Oh, this horrid Mushin-Bunda! could anything reconcile me to a life-long expatriation in a place like this? The very thought is desolation. _June 6th._—Two days ago I was complaining of the lack of company to be found in Mushin-Bunda. This evening I feel inclined to write myself down an ass, and say that my foolishness has returned upon my own pate, for we are likely to have more company than we care for. I was in the verandah this morning smoking and grumbling, and as I turned from the contemplation of the glaring compound to where Janie sat in her white dress, bending over some letters she had just received, I decided she was the only cool thing within my range of sight. The dogs were lying panting on the gravel with their tongues out. The constant motion of the flapping punkah did not appear to do more than stir the heat. Even the quiet easy-going tailor sitting cross-legged at my feet, could not proceed with his work unless he dipped his black fingers every minute in a bowl of water. Everything looked hot, horrible, and sticky, except Janie herself. But there sat my cushat-dove—half buried in the flounces of her muslin dress—a fair, plump, placid little woman; the effect of heat on whom is only to make her look more white and cool, with her sunny hair drawn off her tranquil features, and her calm blue eyes riveted on the open letter which she held in her hand. None of your passionate, raving, storming creatures this, who nearly squeeze you to death one moment, and stick a knife into you the next; but a proper sort of woman for a wife and mother, or so I choose to call her; and I really couldn’t take my eyes off her moonlight beauty, until I was roused from my reverie by hearing her plaintive voice exclaiming,— ‘Oh dear! oh dear! how very unfortunate! Whatever will the poor girl do?’ ‘Of whom are you talking, my darling?’ I asked, as I cast away the remains of my cigar, and advanced towards her. ‘Of my cousin Lionne, Robert dear; Margaret Anstruther, of whom I have so often spoken to you. I told you some time ago, didn’t I, that in consequence of her mother’s death she was coming out to the care of our uncle, Colonel Anstruther, at Madras?’ ‘Well, what of it? Has she arrived?’ ‘No; but this letter is from Uncle Henry, and he is in such a dilemma. He expected Margaret to be with him four or five mails ago; but her guardians have delayed and delayed to send her out; and now, just as he is ordered off to China to join his regiment, he receives a letter to say that she will arrive by the next steamer.’ ‘And he will have left Madras?’ ‘Yes; and for six months at least. He does not know what on earth to do about it.’ And Janie, in an uncertain manner, kept turning the sheet of paper over and over in her hands. ‘He must ask one of his lady friends to receive Miss Anstruther,’ I suggested.