We then talked about her own life. She told me that she had been married four years, that she had hoped "Brownee" was going to be a son, "but she turned out a daughter after all," said poor Kesinèh with a sigh. "Do you love her less for that?" I inquired. "Oh no, indeed," said Kesinèh quickly; "I think I love her more, but my lord would have been better pleased with me if she had been a son instead of a daughter." "But," said I, trying to comfort her for her disappointment, "it was not your fault that your child happened to be a daughter." "Oh yes," said the lady with great energy, "it was my own fault. I committed the sin of marrying my own brother in a former state of existence; thus I am now doomed to have a daughter for my first-born child in this." I did not know what to say to this odd explanation, and there was a pause, but at length I ventured to suggest that whether it was so or not she must admit that little "Brownee" was a treasure. "Oh yes," said Kesinèh with joyful emphasis--"a lovely, bewildering little thing;" and she leaned lovingly over the little sleeper. I noticed that in everything this Hindoo lady said or did there was no affectation of voice or manner, no effort to please or entertain me, but a simple and natural expression of herself. When it was time for me to go I put her one question which I longed most to have answered: "Who is that very beautiful Nautchnee who danced the cup-dance and performed the part of Damayanti this evening?" "I do not know," said the lady Kesinèh with great interest in her manner. "Is she not beautiful? The Nautchnees were hired for this evening. I would like to know who she is too." Then, turning to one of her attendants, who was listening to every word we said with a smile on her face, she inquired, "Ummah, do you know the owner of the Nautchnees who were here to-night?" "Yes, my lady," replied the woman. "If you hear anything about her you will let me know, for I have fallen in love with her," said I, half in jest and half in earnest. "Mah mi! mah mi!" laughed Kesinèh--"so have I. She is a heart-distracting creature. Every one who saw her dance and act will dream of her to-night. Mah mi! mah mi! how proud she must feel!" I wished her good-night in the strictest Hindoo fashion, taught me by the pundit. "Ram, Ram," said I, "devâ Ram!"[46] Putting my folded hands to my brow and stooping, I lightly kissed the little sleeper in the cradle. The very next moment Kesinèh had sprung up, and, putting her arms around my neck, she laid her brow against mine and repeated that tender Hindoo farewell than which there is nothing more exquisite in human language: "The gods send that neither sun nor wind, neither rain nor any earthly sorrow, brush by thee too roughly, my friend." Content and pleased with my new acquaintance, we parted, but not without my promise to visit her again.