upon the trees and the broad fields, with the thatched huts hidden among crops — looked with strange eyes unable to take up the size and proportion and use of things — stared for a still half-hour.  All that while he felt, though he could not put it into words, that his soul was out of gear with its surroundings — a cog-wheel unconnected with any machinery, just like the idle cog-wheel of a cheap Beheea sugar-crusher laid by in a corner.  The breezes fanned over him, the parrots shrieked at him, the noises of the populated house behind — squabbles, orders, and reproofs — hit on dead ears.

‘I am Kim.  I am Kim.  And what is Kim?’ His soul repeated it again and again.

He did not want to cry — had never felt less like crying in his life - but of a sudden easy, stupid tears trickled down his nose, and with an almost audible click he felt the wheels of his being lock up anew on the world without.  Things that rode meaningless on the eyeball an instant before slid into proper proportion.  Roads were meant to be walked upon, houses to be lived in, cattle to be driven, fields to be tilled, and men and women to be talked to.  They were all real and true — solidly planted upon the feet — perfectly comprehensible — clay of his clay, neither more nor less.  He shook himself like a dog with a flea in his ear, and rambled out of the gate.  Said the Sahiba, to whom watchful eyes reported this move:  ’Let him go.  I have done my share.  Mother Earth must do the rest.  When the Holy One comes back from meditation, tell him.’

There stood an empty bullock-cart on a little knoll half a mile away, with a young banyan tree behind — a look-out, as it were, above some new-ploughed levels; and his eyelids, bathed in soft air, grew heavy as he neared it.  The ground was good clean dust — no new herbage that, living, is half-way to death already, but the hopeful dust that holds the seeds of all life.  He felt it between his toes, patted it with his palms, and joint by joint, sighing luxuriously, laid him down full length along in the shadow of the wooden-pinned cart.  And Mother Earth was as faithful as the Sahiba.  She breathed through him to restore the poise he had lost lying so long on a cot cut off from her good currents.  His head lay powerless upon her breast, and his opened hands surrendered to her strength.  The many-rooted tree above him, and even the dead manhandled wood beside, knew what he sought, as he himself did not know.  Hour upon hour he lay deeper than sleep.

Towards evening, when the dust of returning kine made all the horizons smoke, came the lama and Mahbub Ali, both afoot, walking cautiously, for the house had told them where he had gone.

‘Allah!  What a fool’s trick to play in open country!’ muttered the horse-dealer.  ’He could be shot a hundred times — but this is not the Border.’

‘And,’ said the lama, repeating a many-times-told tale, ’never was such a chela.  Temperate, kindly, wise, of ungrudging disposition, a merry heart upon the road, never forgetting, learned, truthful, courteous.  Great is his reward!’