he stray visitor to the isolated tea plantations of the Assam
hills, where young English lads are set down by themselves, perhaps a
day's journey from the next European. What wonder that they find it
difficult to hold fast to the standards and principles of the home that
seems so far away, or that if they once ignore their inherited
traditions, no matter in how slight a thing, there seems to be no
natural stopping-place short of the abyss. As once said to me an aged
American missionary, who perhaps had never worn an evening coat a dozen
times in his life, "A nice young fellow, clean in body and soul, comes
out from England, and finds himself shut up for the year on one of these
plantations, no one of his kind within reach. He means well, but the
test is too great. First he stops dressing for dinner. What's the use?
Then he gets careless about his manners. And the end of it all is
black-and-tan babies in the compound." Here in Tonking the woman is
perhaps as well off as in her native hut until the planter goes home or
brings out a European wife, but in some way or another there is usually
an untoward ending. As for the children, they go to swell the class that
is neither here nor there, and their lot is probably happier than that
of the unfortunate Eurasians of India, since race prejudice is far less
strong among the French than with the Anglo-Saxon.

At Lao-kai on the Tonking frontier I stopped over for a day's rest,
having learned that it boasted a comfortable European inn. The little
town is built on the opposite high banks of the Red River near its
junction with the Namti. Just across the latter stream lie China and the
Chinese town of Ho-k'ou. There is a distinct European aspect to Lao-kai,
and as a frontier post it has a good-sized garrison of the Annamese
Tirailleurs and the French Foreign Legion. The latter did not look as
black as they are painted, and it was hard to realize that behind their
friendly, courteous bearing were ruined careers; but the contrast of
their sturdy forms and weather-beaten faces with the slender figures and
delicate features of the Tirailleurs was very striking. I did not wonder
that the French soldiers have dubbed their Annamese companions-in-arms
the "Young Ladies." The inn, which was most efficiently managed by two
Frenchwomen, served as a sort of club for the Europeans of both Lao-kai
and Ho-k'ou, and incidentally also for innumerable dogs and cats. At
dinner each person was the centr