ed,
I fancy, from my fowls--always alone, and always crooning to himself.

A gaily-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of
his little buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build
something more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor
was I disappointed He meditated for the better part of an hour, and
his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in the
dust. It would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was
two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was
never completed.

Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive,
and no '_Talaam, Tahib_' to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed
to the greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told
me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed
quinine. He got the medicine, and an English Doctor.

'They have no stamina, these brats,' said the Doctor, as he left Imam
Din's quarters.

A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I
met on the road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied
by one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth,
all that was left of little Muhammad Din.

THE FINANCES OF THE GODS

The evening meal was ended in Dhunni Bhagat's Chubara, and the old
priests were smoking or counting their beads. A little naked child
pattered in, with its mouth wide open, a handful of marigold flowers
in one hand, and a lump of conserved tobacco in the other. It tried
to kneel and make obeisance to Gobind, but it was so fat that it fell
forward on its shaven head, and rolled on its side, kicking and
gasping, while the marigolds tumbled one way and the tobacco the
other. Gobind laughed, set it up again, and blessed the marigold
flowers as he received the tobacco.

'From my father,' said the child. 'He has the fever, and cannot come.
Wilt thou pray for him, father?'

'Surely, littlest; but the smoke is on the ground, and the
night-chill is in the air, and it is not good to go abroad naked in
the autumn.'

'I have no clothes,' said the child, 'and all to-day I have been
carrying cow-dung cakes to the bazar. It was very hot, and I am very
tired.' It shivered a little, for the twilight was cool.

Gobind lifted an arm under his vast tattered quilt of many colours,
and made an inviting little nest by his side. The child crept in, and
Gobind filled his brass-studded leather wate