ks the question, and Vineetha who answers it: "It is
a cow. It is a cat." "Why don't you let Vineetha ask you what it is?" I
suggest; but Pyarie continues as before: "What is it? What is it?"
varied by "What colour is it? What shape is it? Who made it?" and the
mischief in her eyes (would that our artist could have caught it!)
explains the game. It is decidedly better to be teacher than scholar,
because suitable questions can cover all ignorance. Pyarie has not been
to the kindergarten of late, and has reason to fear Vineetha is somewhat
ahead of her; so she ignores my proposals, and continues her safe
questions. We sometimes think we shall one night be heard talking in our
sleep, and the burden of our conversation will be always--"What is it?
What colour is it? What shape is it? Who made it?"

CHAPTER V

Tara and Evu

[Illustration: TARA.]

OUR nurseries are full of contrasts, but perhaps the two who are most
unlike are the little Tara and Evu, aged, at the hour of writing, three
years and two and a half. I am hammering at my typewriter, when clear
through its metallic monotony comes in distinct double treble, "Amma!
Tala!" "Amma! Evu!" They always announce each other in this order, and
with much emphasis. If it is impossible to stop, I give them a few toys,
and they sit down on the mat exactly opposite my table and play
contentedly. This lasts for a short five minutes; then a whimper from
Tara makes me look up, and I see Evu, with a face of more mischief than
malice, holding all the toys--Tara's share and her own--in a tight
armful, while Tara points at her with a grieved expression which does
not touch Evu in the least. A word, however, sets things right. Evu
beams upon Tara, and pours the whole armful into her lap. Tara smiles
forgivingly, and returns Evu's share. Evu repentantly thrusts them back.
Tara's heart overflows, and she hugs Evu. Evu wriggles out of this
embrace, and they play for another five minutes or so without further
misadventure.

Only once I remember Evu sinned beyond forgiveness. The occasion was
Pyarie's rag-doll of smiling countenance, which had been badly
neglected by the family. But Tara felt for it and loved it. She was
small at the time, and the doll was large, and Tara must have got tired
of carrying it; but she would not tell it so, and for one whole morning
she staggered about with the cumbersome beauty tilted over her shoulder,
which gave her the appearance of an unbalanced