Towards the end of the month Lord Napier began his winter tour, visiting the hill stations first.  At Chakrata I made the acquaintance of the 92nd Highlanders, that distinguished corps which stood me in such good stead a few years later in Afghanistan.  At the end of November we found ourselves at Lucknow, in time to take part in Lord Northbrook’s state entry, and be present at a fete given to the Viceroy in the Wingfield Park by Sir George Cooper, the Chief Commissioner.

From Lucknow we went for a brief visit to a small Camp of Exercise near Rurki, where Lord Napier left the Adjutant-General, Thesiger,[1] in command, while he himself proceeded to visit some of the stations in the Madras Presidency, and I returned for a short time to Simla.

While riding up the hill from Kalka, I had a novel experience.  One of those tremendous thunder-storms which are not uncommon in the Himalayas came on; the rain was blinding and incessant, and the peals of thunder were simultaneous with the lightning.  At last there was a tremendous crash; a flash, more vivid than the rest, passed right in front of my horse’s head, accompanied by a whizzing noise and a sulphurous smell, completely blinding me for a second.  Two Natives travelling a few yards ahead of me fell flat on their faces, and I thought they were killed, but it turned out they were only knocked over and very much frightened.

Early in January, 1874, we received by telegram the infinitely sad news of my father’s death.  We ought, I suppose, to have been prepared for such an event, seeing that he was within a few months of his ninetieth birthday; but he was so well and active, and took such a keen interest in all that was going on, especially anything connected with India, that we hardly realized his great age, and always hoped we might see him once more.  He had received the G.C.B. from Her Majesty’s hands at Windsor on the 8th December, and two days afterwards he wrote me an account of the ceremony, and expressed himself much pleased and gratified at the Queen’s gracious manner to him.  He said nothing about his health, but we heard later that he had taken cold in the train on his way home, and never recovered from the effects; he died on the 30th of December.  His love for India had not been weakened by his twenty years’ absence from the country, and he never wearied of being told of the wonderful changes which had taken place since his day—­changes which, for the most part, dated from the Mutiny, for up till 1857 life in India was much the same as when my father first landed in the beginning of the century.