The tediousness of Alicia’s waiting-time was over; one by one there rose before her mind the names of those for whom she ought to plead. Not only did she pray for her nearest and dearest—they had not been forgotten in her early prayer—but for servants, kahars, all who came within reach of her own or her husband’s influence. With Kripá Dé’s name came that of his youthful widowed sister; then Alicia pleaded for the poor ignorant bibis of Talwandi, and the little ignorant children. Harold’s young wife was surprised to find how large a circle might be enclosed by the prayer of one who was but standing, as it were, at the open gate of the harvest-field which she as yet felt herself scarcely worthy to enter. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XII A STARTLING SUSPICION. MR. HARTLEY and Robin returned soon after Alicia, with a spirit refreshed and strengthened, had risen from her knees. The elder missionary looked so much heated and wearied that his daughter’s first care was to bring him a cool, refreshing draught. Then Alicia told of her visit to Chand Kor’s zenana, and of the strange effect of a little hymn. “And Premi looked a different being,” continued Alicia, “with that colour on her cheek and that light in her eyes. It almost seemed as if the English word ‘joyful’ had transformed her into one of ourselves. She was not like a Hindu at all.” “You probably mistook the word sung by the young Kashmiri,” observed Mr. Hartley, who knew how easily the ear is deceived when something is spoken in a foreign tongue. He tried to recall some Urdu or Kashmiri word which might be mistaken for “joyful,” but none such came to his mind. Robin looked full of animation; his eyes told, before his lips spoke, that a new thought had flashed on his brain. “Is it not possible,” he cried, “that some European child, whom all supposed to have been murdered at the Mutiny time, may have been spared to endure the worse fate of being buried in a zenana?” “Oh, what an idea!” exclaimed Alicia, clasping her hands and turning sparkling eyes on Robin. “My own uncle and aunt and their two little girls were killed in the Mutiny, more than eleven years ago—at least we always thought so.” “At what place?” inquired Mr. Hartley. Alicia mentioned a distant city. “That is very far away—not in the limits of the Panjab. And one thing is evident,” continued the missionary—“Kripá Dé is undoubtedly a Kashmiri Brahmin, so no sister of his could be English.” Alicia looked disappointed; but Robin said quickly, “Are you sure that the widow _is_ Kripá Dé’s sister?” “I think that the bibis said so,” answered Alicia.