[Illustration:  Nur Jan.]

So she spake, seated on the clean white floor-cloth of the brightly-lighted “diwankhana,” like some delicate flower cradled on a crystal lake.  We had seen her once before at the house of an Indian friend, who had hospitably invited a company to witness her songs and dances; we had heard her chant the subtle melodies of Hindustan and even old English roundelays for the special delectation of the English guests; we had remarked her delicate hands, the great dark eyes, the dainty profile, the little ivory feet, and above all the gentle voice and courteous bearing; and we realized that Nur Jan had not been bred to this uncurtained life, but must once have known the care, affection and the gentle training of a patrician home.

By what caprice of evil fortune had she come to this, hiring out her voice and her nimble feet to enhance the pleasure of a chance entertainment, far from her own people and from her northern Indian home?  What secret lay in the song of the frail maiden on the banks of the Jamna, in the earnest request she made to us not to mention the name of dead Royalty before her attendant-musicians?  The mystery remained unsolved for that evening; and it was not till some weeks later that the chances of an official enquiry brought us face to face again.  But this time the ill-starred dancing-skirt and bells had been locked away; and in their stead we saw the silken jacket, the spangled pale-blue sari, covered by a diaphanous black veil, like a thin cloud half-veiling the summer heavens, the necklace of pearls round the olive pillar of her throat, and above them the calm face and the wealth of dark hair that scorned all artificial adornment.  There she sat in her own house, singing to two rich Arabs and a subordinate agent of one of the greatest rulers of Asia, while behind her Mimi, aged two years,—­the legacy of a dead affection, crooned and tried to clap her small hands in rythm with her mother’s song.  And in the pauses of her singing, while the musicians tightened their bows and the silver “pan-box” was passed round to her Indian-guests, she lifted a little way, a very little way the curtain of the past.

“Yea, Saheb, you have rightly spoken.  I come of a good family, and as a child I was sent to school in Calcutta and learned your English tongue.  When I grew to girlhood I determined to study medicine and serve the women of my faith as a doctor.  But barely had I commenced the preliminary lessons of compounding when the trouble came upon our house, and my sister and I were brought away from the old home to Bombay and bidden to find the wherewithal to support those to whom we owed respect and affection.  Saheb, with us the word of near relations is law, and their support a sacred duty.  What could we, gently-bred Mahomedan girls, do in a strange city?  We had always liked singing and had taken lessons in our home; and it seemed that herein lay the only chance of supporting ourselves and others.  Therefore, not without hesitation, not without tears, we bade adieu to the ‘pardah’ of our people and cast the pearls of our singing before the public.  Thus has it been since that day.  My sister by good-hap has married well and regained the shelter of the curtain:  but I am still unwed and must sing until the end comes.”