least smile on lips just parted. One young
woman had that kind of face too; the rest were just as good in
expression as outsiders. They were employed grinding millets in hand
quirns, hard work, I'd think; the top stone they turn round, weighs two
stone and they put it round fairly quickly. I'd so much have liked to
have drawn this particular woman's face. I think it is the only
handsomely shaped face I've seen in India so far, and yet that queer
inhuman look ought to have prevented a child closing its eyes near her.
She had killed a child for its bangle and dropped it into a well, and in
prison nearly killed another for another bangle. She was fourteen and
had a look of complete ignorance of good or evil. This good-looking girl
they tell me is to go into a nunnery--by my Hostie! I'd like to hear the
end of the story.

We came back from the jail and found a tableau arranged on our verandah.
It was well done, whether by accident or design. The two principal
actors sat in the middle of the verandah with neat bundles arranged
round them, and behind them sat their two slaves or henchmen in garments
of complimentary tints. The Memsahibs came and were salaamed, and sat in
front of the traders. Then the bundles were opened and blossomed into
colours and fabrics. Within ten minutes the verandah was covered with
silks of every hue, gorgeous colours and the delicate colours of
moonlight, so that the matting was completely covered with a veritable
riot of colours and textures--a much more wonderful effect than any
tricks with baskets or mangoes grown under sheets. I tried to put this
down in colour, and here is a pen and ink jotting of the subject.

[Illustration]

Sunday.--Walked round the outside of the prison grounds amongst little
patches of highly-cultivated market gardens and clumps of palms, and
these long pumps like the ancient catapult with bronze men sweating at
them pulling down the long arm of the balanced yard to let the bucket
down the well, then tipping the water out into gutters of mud to
irrigate. They do it pretty much the same way up the Nile. The cottages
have low mud walls, and are thatched with dried palm leaves and scraps
of