uch a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must have
been some singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye
was arrested by the sight of four _jhampanies_ in black and white
livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my
mind flew back to the previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense
of irritation and disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and
done with, without her black and white servitors re-appearing to spoil
the day's happiness? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call
upon, and ask as a personal favor to change her _jhampanies'_ livery.
I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off
their backs. It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable
memories their presence evoked.

"Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington's _jhampanies_ turned
up again! I wonder who has them now?"

Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always
been interested in the sickly woman.

"What? Where?" she asked. "I can't see them anywhere."

Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself
directly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to
utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider
passed _through_ men and carriage as if they had been thin air.

"What's the matter?" cried Kitty; "what made you call out so foolishly,
Jack? If I _am_ engaged I don't want all creation to know about it.
There was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you
think I can't ride--There!"

Whereupon willful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a
hand-gallop in the direction of the Band-stand; fully expecting, as she
herself afterwards told me, that I should follow her. What was the
matter? Nothing, indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla
was haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round.
The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near
the left railing of the Combermere Bridge.

"Jack! Jack, darling." (There was no mistake about the words this time:
they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) "It's
some hideous mistake, I'm sure. _Please_ forgive me, Jack, and let's be
friends again."

The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and daily pray
for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief
in hand,