lays with our babies there" (the dear little sisters
who have gone to the nursery out of sight, but are unforgotten by the
children). "He plays with Indraneela--lovely games."

"What games, Bala?" I asked, wondering greatly what she would say. There
was a long, thoughtful pause, and Bala looked at me with grave,
contented eyes:--

"New games," she said simply.

Bala's opposite is Chellalu. We never made any mistake about her. We
never thought her good. Not that she is impossibly bad. She was created
for play and for laughter, and very happy babies are not often very
wicked; but she is so irrepressible, so hopelessly given up to fun, that
her kindergarten teacher, Rukma, smiles a rueful smile at the mention of
her name. For to Chellalu the most unreasonable thing you can ask is
implicit obedience, which unfortunately is preferred by us to any amount
of fun. She will learn to obey, we are not afraid about that; but more
than any of our children, her attitude towards this demand has been one
of protest and surprise. She thinks it unfair of grown-up people to take
advantage of their size in the arbitrary way they do. And when,
disgusted with life's dispensations, she condescends to expostulate, her
"Ba-a-a-a" is a thing to affright. But this is the wrong side of
Chellalu, and not for ever in evidence. The right side is not so
depressing.

It is a brilliant morning in late November. The world, all washed and
cooled by the rains, has not had time to get hot and tired, and the air
has that crystal quality which is the charm of this season in South
India. Every wrinkle on the brown trunks of the trees in the compound,
every twig and leaf, stands out with a special distinctness of its own,
and the mountains in the distance glisten as if made of precious
stones.

Suddenly, all unconscious of affinity or contrast, a little person in
scarlet comes dancing into the picture, which opens to receive her, for
she belongs to it. Her hands are full of Gloriosa lilies, fiery red,
terra-cotta, yellow, delicate old-rose and green--such a mingling of
colour, but nothing discordant--and the child, waving her spoils above
her head, sings at the top of her voice something intended to be the
chorus of a kindergarten song:--

Oh, the delight of the glorious light!
The joy of the shining blue!
Beautiful flowers! wonderful flowers!
Oh, I should like to be you!

"But, Chellalu, where did you get t