I give him, like a little puppy dog.  Toffee and fancy biscuits, both of which I possess in abundance, are his favourites.  An old servant of Boggley’s is with a sahib near here, and he arrived dressed in spotless white from head to foot, bearing in one hand a large seed cake wreathed with marigolds, and in the other a plate of toffee coloured pink, green, and yellow, an offering to the Miss Sahib which he presented with many salaams, and of which my little Hindoo gets the benefit.  Autolycus and the chuprassis take a great interest in teaching him manners.  When I hold out a biscuit Autolycus says sternly, “Say salaam to the Miss Sahib,” and the baby puts his small hand gravely to his forehead, bowing low with a “Talaam, Mees Tahib,” then snaps up the prize.  I shall miss my little companion.  I wonder what will become of him—­little brown heir of the ages.  Already he can lisp to idols, but he has never even heard of the Christ who said, “Suffer the children.”

March 3.

I shall finish this and post it to-morrow before we leave.  We have been to church to-night, the most unusual occurrence with us nowadays.  Of course it was only an English church (I remember the time when I thought it very exciting and more than a little wicked to be present at a Church of England service) and the padre was a very little young padre, and rather depressing.  He insisted so that we were but a passing vapour that I began to feel it was only too horribly true, and Boggley, who had partaken largely of tinned cheese at luncheon and was feeling far from well, grew every moment more yellow and green.

The Listers asked us to go back with them to dinner, but we thought it better (Boggley especially) to seek the seclusion of our tents.

Manpur, March 9.

Now we are in a different place.  At least it has a different name and is a day’s journey from Bantale, but it looks exactly the same.  We left Baratah yesterday morning and got in and out of trains all day until about seven in the evening we got out finally at Manpur.  I had a dreadful cold, and was sniffy and inclined to be cross; so when Boggley suggested we should dine in the waiting-room while Autolycus and the chuprassis went on with the luggage to acquaint the dak-bungalow people of our arrival, I upbraided him for not making proper arrangements, and reviled the meagre repast, and was altogether very unpleasant.  When we reached our destination we found Autolycus prancing distractedly.  “This,” he said to Boggley, “is what comes of making no bundabust.”  Some other people were already occupying the bungalow, and we could only get the back rooms, small, mouldy, and inconvenient.  Poor Boggley looked so crushed I had to laugh, and we calmed the worried Autolycus, who hates to see his Sahib shoved into corners, and, there being no inducement to remain up—­went to bed.

Manpur is a fairly big station—­the sort of place you read about in Anglo-Indian novels.  There are six households and a club.  Boggley and I called on all the six this evening, and then went to the club.  Everyone meets there in the evening to see the picture-papers and to play tennis and bridge.