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The trees stood like bony and bare bands creeping out of a brown earth, which had a layer of ghastly white snow to hide its hideous visage. A doleful wind howled outside the cave in which a figure sat counting beads, and a dimly burning lamp caused colossal and weird looking shadows to fill the uncouth cave. There at the mouth of the cage stood a child wrapped in a little cloak and shivering with cold.

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And a marvellous beauty had he, which filled the man with wonder. He was white and delicate as sawn ivory, and his curls were of the purest gold. And his eyes shone like sapphires. They had the azure colour of the summer skies and the far-away ocean. And his innocence made a halo all around him, and from his came a radiance which filled the cave with a mystic light. And the sinner felt his heart softened, and the beads dropped down. Thus murmuring the sinner laid the child on his own bed of hay, and hobbled about in the wretched cave, foregtting his beads and all, to get some wood for a fire.

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And he felt an undescribe ecstasy,an ineffable relish, as he made the fire, and laid down his crumbs before the innocent creature. The little child picked up his beads, and played with them. His innocent laughter rang again and again in the air and the mildew dropped off, and the birds gathered around and chirped as if it were spring. And the sinner felt his heart becoming better, and he could cry like a baby, and his childhood all swam before his eyes in all its wonderful innocence and vivid glory.

And he laughed with the child, and he played. Then the child fell asleep, clutching the beads. And he watched him enraptured, for he did not dare indeed to snatch the beads away or disturb the innocent slumber of the child. And as he left praying to get food the voice of the Hermit came clear and loud:. One heard such a great deal about the dark trenches and the deadly rat-a-tat of the enemy machine guns, that the sight, authenticating, as it were, the reality of that night marish warfare, drew considerable attention.

One look, at least, I could boast of gettin from every newcomer. Old women could hardly dissemble their consternation.


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I smiled. They reminded me of my own grandmother whose belongings I delighted to throw down the window in to the streets. An unusually stiff, mask-faced young lady, wearing the stern air of a governess followed dragging a reluctant young child. A young lady of langurous, oriental beauty and dreamy dark brown eyes came next.

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The entourage was completed by an elegantly dressed gentleman with an aura of quiet dignity around him. He looked like a consummate advertisement of the conservative landed aristocracy of British India. But even he, though just for a fleeting moment, gave me a look. A look long enough to manifest inquisitiveness, but not so long so to enter into the sphere of vulgar couriosity. The reluctant little child stared at me with wide-eyed interest. Not me, but novelty had reiveted his gaze.


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But when I looked at him and smiled encouragingly, he blushed crimson and averted his eyes. He was a shy little boy with large, dark brown eyes and a thatch of shining black locks on his head. The frankness on his face gave him a winsome, innocent air. It stamped him with precocity; but the impressions were not so discordant as to be jarring. I busied myself in an English delicacy, the boast of the restaurant, and surveyed the whole room for acquaintances till my eyes came back to the child. He was still watching me.

This time he smiled warmly when I saw him. I raised my hand. He brightened up, stood on his chair and waved his handkerchief to me. This startled the family. His sisterfor so she seemed to begot him down. His father turned to survey the room, forced a wellbred smile on his face, and in measured imperious steps crossed over to me. Howqever, we shook hands purfunctorily. The eyes thawed into glowing warmth. He extended his hand which I shook warmly, saying. I am an old acquaintance of your brother, Dr.

May I have the honour of your acquaintance, sir? My brother often mentioned you, Sardar Sahib. Sardar Sahib then took me over to his table. After the usual greetings, I settled down on a chair, ensconcing myself between Sardar Humayoun and the governess. After a lively conversation, a pause followed. I was thinking of something to say when I felt pressure on my arm. It made my turn.

Two reproachful eyes started into mine. It was the child. He kept on looking at my leg intently.

It was a source of magnetic fascination for him. Just then the old woman look at him disapprovingly. The poor child witlted under that glance. His face, all excitrement draining away from it, looked disappointed. He gave my leg another look, and his eyes lighted up again. Then he resigned himself to the solicitous care of his governess.

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I was sorry for him. He looked so quiet and hurt. We sat together for quite a long time. There had been rumours of someone having occupied the house adjacent to mine but no one had told me it was him. I was glad to have met him. I had always led an active life. And now when nothing but reading was possible for me, conversation was a welcome diversion.

The next day while I sat reading in my invalid chair, I thought someone had crept near and stood watching me. I put the book down and looked up. He stood gazing at my leg. The disability fascimated him. It inflamed his childish imagination.

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It surrounded me with a nimbus of heroism; painted me as a war her, one of the sort he heard so much about. I knew he was conversant with English, his governess being an Anglo-Indian lady. I called him again. Then he came diffidently; drawn magnetically by the leg but still inhibited and shy. He came slowly, like an inquisitive sniffing little rabbittimid and yet curious. I offered to shake hands with him when he came near. He beamed and thrust out a dirty, wilting little paw. I took it in mock sokemnity, assuming an air of grave importance. He seemed impressed and a bit more at ease.

He considered this awhile. Then toosed his head petulantly. He seemed delighted. He had a real flesh and blood warrior for himself. He touched the plaster of my leg tentatively with soft, eager caressing fingers. The touch worked wonders for him.

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I was a symbol of the First World War which had fired his imagination. He touched my leg fondly again, like a little girl fondling her pet doll. Can you do it? I assured him I could, and did so, too. He was pleased. His eyes lit up with unbounded pleasure. Then he inspected my leg closely, yet again. He lifted large, wondering eyes to my face. We used to see each other every day. He insisted on serving me.