“I was at first—though dreadfully tired—in high glee when Harold returned. He was tired too, and needed his meal, which Mangal took ages to prepare. It had never occurred to me that the khansamar could not cook while he was pasting. When the food came at last, I took to shivering instead of eating, and my looks awakened alarm in the mind of my tender husband. Harold took my hand; it burned with fever, and I was obliged to confess to a pain in my head. It appeared that I had taken a chill. Harold was uneasy at my having even a touch of Indian fever so soon after my arrival. I was condemned to imprisonment and a strong dose of bitter quinine. Do not be alarmed, dear Lizzie; mine was only a passing attack, and it gave me the luxury (was it selfish to enjoy it?) of more of the company of my beloved. I believe that the school-lads had a holiday on Saturday, for Harold scarcely quitted my side. I was very much better on Sunday; but my dear jailer would not let me quit my room, and gave me a little English service there. It was a happy, peaceful Sabbath to me. The time when Harold was away holding religious converse with a young Hindu who reads the gospel, I spent in learning a good many verses from the Urdu Bible, which, when I repeated them in the evening, won for me the prized reward of my husband’s praise. To-day (Monday) I had hoped to go on with my papering work; but as there happened to be a rough wind, and the fever had left a cold on my chest, Harold bade me keep one day more in the house. “‘I forgot to ask you for the key of our new bungalow,’ said he; ‘pray give it to me now, for we must keep all the doors open during the daytime, and have a large fire burning within. I had a tree cut down on purpose to have plenty of wood to burn. I ought to have seen to this matter before; but give me the key now, please, my love.’ “Now, for Harold to have had the key would have spoilt the charming surprise which I was preparing for him. This would never do; so I begged my husband not to wait for the key, and I promised to send Nabi Bakhsh to throw open all the doors and pile up roaring fires. Harold went off to his inquirers, and I—shall I confess it to you, Lizzie?—I became so much interested in my studies that I quite forgot my promise. There was no feeling of cold to remind me that fires may be needed, for the days are quite warm, to me even hot, though at night the air becomes fresh. It is now too late to have the doors opened, so I am spending the twilight, before Harold returns, in writing to you. I shall be too busy to-morrow pasting and papering to do more than add a line to tell of the success of my work.