I said, “Cannot Allah who created each child finish His work and cause its limbs to grow straight without our help.” “Beshak--undoubtedly, Allah is all-powerful and all-wise; but our fathers, and our fathers’ fathers, placed bandages on the children, and they were wise men. How do you account for the fact that in some children the legs are bent?” I forthwith entered into an explanation of the causes of rickets. How that want of pure air, of sunlight, and free movement of the limbs, of suitable food, produced a disease of the bones in which the lime salts were absorbed, leaving only the soft bendable gristle, and so on--but it was not any use: they knew nothing about pathology, or anatomy either. So we left that and went on to other matters. [Sidenote: The Rearing of Afghan Infants.] The Afghan baby--among the rich--is wrapped up as to the head and neck by a stifling head-dress, rather like that which an Arab wears to protect him from the sun, and I could not make them understand the advantage of dispensing with a head covering indoors. The cradle is a massive wooden concern. It consists of a hammock or shallow box, suspended at either end from a longitudinal bar supported on uprights, so that it will swing from side to side. When the child is asleep every breath of air is excluded by thick curtains, which fall from the bar over the sides of the cradle--and this in a hot climate. What could I say? We differed in almost every detail; there was no common ground to start from. The Sultana had expressed her desire that the European doctor should attend the Prince medically. I saw a cheerful future before me, for I found that the nurses would diverge, not in the slightest degree, from the customs of their ancestors. It is possible to move a mountain--granted time and a sufficient amount of blasting material--but no amount of blasting will move an Oriental woman out of the rut that ages of custom has made. The Sultana did not nurse her child. A nurse therefore was sought for to rear the little Prince. Before the Hakims left my house the fat one expressed his deep sense of gratitude that I had granted him my friendship, and he ended a polite speech by asking me to see a patient of his. I ought to have remembered the poet’s lines:-- “I know a Hakim fair to see,” (Only he was dark and fat, but that does not matter)--“Beware! He can both false and friendly be--Beware! Trust him not he is fooling thee.” I went to see the patient: he was one of the Chamberlains, Nasir Courbon Ali. He was exceedingly ill with malarial fever, and his skin was yellow, which was bad. I thought there was a chance of saving his life if vigorous remedies were used. I returned home and directed the compounder to prepare a mixture and deliver it himself. I visited the Nasir three times that day, but he did not seem to be improving. The next day he was worse. I had to go on to the Hospital, but when I returned home I said to the compounder,