Br rh li i] Bellefonte, Pa., February 28, 1930 ————————————————————— SHE MUSES ON HEAVEN Golden streets? Well, maybe I don’t know That I want golden streets, I'd think it queer To see gold streets, or apples bending low On golden boughs, when Christmas wasn’t near. Music, perhaps—a homely kind of thing; Not choirs sounding solemnly ani slow, But hymns that folks can all join in and sing, Like ‘Praises to God, from whom all blessings flow.” And on a Sunday all the city'd ring With church bells calling every cne to prayer, Though I suppose there's always worship- ing . And never time set for a service “there. But it would be homelike, seems to me, To walk to church each morning at eleven . And hurry back because there's company (I s’'pose you can have company in Heav en?). I'd want to, that I know, and if desires Are just as much as granted with the wish, I'd keep right on, a-tending kitchen fires And fixing up a special company dish. I'd not enjoy to walk a golden street; I'd rather live along a country lane And take my gold out in a field of wheat (I always think wheat’s homey-like and plain). I wouldn’t ask to sail the jasper sea, Nor walk with angels on the starlit way; T'd just hope folks, plain folks, would talk to me In the same casual, friendly sort of way, And lean upon my fence while I plant " flowers And train ‘my crimson rambler on the gate With all eternity to fool away the hours, And never have to hurry when its late. I sometimes even dare to pray That He who knew Gethsemane And loved the trees may stay some day And talk about my trees, with me. —ELIZABETH EVELYN MOORE IT WAS WRITTEN IN THE SAND Nobody knew why she was called “Mother Pretzel,” or when she had first come to Simla. She was as much of an institution as Brown of the theatre, or the Monkey Fakir of Jakko. As a matter of fact very few people owned to an acquain- tanceship with Mother Pretzel, and though almost everyone had heard of her, and a number of rickshaws and ponies climbed the winding path to her house at odd hours, their own- ers seldom spoke of their visits; or, if they did, it was a low voice and with a laugh, half furtive, half sheep- ish. Someone had called her the “Witch of Jakko,” and the name clung to her. She told fortunes; not the or- dinary affairs concerning dark wo- men, journeys across the sea and un- expected legacies, but the future as it really comes; and she told the stark truth, neither inventing good luck, nor concealing disaster. She was never wrong, and as stories of her power spread quietly, more people climbed up the hill to see for them- selves, and once having been, they went again, and Mother Pretzel told them month by month how they might avert evil, or find success. She must have known more than half the official secrets of Simla, let alone how many others. When a man wants to know the future, he is usually communicative about his past, and she probably received queer confidences from high quarters. Luckily she had the gift of silence. It was whispered that a governor of a province had taken a fancy for long walks around Jakko, unaccom- panied by hisA. D. C, and that members of council, generals and heads of departments were occasion- ally to be met with on the upper road after dinner, and if encountered their praises of starshine and night walks were overloud to be convincing. Their wives went less often and more se- cretly, for the most part veiled and in rickshaw, for Mother Pretzel did not confine herself to fortune-telling alone. > I was civil surgeon of Simla for five years, and occasionaly I came across what I suspected to be her work, but she was clever, and in the main skillful, so that the frail silly women who went to her seldom came to any harm. It was not till I had been in Simla some time that I realized her signif- icance. I was too hard-worked dur- ing the summer to have much time for anything outside my rounds, but as I picked up odd scraps of infor- mation I determined to visit her house in Jakko and form an opinion for myself as soon as I could. At the end of October the “great ones” departed for Delhi, and by the middle of November the ice skating had begun, and what with paying farewell visits and mastering an out- side edge, it was nearly Christmas before I saw Mother Pretzel, and then it was rather by her request than by my seeking. One evening when the first snow had come, and the skating was spoiled for the time, I sat in my study and watched the boughs of the deodar in my garden being slowly coated with white. There was a knock on the door, and my chuprassy came in and told me that an old man wanted to see me. “Chitthi laya hai? Has he brought a note?” I asked. “Nay, Huzur, he says that his mem-sahib is very ill, and prays that the Doctor Sahib will come with him.” I told him to bring the fellow in, and a minute later a grizzled old man in frayed clothes shuffled into the room. “What is your mem-sahib’s name, and where does she live?” T asked. “Huzur,” he answered, “she is the jadu wala mem, the old one, who lives in Jakko.” “Jadu mem” may be interpreted as “Magic Woman,” and as I pack- ed up my bag and looked out of the window, I reflected rather bitterly that the witch's victims always vis- ited her on snowy nights. It was growing dark, and we set off, the old man leading, and myself and the bearer with a lantern fol- lowing him. It was freezing cold, with a wind from the ice-fields be- yond the Shali blowing the snow in our faces, The road wound up be- tween the stark, black deodars, and there was no sign of life anywhere except the little chains of golden lights which circled below us, mark- ing the main roads around the hill. We took a steep path to the left and came to a dark roof crouching between the trees which grew close- ly all round it, hiding the house from the road. There was one feeble light in the window, and as the bearer pulled open the door a curious deep voice cried: “Khaun hai? Who is there 2” “The Doctor Sahib, Huzur,” said the old man. I walked into a room which was almost dark; the only light percolated ‘through a farther door which was ajar. The voice had come from that direction, so, stumbling against the furniture, I made for the door and knocked. The voice said, “Come in,” and I obeyed. Straight in front of me, sitting up stiffly in bed, was an old woman. At first I was only conscious of two large dark eyes, deep-set, ringed with bister and lambent like the eyes of an animal in the dark. “Doctor Sahib, I sent for you, for I am varree bad. Yess, I may die out before the dawn.” She never moved, and her deep voice with its chee-chee accent seem- ed curiously big for so small a crea- ture. For small she was, with tiny hands and feet like those of an In- dian woman, and though her skin was yellowishly fair, I judged that she must have a good deal of dark blood. Her little hawk nose was beautifully formed, with the fostrils set at a slant, and crouching in the bed, she reminded one of some deli- cate, fastidious bird of prey. It was obvious that she was very ill, and before I did anything else sent for the bearer to set about warming the place. The fire had gone out, and the smoky kerosene- lamp was the only light in the bare, squalid room. There was a charboy and a few bits of rickety furniture, and little else except two things which imme- diately caught my eye. They were an exquisite Mogul painting, badly framed, and the shawl around Moth- er Pretzel’s shoulders which was of that fine weaving and embroidery such as no hands have made in In- dia for a hundred years. It was a queer night, I was kept busy, as Mother Pretzel was un- doubtedly ‘“verree bad,” and by the time I had done what I could, it was too late and snowing too heavily for me to go home; also, I dared uct leave her. She needed a nurse, but I had no one to send. Mother Pretzel had pneumonia, and all night long she looked at me out of her enormous ink-black eyes, lying motionless except for her small hands, which beat restlessly on the dirty rezai (native quilt,) as if they were playing an imaginary tom-tom. There was a wicker cage hanging from the ceiling covered with a cloth, and towards morning a series of harsh chuckles, yawns and throat- clearings emerged from it. Kindlee uncover the birdee,” were the only words which came from the bed all night, and as I did as she asked me the mynah bird inside. the cage slanted his head and echoed her words mockingly. Next day Mother Pretzel was a lit- tle better, and she refused to have a nurse. “Noa, noa!” she cried in her odd, deep voice. “I won't have any girl | from Calcutta or Sanawar peeping | round my things. If you bring such a one here, Doctor Sahib, she will i be verree ill.” She chuckled wick- edly. “As ill as I am. You can make i some people well again, but I can i make them sicklee.” I didn’t know if she really intend- led to carry out her threats, but IT was doubtful if any nurse would stay in that queer house, so I con- i sented to give instructions to an ayah in a dirty sari, who appeared from nowhere and was evidently | acolyte at some of the witch's mys- | teries, for she seemed to know a fair | amount about nursing, and eventual- | ly, between the two of us, we pulled Mother Pretzel through pneumonia. We had four feet of snow that week in Simla, so naturally the ice | skating was at an end, and as Thad few friends and very little to do, I found myself spending a couple of {hours a day with Mother Pretzel i She had a curious fascination for me, | She was so strange a mixture of | superstition and shrewdness, of ig- | norance and amazing knowledge. As she got better she would sit up !in bed, swathed in her marvelous old shawl, and talk for hours, emphasiz- | ing her speech with quick gestures which were purely Indian. She told | me endless tales of the forgotten | court intrigues in Indian States; she gave me queer bits of information about Eastern drugs and the treat- | ment of disease, and whispered sly | stories of harems with a flavor of the Decameron, over which she would | chuckle wickedly, while the mynah echoed her laughter. {Although Mother Pretzel and I | talked of many things, two subjects we studiously avoided: her own past | which she never mentioned, and her | trade of fortune-telling; of the lat- | ter we spoke only once. It was when T came to see her professionally for | the last time. “Doctor Sahib, you have been ver- | ree good to me. I am good-for-noth- ing old ladee, but you come here ev- { ery day and care for me. Some time ' Mother Pretzel will make a repay- iment for you—but now if you likeI { will see, and tell your life for you. | Many sahibs came here to me for i that, and some pay much monee, but for you, Doctor Sahib, Y will tell for nothing. Oah, yess'—she gave an eldritch laugh—*“T will tell for love.” “Aha—for love, for love!” the mynah shrieked, and hopped across the table to peck at my fingers. I was in rather a fix. T have a horror of fortune-telling. I suppose, having had more than my share. of unhappiness, I dread to be told that I shall suffer again. no happiness, and. , faith in “Mdther Pretzel’s-queer pow- ér to want to hear of misfortune from her. hesitated. She seemed to understand: for she put out her little hand and patted my arm. “No matter, Doctor Sahib. I shall not tell. But I will give this gift.” And she pressed into my hand the Mogul painting which I had so often looked at as I came into the room. ; It was an exquisite piece of work, ‘a seventeenth-century hunting-scene, ‘full of jewel-colored figures and cur- : veting horses, with every detail of dress and caparison drawn with me- . triculous care. i was touched by her gift, and | knowing how lonely she was during the winter, when most of her clien- telle were away, 1 made a point of going to see her as often as I could. Naturally I went less during the | summer when my work claimed all my time, but I saw her once or twice during the season, and frequently ' during the winter. The following year my friend Nevison came to Simla, and the events through which I learned all there was to know of Mother Pretzel. liberately—when two men have been the only sahibs in a place for three uninterrupted years, an attitude to wards each other of friendship, hat- red or supreme indifference must in- evitably ensue. For me the three contentment and healing, great sorrow. after a Nevison’s dreamy, antithesis of my own outlook on life, and, as ing up between us. cheerful type of man which predom- inates in the service. Then again, in verted sensitiveness, and when these came, as come they must to everyone who differs from the run of his fellow men, he suffered over them keenly. There was no doubt of his having dark blood in his veins, and that all the world over carries with it a cer- tain stigma. Otherwise he was all that a man should be—intellectual, amusing, with a decidedly ironic sense of humor and the most cour- teous of manners in the world. This courtliness, combined with a certain dignity and the darkness of his hair and skin, often gave strangers the impression that he belonged to some good French or Spanish family—but Anglo-India, that ugly busybody, soon disillusioned them, and despite his unmistakable air of breeding, he was labeled “Country,” and though society received him, it was with reservations. I had not seen Nevison for a cou- ple of years, and his letter announc- ing his intention of coming to stay with me was very welcome. He ‘wrote that he had four months’ leave, and needed mountain air and an oc- casional glimpse of the snoWs to help him finish the book he was writing. The evening he came I was called out to see a case, and so was not there to welcome him, but when I came home I found him in my study, and it was a pleasant thing to see his long slender body curled up in my arm chair. “This is good,” he said, as he shook my hand, “and equally so is that,” he added, as we walked over to the window and watched the crimson light fade from the hills, leaving them steel-colored in the twilight. Nevison had not changed much during the years in which I had not seen him; he was going a little gray over the temples, and the dark, fine grained skin round his gray eyes was wrinkled; he had always looked old for his age, but one would not have taken his forty for much more than forty-five. That night we sat over the fire after dinner, and he talked to me of his book. It was three-quarters fin- ished, and he had put his whole soul into it, living and thinking of noth- ing else. Now all he wanted was quiet and cool air and freedom in which to acomplish the delicate pro- cess of correction and elimination. The pine logs hissed and crackled, and animated hands. He leaned for- ward as he continued to describe the main idea of the book. It was a history of the Moguls, not of the great emperors, but of those princelings who succeeded Au- rangzeb, the stock of Timur which India had sapped of strength and power. He presented not the dry bones of history, but rather the decomposing flesh of an empire shrouded in rich silk. He described it all—the crumb- ling splendor, the court intrigue and the gradual fall of a great dynasty. I was amazed, not only by the brilliance of the conception, but by Nevison’s amazing knowledge of de- tail. He made the court life of those days move before my eyes. He de- scribed the follies, pleasures and ideas of that age with such extra- ordinary fidelity that” it was almost as if he had inherited memories from some former incarnation. he said, theme. “I think it's even greater than you realize it to be,” I answered. “If you can perfect it, it'll be as great a book as Tod's Rajasthan. Tt is amazing to me that you should have such insight into mentality of the well-born Indian——" “You mean, when I may be the son of a coolie woman,” he interrupted me, with a sneer, and then, catching sight of my face, he repented, and added: “I'm sorry; I had no right to when he had outlined the imagine you thought that. ButI'm sore, sore about everything. Tt's damnable.” He flung himself out of his chair and began to walk up and down. “Forgive me. 1 didn't mean to start talking about my eternal feud with fate, on my first night here You're the only person I can call my friend, and I suppose that willy- is so often the case with | fundamentally different natures, we for his name was never mentioned, found an immense sympathy grow- and of my mother I knew even less. lighting up his sallow, charming face “Well, what do you think of it?” I thanked her, and then I could forsee nilly I must talk to you. I think of, 1 had too much “nothing else—except my book—and 1 suppose unburdening myself about the one has made me want to discuss the -other.” - ‘He sat down again, and .stared into the fire; speaking jerkily: occurred «I'm tired—I don’t mean physically, but mentally. What I need——" “What you need, my son,” I said lightly, “is a comfortable wife, who'll look after you and not let you think too much.” He was overwrought, and I wanted him to go to bed without further discussion. But he wouldn't stir. “No, doctor,” he insisted. “You must let me have my say tonight. I can’t shut up all this bitterness any longer—and I know you'll under- stand. Don’t you see that’s the most damnable thing of all? I can never marry. I can’t ask a woman I love to be the wife of a coolie woman's son.” He dropped his head between his hands, and the bitterness in his voice hurt me. During all the years of our friendship he never had spoken of his parentage before. “But you don’t know—" I said. “That's just it—I don’t. I don’t know much about my father, except that he was a blackguard and died I write the words “my friend” de- years of Kilapur had been years of i | | half bitter idealism was the exact imagine how bitterly | those days he suffered from a per-| in jail—a fact which is hardly com- forting. Oh, he came of decent stock, I knew, so decent that they would never mention him. “] was sent home when I was two years old to my grandparents, and they brought me up. It was good of them—they were a strait-laced old pair, a clergyman of the old school and his prime wife—and you can reticent they were about my father's disgrace. “I never learned what caused it, My grandfather had me taken away Nevison is a man of few friends; | from her by a fellow clergyman, and his silences, his pride and his knowl- | to judge by myself and what appar- edge of unusual subjects repelled the ! ently is other people’s opinion of me, she was an Indian and probably a bad lot—and low caste. “There’s the rub. I may be the I don’t suppose my father married her—I gathered from the silences of his family that matri- mony would hardly have appealed to him.” “Did the old people mention him in their will? Were there no papers no letters?” I asked. “Absolutely nothing. My grand- parents died within a week of each other of influenza, while I was abroad. There was no money, so I drifted out here into the Salt De- partment. Back to my country. The call of ‘home,’ I suppose.” He laid his hand on my shoulder, “It’s time to go to bed,” he said, and added: “It's good of you to bother about such a son of Hagar.” I was very busy during the follow- ing week, and Nevison worked hard at his book, which seemed to be pro- gressing well. One afternoon I hap- pened to be free, and I suggested that a walk would be pleasant. We climbed to the top of Jakko, and suddenly I remembered Mother | Pretzel. I began to tell him about ‘her, and he was immensely amused by what he was pleased to call my “pewitchment.” He insisted that we should call on the ' old lady on our way home. As we came in sight of the crouching, dark roof of Moth- er Pretzel’s house, I heard the myn- ah say: “Kahaun hai? Who is there?” His cry roused Mother Pretzel, and her little odd figure appeared at the door. “Khaun hai? Who is it?” Then, as I took my hat off, she chuckled gaily and came forward. ‘Aha, the Doctor Sahib; that is verree good, not to be forgotten. Yess, yess, and a friend too. Come in, there is too much light here.” She wore rusty black clothes of the fashion of the ’eighties, with long trailing frilled skirts which swept after her and upset the mynah, who came fussing behind. After the briliant sunshine outside, the little room seemed dark and gloomy, and the air was stale. “Now I can see you both,’ said Mother Pretzel. She stared at me first out of those lambent, penetrat- ing eyes. ‘ “Atcha,” she smiled. “You are the same, a man who is always kind- lee, and always sad.” Then she turn- ed to Nevison, “What is his name?” she asked, pointing at him with her slender yellow hand. I told her. She said it over slow- ly two or three times, and I noticed that the fingers of her hand, which was still raised, trembled very slight- ly. There was a long minute during which they looked at each other. Nevison was completely, charmingly at his ease, in a situation which would have made most men, even the very self-possessed, a little uncom- fortable. “Do not grieve for what has been,” she said dreamily. “It was all writ- ten, and you can never rub it out.” As she ceased speaking, she turn- ed away quickly and clapped her hands. “But now you gentlemen must take refreshment. Cups of tea you shall drink.” I began to protest. “Noa, noa; when you come to this old one’s house so seldom it would be a great shame to refuse her en- tertainments. Bring tea,” she com- manded the bearer, as he stood sa- laming by the door. The tea came, strong and served in battered tin cups, and there were Indian sweets which we shared with the mynah, giving him the lion’s share. Mother Pretzel was strangely gay, and I was glad to see that she and Nevison appeared to have taken a great liking for each other. They laughed and joked, and finally Nevison said: “Well, when are you going to tell my fortune, Mother Pretzel?” She looked up as he spoke, and turned to me. “The Doctor Sahib will not like that!” “Oh, nonsense!” he laughed, and waved my protests aside, ‘T imsist.” Mother Pretzel walked over .to a rickety chest of drawers which stood in a corner of the room, and brought from it a small bag of sand. She had grown suddenly grave, and her echo, the mynah, stood silent at her ES Ha ERROR, feet.- She ‘motioned us to sit in two chairs close to the door opening on the veranda. Then, as if she cast from her everyt] ‘made a gesture and squatted native fashion on the floor, pouring the fine sand into a pool and smoothing it flat with her small, delicate hands, while she murmured something, I suppose a charm, under her breath. With a pointed stick she drew squares and characters on the sand, and stared in front of her all the time, her great black eyes filling her I watched the pupils contract to pin-points as she said the names Then, when she had finished the invocation and dropped her eyes and looked at the sand. There was a pause before she face. of the seven spirits. began to speak in her deep, curious- ly resonant voice. “You have need of much monee without that for a great work; monee the work will be failing.” “That's true enough,” said Nevi- “I don't suppose any publisher will take the book. But there’s no money, Mother Pretzel, nor ever like- son. ly to be, as far as I can see.” She held up her hand to silence him. “But the monee will come by death in a veree strange way. That I can- not see clearly. Do not fear; some day you will be rich.” As she saw the amused incredulity on his face, she turned to me. “Doctor Sahib, you know how wise I am. Do not let him laugh.” “I'm not laughing, zel.” of intentness come into eyes. Mother Pret- He leaned forward, and as an idea crossed his mind, I saw a look his gray “Now, of the Past—what do that I should go soon. Tonight isan auspiciousleé good time, and tonight I will go.out. "It is no good. to take European, - she { temperatures, ‘Doctor Sahib, and to bring out drugs and arl. It is my will to die, and in an hour from now. When an Indian, or one so near the Indian as Mother Pretzel, makes up hisor her mind to die, all treat- ment is useless. I have found it so over and over again. It is the will to live that preserves life. Nevison was watching my face; he under- stood at once, and with his quick, tender impulsiveness he tonk the old woman's hands, and his voice shook a little as he said: “Why won't you live, Mother Pret- zel? Why do you want to leave us?” She patted his sleeve. “For the young, living is good, but for the old, death he is better. Sit down, Doctor Sahib. I have many things to say, and there is not veree long.” The bird hopped up and down rest- lessly at the head of the bed, and outside, the night was very stil. “How shall I know where to be- gin? My mind thinks veree stupid- lee, and my speech is slow. Doctor Sahib, you think I am a Kiranee, a half-caste. Noa, noa, you are wrong.” She struggled up on her pillows and sat erect. “I am Sitara Bebum, the daughter of the King of Oudh, of the line of Akbar Padishah the Great,” She slipped back, and lay watch- ing our faces. “Kindlee give me water. I have so much to tell.” Her words came with difficulty, and then an idea struck her. She smiled. “I will not speak Angreji, it is so uglee. I will speak my own way.” When she had sipped the water she spoke again, but in the beauti- ful slow phrases of court Urdu, which you see of my past, of—of my par- entage?”’ he asked. There was silence again. Then, to my amazement, I saw the little is half Persian and the loveliest in crouching figure become suddenly the East. : rigid, her face darkened and grew Sometimes her mind wandered. livid, that dead, grayish color which She told us irrelevant incidents of in an Indian denotes | emotion. Her lips moved, caught a whisper, not of clipped , he was always descendant of a line of sweepers. It FEurasion English, but Utah: on the watch for slights and rebuffs, l makes me sick. “The name—and the eyes, like water. She Aie, what blindness.” swayed, stared at Nevison, "out and violently erased the signs, “scattering the sand over our feet. “I shall not tell you. shall not say.” | The mynah shriled the words af- , ter her, and she got up, looking very old, shrunken and gray. | Nevison said nothing. He picked up his hat and stick, and I could see he was horribly moved. “What is there to pay?” he asked, | turning to go. The old woman caught at his coat, looking up at him rather pitifully. “I will take nothing, no, not a pice from you, not a single pice. Do not be angree, there is no need for sad- ness. I will tell some day. Please to come again and see me. I am veree lonelee.” Nevison’s trouble was dark on him. Her refusal to speak of his parent. age had been like a blow on an old wound. But nevertheless, his charm- ing, haunting smile came into his eyes, and he promised Mother Pretzel he would come again. We walked down the path, and at the turn I looked back and saw her little wizened figure standing at the door. Nevison shut himself into his room to write that evening, and neither of us spoke much at dinner. He was as good as his word and often climb- ed the hill to Mother Pretzels tum- ble-down house, and as the result of his visits a great friendship grew up between them. The rains were nearly over, and his book had come back from the publisher. It was, as he had expect- ed, impossible to publish so large and expensive a work unless he was will- ing to put down $800 himself. He was bitter and wretched, feeling that his years of toil had been fruitless, and in his maddening pride he would not consent to borrow from me. Finally, in desperation, I went to Mother Pretzel. Nevison had confid- ed in her, and before the book was sent to the publishers I knew she had helped him, giving him details of Mogul court life and ceremonials. I asked her to use her influence, and persuade him to be more reasonable. It was ridiculous of him to refuse a loan from me, who had known him so well and for so long. Looking on things now, I realize how odd it was that we two men ed by that little disreputable crea- ture. For disreputable she undoubt- edly was, in the eyes of the world— a Eurasian fortune-teller and pur- veyor of illicit drugs. And yet, 1 went to her for advice on a subject which I never should have mention- ed to anyone else. “Jt was written in the sand, on that first day,” she said, as wesat in her dingy room, filled with the sour smell of the mynah’s food. “Doctor Sahib, do not say one word more to Mr. Nevison, and wait pa- tientlee. I must think of many things, and then all will come right. Do not be worrying. It isarl writ- ten.” Three days later, as we sat over the fire after dinner, there was a knock at the door and Gulam Mo- hammed, the bearer, came in. s“Huzur, the jadu mem-sahib’s ser- vant has come. The mem is ill, and prays that both the sahibs will go to her house.” “I wonder why she wants us both,” said Nevison, as we put on our mackintoshes. She was lying in bed, looking smaller than ever, with her great eyes shining like lamps on either side of her little hawk nose. There were broken chairs on each side of the Nevison had better wait in the next room while you tell me what is the matter with you.” I took her claw- like hand. It was icy-cold, with a very slow pulse. “Noa, noa, Doctor Sahib, arl the things in your black bag are no good now, It was written in the sand deep fear or and I gray and then her exquisite hands, grown i suddenly predatory, clawlike, swept Noa, noa, I ran forward and should have been so deeply influénc- | bed, and she motioned us to sit, down. | “Mother Pretzel,” I said, “Mr.’ her youth, and as she remembered the past a great dignity came to her, so that we felt as if we were sub- | jects watching by the bed of a queen. | “It was long ago—when my people had been banished from Nucklao af- ter the madness of the Black Year, and we dwelt in the house by the riv- er, in the city of Calcutta. There, in the hot season, was I born of my mother, Badamo, the third daughter of the Nawab of Murshidabad, and the third wife of King of Oudh. “Being born upon a Wednesday, I was named Sitara, daughter of the stars, and at the casting of the hor- oscope it was foretold that I should be given strange wisdom. Yea, I could see the paths of life, and from the age of five years the ladies of the household would bid me blacken the palms of my hands and stare into them, seeing the answers to their questions as it were in a mirror. Al- so I had knowledge of births and deaths and the rulings of the stars, and I could see into men’s minds and watch the shuttle of their thoughts weaving. “It was soon known amongst the ladies of many households that I was possessed of these gifts, but though they were eager enough to use my wisdom, they were unwilling to take me as a daughter-in-law. “At the age of seventeen I was un- betrothed and unsought, and there was a shame laid upon our house. My father spoke harsh words to me, and the ladies of the house reproach- ed me, wherefore I was unhappy and my heart was heavy. ; “It was our custom in the hot sea- son to drive in a carriage at the time of sunset, when there was some breeze to stir the curtains which shut out prying eyes from the car- riage windows. For I was purdah nashin in those days, Doctor Sahib, and they would have slain you slow- ly if they had found you seated as you are now. And I was very fair. Did they not call me Gulab-dill, Heart's Rose?” She laughed softly to herself. Yea, in the cool of the evening I drove with my women, and Eblis, the Evil One, sent a swift gust of wind which snatched at the purdah, and blew it away so that it flew like a white crane into the trees, leaving me shameless and unveiled. Aye, shameless, for I never covered my face with my chudder. I was be- witched, staring into the eyes of one who stood an arm’s length from the carriage door. A sahib, tall and gray- eyed, with a sword at his side. He smiled on me, as I on him, but we said no word. Then one of the wo- men cast a garment over the win- dow and bade the saice drive on. “Two days later Huneefa the mud- wadeen (go-between) came to the ! house bringing rich stuffs from Be- | nares, and whilst the trader waited i below she praised his wares, know- | ing she would be given money on all i that she sold. My mother Badamo was there, and my aunt Ameena, 'and my sister Miriam, she who was to be married on the twelfth day of that month. She was four years | younger than I, and she mocked me, | calling me ’ill-omened.’ “Then they all reproached me,’ | saying that I was accursed and no {man would ever take me—and I | should die barren and unwed. So {they said. Then, laughing among | themselves, they made Huneefa un- do the bales, and decked themselves "in the saris and golden cloths which | she had brought. But I turned my | face to the wall and wept, for Iwas | unloved and accursed. Then Huneefa made pretense of showing me a waistcoat of woven silver, came to {my side and said, speaking low: “ ‘Do not weep, Bergum Sahiba, for there is one more valiant than Rustum himself, who is not blind, having seen the daughter of the stars. He bade me bring you this. She dropped at my feet a letter sewn into a square of silk. All through ‘two nights I had lain sleepless, think- ing of the gray eyes and the smile | of the Feringee—the white man. “1 was afraid—I dared not touch the letter. “ ‘Do not fear, Begum Sahiba,’ she whispered. ‘He is mad with love. Did he not seek me out and fill my hands with silver, bidding me finda letter-writer to whom he could say sweet words, not knowing how to (Continued on page 38, Col. 8)
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers