A posthumous novel written in French makes up the sum of her contribution to letters. 'Le Journal de Mlle. D'Arvers' was found completed among her posthumous papers. It is a romance of modern French life, whose motive is the love of two brothers for the same girl. The tragic element dominates the story, and the author has managed the details with extraordinary ease without sacrificing either dignity or dramatic effect. The story was edited by Mademoiselle Bader, a correspondent of Toru, and her sole acquaintance among European authors. In 1878, the year after the poet's death, appeared a second edition of 'A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields' containing forty-three additional poems, with a brief biographical sketch written by her father. The many translators of the 'Sakoontala' and of other Indian dramas show how difficult it is for the Western mind to express the indefinable spirituality of temper that fills ancient Hindu poetry. This remarkable quality Toru wove unconsciously into her English verse, making it seem not exotic but complementary, an echo of that far-off age when the genius of the two races was one. JOGADHYA UMA "Shell bracelets, ho! Shell bracelets, ho! Fair maids and matrons, come and buy!" Along the road, in morning's glow, The peddler raised his wonted cry. The road ran straight, a red, red line, To Khigoram, for cream renowned, Through pasture meadows where the kine, In knee-deep grass, stood magic bound And half awake, involved in mist That floated in dun coils profound, Till by the sudden sunbeams kist, Rich rainbow hues broke all around. "Shell bracelets, ho! Shell bracelets, ho!" The roadside trees still dripped with dew And hung their blossoms like a show. Who heard the cry? 'Twas but a few; A ragged herd-boy, here and there, With his long stick and naked feet; A plowman wending to his care, The field from which he hopes the wheat; An early traveler, hurrying fast To the next town; an urchin slow Bound for the school; these heard and passed, Unheeding all,--"Shell bracelets, ho!" Pellucid spread a lake-like tank Beside the road now lonelier still; High on three sides arose the bank Which fruit-trees shadowed at their will; Upon the fourth side was the ghat, With its broad stairs of marble white, And at the entrance arch there sat, Full face against the morning light, A fair young woman with large eyes, And dark hair falling to her zone; She heard the peddler's cry arise, And eager seemed his ware to own.