There was a heaven of love and a world of indecision in the monkey eyes, but not a trace of fear when the beloved child suddenly twisted the sari from about the sleek head and pock-marked face and shook her violently by the shoulder.  Instead she rocked herself gently to and fro, crooning in the toneless cracked voice of the native woman who tends a white child and loves it.

“Missy—­baba, it’s ayah!” went the tuneless song, “it’s ayah—­it’s ayah—­be not afraid, baba—­baba—­it’s ayah—­ayah—­ayah.”

Over and over again she repeated the words with her eyes on the terror-stricken face above her.

“Why!” said Leonie, frowning till her straight brows met as she pressed the palms against her temples, “why, you used to sing that in—­in—­you used to call me—­in the name of all the gods, woman, tell me—­help me, oh! help me to understand!”

Great tears stood in the native woman’s eyes, and she opened her mouth to speak, then turned her head slightly and looked towards the chick which had rustled; scowled, and bowing her head ever so little placed the palm of her hand against her forehead for an instant.

“Won’t you or can’t you speak?” said Leonie almost roughly, her voice ending on a sharp note which changed to a little bubbling uncanny laugh as she sat back on the bed holding her ayah at arm’s length.

She took no notice of the dressing-bell when it clanged throughout the building, nor of the swish of the water as it was heaved into the tin bath in the bathroom, but sat on with the plaits of her hair coiled like snakes on each side of her, and the whiteness of her bare arms and shoulders shining in the light from the bathroom.

“Ayah! ayah!” she said in a dull sing-song sort of way, “do you know what they say?  Do you know what they think?  They think, they say I’m mad!  And do you know I think I am.  Sometimes there’s the sound of drums in my brain, great big drums beaten by giants, and sometimes the sound of bells.  And the sound of the bells is hot, it burns great scars on—­on—­and there are hours for which I can’t account, and cuts and bruises on my feet and—­and——­”

Very quietly the native woman rose, and passing one arm behind the bare shoulder drew a hand across the low broad forehead, singing in her own tongue so softly as to be almost inaudible.

“I dream of blood, ayah,” went on Leonie, “so often—­so often—­it is warm to the fingers and drops so—­so slowly—­and——­”

The ayah pressed her fingers a little as she drew them behind the ears to the nape of the neck, and raised her voice ever so slightly in the Vega chant she had learnt as a lullaby.

“The women,” she crooned, “that are lying on a bench, lying on a couch, lying in a litter; the women that—­are—­of—­pure odour—­all—­of them we—­make—­sleep!”

The cracked voice sank suddenly as her child’s face softened and relaxed, but the dark hand passed to and fro ceaselessly above the eyes and down behind the ears.