“In the very centre of Sirdar Sing’s forehead the reader may have observed a faint spot scarcely half an inch in diameter, and this appeared, we are told, like a scar or a burn, of a lighter color than the skin and, except under certain conditions, was barely noticeable. But the tradition runs that when exercising his prophetic faculty this little spot increased in brilliancy and almost glowed, as if of flame.” “And so does yours!” and she regarded him with a look of awe. “Go ahead,” he said, looking down at the book. “Let us hear the rest.” “The legend is this: “When Vishn’u in his Kr’ishn’a-Avatâra, or eighth incarnation, was hard-pressed in his war against the Kurus, he received great assistance from Arjuna, a Pân’d’u prince who, after a four days’ battle, and at great risk to himself, delivered to his immortal ally the sacred city of Dwârakâ. For this service and in token of his undying gratitude, Vishn’u laid his finger upon the forehead of Arjuna and endowed him with a knowledge of future events, also promising that once in a hundred years a descendant should possess this priceless gift. Although we may not accept this romantic tale, there is no doubt whatever that Sirdar Sing, the original of our portrait, was guided by a knowledge of the future, either earthly or divine, which neither scientists nor historians have yet explained. The next in order to inherit this extraordinary faculty, if there is truth in the legend, will be the son of the present rajah, whose nuptials have just been celebrated with such lavish and magnificent festivities.” She paused for a moment, then with trembling fingers turned back to the title-page. The book was printed twenty-eight years ago, the year before Amos was born. For a long time they sat on the floor talking; she asking many questions and he answering, until the listening objects in the attic began to lose their outline and become a part of the gloom. The sunlight along the rafters dwindled to a narrow strip, then disappeared; and the voices of the haymakers were long since gone when Amos and Molly finally climbed to their feet and descended the stairs. IX September brought other guests, and with their arrival Amos Judd and Molly Cabot found the easy, irresponsible routine of their happy summer again disturbed. To his own fierce regret Amos could invent no decent pretext for escaping a visit he had promised early in the summer, and a more unwilling victim never resigned himself to a week of pleasure. To the girl he was to leave behind him, he bewailed the unreasonable cruelty of his friends. “This leaving you, Soul of my Soul, is worse than death. I shall not eat while I am gone, and nights I shall sit up and curse.”