his book, and all that he ought to know about God
is written there. I asked him whether he considered his life a useful
one. He said, "Yes, certainly; I pray." "For yourself?" I asked. "No,
for others," was his reply. I saw he was anxious to get on with his
cooking, and so I brought my visit to a close.

Unfortunately the fakir did not improve the longer he stayed with us.
The Mission children were at first inclined to make game of him. Their
attitude to the religions to which some of them once belonged is
generally one of intense contempt, and they do not always exercise
discretion in their way of expressing their feelings. The so-called
"ascetics" are feared in India, but not respected, and our children,
no longer fearing them, are apt to show their scorn. The fakir did not
accept with humility the disrespect of the children, and I first
became aware that they had been calling after him rudely, when he
turned and faced them with fierce rebukes.

But they were not the only people with whom he quarrelled. Both on the
road, and at his station by the tomb, I often heard him pouring out
torrents of angry eloquence, sometimes to the rather numerous women
who visited him, bringing him offerings of food. I was not near enough
to understand whether he was wroth because the offerings were not to
his taste. Also, little luxuries began to gather round him. With the
arrival of the rains came an umbrella. A smart new lamp to mark out
his encampment at night took the place of the shabby old one. He
usually returned from his frequent visits to the Mohammedan
egg-merchant enjoying one of the cheap smokes which Indians love, and
he began to put up the framework of a shanty as a shelter over himself
and the tomb. The materials for the shanty came in but slowly, so that
it was some time before the fakir could be said to have a roof over
his head. Perhaps the faithful did not altogether approve of the
diminishing austerity in the ascetic life.

His shed was completed at last, and he could no longer be said to be
quite homeless. But though his new house could not be called
luxurious, his life had lost the edifying element of the complete
poverty of his shelterless sojourn by the side of the tomb. Nor, when
his time was up, did he show any inclination to resume his wanderings,
and it seems not unlikely that he will remain in his quarters at the
tomb till _his_ turn comes to die, and then the kindly egg-merchant
will erect a whitewashed