“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Judd. “I’m not doubting their worth. It’s only kind of sudden,” and he drew his hands across his eyes, as if to shut out the dazzling mass that flashed balefully up at him from the table. For a New England farmer, Josiah Judd was a prosperous man. In fact he was the richest man in Daleford. But if all his earthly possessions were converted into cash they would never realize a tenth part of the unwelcome treasure that now lay before him. He was, therefore, somewhat startled at being deluged, as it were, out of a clear sky, with the responsibility of nearly a million dollars. The guests also mentioned some pearls of extraordinary value in one of the trunks. “Well,” he said, with an air of resignation, “I s’pose there’s no dodgin’ it, and I’ll have to do the best I can till I hear from Morton. After the boy goes back to India of course I sha’n’t have the care of it.” The General glanced toward the sofa to be sure he was not overheard, then answered, in a low voice: “It will be better for him and will save the shedding of blood if he never returns.” But the boy heard nothing in that room. He was slumbering peacefully, with his head against the high back of the sofa, and his spirit, if one could judge from the smile upon his lips, was once more in his own land, among his own people. Perhaps playing with another little boy in an Oriental garden, a garden of fountains and gorgeous flowers, of queer-shaped plants with heavy foliage, a quiet, dreamy garden, where the white walls of the palace beside it were supported by innumerable columns, with elephants’ heads for capitals: where, below a marble terrace, the broad Ganges shimmered beneath a golden sun. Maybe the drowsy air of this ancestral garden with its perfume of familiar flowers made his sleep more heavy, or was it the thrum of gentle fingers upon a mandolin in a distant corner of the garden, mingling with a woman’s voice?