of her kind; but Jean lavishes affection on her.  A woman-child is an odd thing.  I remember being taken into a shop to choose a doll, and I chose a most hideous thing with curly white hair.  No one could understand why, and I was too shy to tell.  It was because the doll was so ugly; I felt sure no one would buy her, and I couldn’t bear to think of her loneliness.  The boys christened her “Mrs. Smilie,” after a lady of that name whom they thought she resembled, and the poor thing came to a tragic end.  They were playing at the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, in the shrubbery, seized on “Mrs. Smilie” to play the title role, and with brutal realism chopped off her poor ugly head.  I arrived just in time to see the deed, and rushed swiftly, with fists and feet, to avenge her fate.

Well, we set off every morning on our pilgrimage, Jean calling herself “Mrs. Jones,” and walking primly till we reach what we pretend is the seashore, where she forgets her dignity and rolls about in the sand.  A certain kind of tree that Dr. Russel has planted round about the bungalow makes a noise exactly like waves, so it is easy to pretend about the sea.  We meet many pilgrims on their way to some holy place, and we create quite a sensation in the little clusters of huts—­they could hardly be called villages—­that we pass through.  The inhabitants crowd around us, saying “Johar,” which I take it is Santali for “Salaam,” and we repeat “Johar” and grin broadly in reply; and the pie dogs sniff round us in a friendly way.  The other day we met a boy who, on beholding me, stood stock still, threw back his head, and shouted with laughter.  I never heard more whole-hearted merriment.  I had to join in.  Whether it was that he had never seen anyone with fair hair before, or whether there is something particularly droll in my appearance, I don’t know, but he evidently found me the funniest thing he had met with for a long time.  It is generally Topsy who is the centre of interest.  They hustle one another to look at her and gurgle with delight.  Jean told me solemnly, “I have to leave her at home when I go with Mummy to the villages.  They won’t listen about Jesus for looking at Topsy.”

Jean’s great desire is to meet “someone white.”  Yesterday I saw a horseman approaching in European riding kit and a topi.  “Look, Jean,” I said, “I believe that is an Englishman” but when he came up to us and raised his topi with a flourish Jean said mournfully, “No, it’s nobody white,” and I had to pick her up hurriedly in case she should say something more to hurt the poor Eurasian.

When we come in from our walk it is tiffin-time.  After that the children are put to bed, and I sit in the verandah and write and rest.  Did I say rest?  This is what goes on: 

“O-liv-i-a!”

I go into the nursery, and Jean, very wide awake, demands a needle and thread, as she wants to sew a dress for Topsy.  I tie a piece of thread into a large darning-needle and supply her with my handkerchief, which she proceeds to sew into a tight ball.  I return to my writing.