My feelings had partaken very much of the same character as those of a party of young children I once upon a time escorted to their first seaside holiday, and then brought back after a month’s enjoyment of the indescribable delights which any of our watering places afford such juveniles. Going, they were all sunshine and excitement, never ceasing to prattle about their coming excursions and amusements, and even setting the other occupants of the carriage in a roar of laughter by their ingenuous attempts to pronounce the dreadful Welsh names of the stations through which we passed. Very different was the return journey; all was dark without and sad within; hardly a word spoken from beginning to end; stations unnoticed and uncared for, and even the “goodies” eaten in silence. And I felt sad too at the prospect of returning to India. For a time, I was diverted by the fatiguing process of packing; though it was only by the aid of a zealous and painstaking domestic, who ignored the mosquitoes and the exertion, that I finally succeeded in stowing away all the vases, teapots, cups and saucers, heathen gods and goddesses, bamboos, etc., regretting the while that I had ever been prevailed upon to buy them. I was therefore not sorry at having failed to secure a couple of Pegu ponies for transmission to India. Their price alone—Rs. 300 for an animal that formerly cost one-tenth of that price—placed me out of the ring; and the trouble and expenses attendant on the transport of live stock must have been considerable. As a speculation, it might have answered; but whatever gifts Nature may have lavished broadcast upon me, the bump of “barter” was only developed in a very rudimentary state. After packing came the still more painful operation of leave-taking, and we were soon steaming down the river for the last time. Several handkerchiefs waving from a verandah grew less distinct, until a bend in the stream hid them from view.