She was too terrified to resent my intrusion.

“What do you think it is?” she whispered.  “Hu-s-h, speak low.  Perhaps it doesn’t know there’s anyone in the room.”

“It’s the tiger from the Zoo,” I hissed with conviction.

G. started visibly.  “Rubbish,” she said.  “A tiger wouldn’t get into a house.  Ah—­oh, listen!”

Distinctly we heard the fud of four feet going round the bed.

“Cry for help,” said G.

“Sister!” we yelled together.

“Sister Anna!”

“Sister Anna Margaret!”

No answer.  Sister Anna Margaret slept well.

“Sister!” said G, bitterly.  “She’s no sister in adversity.”

“Get up, G.,” I said encouragingly.  “Get up and turn on the light.  Perhaps it isn’t a tiger, perhaps it’s only a musk rat.”

G. refused with some curtness.  “Get up yourself,” she added.

Again we shouted for Sister, with no result.

You have no idea how horrible it was to lie there in the darkness and listen to movements made by we knew not what.  We felt bitterly towards Sister Anna, never thinking of what her feelings would be if she came confidingly to our help and was confronted by some fearsome animal.

“If only,” said G., “we knew what time it was and when it will be light.  I can’t live like this long.  Let go my arm, can’t you?”

“I daren’t,” I said.  “You’re all I’ve got to hold on to.”

We lay and listened, and we lay and listened, but the padding footsteps didn’t come back; and then I suppose we must have fallen asleep, for the next thing we knew was that the ayahs were standing beside us with tea, and the miserable night was past.

G. and I looked at each other rather shamefacedly.

“Did we dream it?” I asked,

G. was rubbing her arm where I had gripped it.

“I didn’t dream this, anyway,” she said; “it’s black and blue.”

At breakfast we knew the bitterness of having our word doubted; no one believed our report.  They laughed at us and said we had dreamt it, or that we had heard a mouse, and became so offensive in their unbelief that G. and I rose from the table in a dignified way, and went out to walk in the compound.

We are very busy collecting things to take home with us. (Did I tell you G.’s berth had been booked in the ship I sail in—­the Socotra—­it sails about the 23rd?) The chicon-wallah came this morning and spread his wares on the verandah floor—­white rugs from Kashmir, embroidered gaily in red and green and blue; tinsel mats and table centres; pieces of soft bright silk; dainty white sewed work.  We could hardly be dragged from the absorbing sight to the luncheon-table.

The Townleys never change their servants, and now three generations serve together.  The old kitmutgar is the grandfather and trains his grandsons in the way which they should go.  To-day at luncheon (fortunately we were alone), one of them made a mistake in handing a dish, whereupon his grandfather gave him a resounding box on the ears, knocking off his turban.  Instead of going out of the room, the boy went on handing me pudding, sobbing loudly the while, and with tears running down his face.  It was very embarrassing, and none of us had enough Hindustani to rebuke the too-stern grandparent.