to me that the little girl might have run home to warmth and light and safety.  That was no solution—­the doll would still have been there.  Your letter, with its tale of snow and great quiet forests, and the picture you drew me of the funny little girl with the flaxen plaits and the red stockings, made me remember it.  I don’t know where my old book is—­gone long since from the nursery bookshelf to the dustbin, I expect, for it was much-used and frail when I knew and loved it—­but your word-picture gave me the passport and enabled me to creep once again inside its cover, so brave in blue and gold, and to greet my friend in the red stockings, and find her as highly coloured as ever, and not a day older.  It is nice of you to say I have a courageous outlook on life, but I wish I hadn’t told you the story of the mongoose that was an otter.  Now you will say, like Boggley, Funk-stick! If I stay much longer in this frightsome land my hair will be white and my nervous system a mere wreck.

Yesterday we left the solitude of Rika and went to polo at a place about seventeen miles away.  It was very interesting to meet all the neighbouring Europeans—­mostly planters and their wives.  There were about twenty people, and everyone very nice.  I wish I had time to tell you about them, but I haven’t.  After polo, which I enjoyed watching, we all had tea together and talked very affably.  Then Mr. Royle drove me home while Boggley went with Mrs. Royle.  I heard, as we were leaving, Mr. Royle say something to Boggley about the horse being young and skittish, and a faint misgiving passed through me, but I forgot it talking to Mr. Royle, and when we reached Rika I went off to dress for dinner, taking it for granted that the others were just behind.  Letters were waiting me, and I lingered so long over them I had to dress in a hurry, and ran to the drawing-room expecting to find everyone waiting.  But the room was empty.  Hungry and puzzled, I waited for another ten minutes, and then went along to Boggley’s bedroom, to see what he meant anyway; but there was no one there.  More and more puzzled, but distinctly less hungry, I went back to the drawing-room, looked into the dining-room, finally wandered out into the verandah, where I found the children’s old nurse Anne tidying away the children’s toys.

I said:  “Nurse, where’s everybody?”

Anne left the toys and lifted both hands to high heaven.

“Och!  Miss Douglas dear, it wasn’t for nothing I dreamt last night of water-horses.  The night before ma sister Maggie’s man was killed by a kick from a wicked grey horse (Angus M’Veecar was his name, and a fine young lad he was) I dreamt I saw one.  As big as three hills it was, with an awful starin’ white face, and a tail on it near as long as from Portree to Sligachen.  It give a great screech, and a wallop in the face of me, and jumped into the loch, and by milkin’-time next morning—­a Thursday it was—­ma sister Maggie came into the door cryin’, ‘Och and och, ma poor man, and him so kind and so young,’ and fell on the floor as stiff as a board.”