It was a spacious roof-terrace--large even for the house of a King: for an earthquake had destroyed almost an entire story, and no one had troubled to do more through the years that followed than move away the _débris_. So the Zenana had a whole wing of open spaces at the top of the landing, and here it was that we sat, under a sky that was like a pink opal, while the swallows and the yellow-beaked _mainas_, and crows, flew overhead to roost. Bats there were too--“devil’s mice”--flapping the sleep out of their wings: and now, a red-brown throated, red-brown coated _brahmini-kite_, to whom the women made prayerful salutation. A kingfisher had just flashed past, bright as the sea at noonday, bright even in that darkening light, and knowing the reverence of the Rajputni for the kingfisher, I thought the gentle courtesy his. It was _Nanni-Ma_, Baby’s Grandmother, she who had the face of victory over death, who explained. “_Kali Ma_ chose once to take that form,” she said, inclining her head towards the red-brown one. A sudden swoop brought him almost within reach of the baby plaything and those lonely widow-women, and with terror in loving eyes the child was clasped close. Who shall tell what mixture of dread was in their hearts? dread of the big bird’s talons and dread of _Kali_ the Destroyer, to whom if she wanted a life, that one life which was theirs, it must be yielded, cost what it might.... But the love which was the parent and the offspring of that terror was spilling out of their eyes as they handed the child each to each--first Mother clasping him, and then Big-Mother, while the white-sheeted waiting-women huddled on their haunches, cloth drawn beseemingly over mouth, gurgled “Hi! hi!” wagging their heads, and swaying with sympathy. It is unique, the attitude of a Hindu widow to her baby, unique in its beauty even among baby lovers. For the child represents more to these lonely ones than just a soft lovesome bit of flesh and laughter, of pretty pursed lips and rounded limbs, and great mop of soft black hair; more too than the gift of him they love. It is now in itself their passport to heaven, their token of the visit of God to the world: it is to be, presently, the saviour of those who have been closest to them in life--husband, father.... “One small flicker in the lantern of the body--should any put out this light, who will relight it? For us, not even the Creator himself, in this life, not even the Creator....” And the home of Love was the eyes of those two women as they passed the boy back and forth between them; and the home of tears was their heart.