booths of bakers and pastry-sellers.  Here are men playing cards; others are flying kites; many are thronging the tea, coffee, and cold drink stalls; while in the very heart of the crowd wander Jewish, Panjabi and Hindustani dancing-girls, who have driven hither in hired carriages to display their beauty and their jewels.  Mendicants elbow one at every step,—­Mahomedan and Jewish beggars and gipsy-like Wagri women from North Gujarat, who persistently turn a deaf ear to the “Maf-karo” or “Pardon” of those whom they persecute for alms.

* * * * *

Many of the holiday-makers carry packets of basil leaves and flowers, which they place upon the grave of the Mother Pilgrim, silently repeating as they do so the ‘Fatiha’ or prayers for the dead.  Others more Puritanical, perchance more sceptical, utter not their prayers to the grave; but as the words pass their lips, turn their faces seawards, remembering Holy Mecca in the far west.  Glance for a minute within the room that enshrines the tomb, and you will see the walls hung with tiny toy cradles,—­the votive offerings of heartsick women from whom the grace of Mama Hajiyani has lifted the curse of childlessness.  So, as the sun sinks, you pass back from the peace of the Mother Pilgrim’s grave to the noise of the holiday-making crowd; and turning homewards you hear above you the message of the green parrakeets skimming towards the tomb “like a flight of emerald arrows stolen from the golden quiver of the Twilight.”

* * * * *

A BOMBAY MOSQUE.

Who does not know the Mahomedan quarters of the city of Bombay, with their serried ranks of many-storeyed mansions extending as far as eye can reach?

Dark and forbidding seem many of these houses; and to few is it given to know the secrets they enshrine.  But these square battalions of brick and plaster are not wholly continuous.  For here and there the ranks are broken by the plain guard-wall and deep-eaved porch, or by the glistening domes and balcony-girt minarets of a mosque:  and at such points one may, if one so wish, see more of the people who dwell in the silent houses than one could hope to see during the course of a month’s peregrinations up and down the streets devoted to the followers of the Prophet.

* * * * *

Stand with me at sundown opposite the gateway of the mosque and watch the stream of worshippers flowing in through the portals of the house of prayer.  Here are the rich purse-proud merchants of Persia, clad in their long black coats; there the full-bearded Maulavis.  Behind them come smart sepoys hailing from Northern India, golden-turbaned, shrewd-eyed Memon traders and ruddy-complexioned close-bearded Jats from Multan.  Nor is our friend the dark Sidi wanting to the throng:  and he is followed by the Arab with his well-known head-gear, by the handsome Afghan, and by the broad-shouldered native of Bokhara in