black face. It was only my _ayah_, a quaint, small person, wrapped
in a white _sari_, with demure, sly eyes and teeth stained red with
chewing betel-nut, looking through the mosquito-curtains to see if the
Miss Sahib was awake and would like _chota-hazri_. She embarrasses
me greatly slipping about with her bare feet, appearing when I least
expect her or squatting on the floor staring at me fixedly. I know
no Hindustani and she knows perhaps three English words, so our
conversation is limited. The silence gets so on my nerves that I drop
hairbrushes and things to make a little disturbance, and it gives her
something to do to pick them up. I must at once learn some Hindustani
words such as pink, blue, and green, and then I shall be able to tell
Bella what dress to lay out, and her place won't be such a sinecure. I
call her Bella because it is the nearest I can get to her name and it
has a homely sound.

The rest of my impressions I shall keep for my next letter. I have
written this much to give you an idea of my surroundings, and you see
I have taken your interest for granted. Are you bored? Of course you
will say you are not, but if I could see your face I should know.

The home mail arrives here on Sunday, when people are having what
they call a "Europe morning," and have time to read and enjoy their
letters. When you wrote you had just had my mail from Marseilles.
How far behind you are! It was too bad of me to write such pitiful
letters, but I think I was too miserable to pretend. Now I am very
well off, and no one could be more utterly thoughtful and kind than
old Boggley. I am sure I shall never regret coming to India, and
it will be something to dream about when I am a douce
Olivia-sit-by-the-fire.

You speak of rain and mud and fog, and it all seems very far away from
this afternoon land. The winter will soon pass, and, as you nicely put
it, I shall return with the spring.

_Calcutta, Nov. 21_.

It is the witching hour of 10 a.m. and I am sitting in my little
ante-room--boudoir, call it what you will--immersed in correspondence,
Boggley, hard-worked man that he is, has departed for his office
followed by a _kitmutgar_ carrying some sandwiches and a bottle of
soda-water, which is his modest lunch. Really a Government servant's
life is no easy one. He is up every morning by six o'clock, and gets a
couple of hours' work done before breakfast. His office receives him
at ten and keeps him till four, when he com