As they passed through the Terai--that breathless belt of jungle--the blue hills began to loom largely into the view. Finally, the train drew up at a platform almost at the foot of them, and one phase of the journey was over. Honor could not help admiring her aunt, as she stepped out with an air that betokened that she was now monarch of all she surveyed (she was encased in a cream-coloured dust-cloak and topee to match, and looked like an immense button mushroom). She briefly disposed of clamouring coolies, gave orders to her attendants in vigorous Hindustani, and led the way to the back of the station, where were a collection of long open boxes--each box had a seat, and was tied to two poles--and all were assembled in the midst of a maddening din and accents of an unknown tongue. “We go in these jampans,” explained Mrs. Brande, briskly. “Get in, Honor, and I’ll pack you up; tie on your veil, put your rug over your knees, and you will be very comfortable.” But Honor felt quite the reverse, when she found herself suddenly hoisted up on men’s shoulders, and borne rapidly away in the wake of her aunt, who seemed perfectly at home under similar circumstances. For some time they kept to a broad metalled road lined with great forest trees, then they went across a swing-bridge, up a narrow steep path, that twisted among the woods, overhanging the rocky bed of an almost dry river. This so-called bridle-path wound round the hills for miles, every sharp curve seemed to bring them higher; once they encountered a drove of pack ponies thundering down on their return journey to the plains, miserable thin little beasts, who never seem to have time to eat--or, indeed, anything to eat, if they _had_ leisure. Mrs. Brande and her party met but few people, save occasionally some broad-shouldered coolie struggling upward with a huge load bound on his back, and looking like a modern Atlas. Once they passed a jaunty native girl, riding a pony, man fashion, and exchanging gibes and repartees with her companions, and once they met a European--a young man dressed in flannels and a blazer, clattering down at break-neck speed, singing at the top of his voice, “Slattery’s Mounted Foot”--a curly-headed, sunburnt, merry youth, who stopped his song and his steed the moment he caught sight of Mrs. Brande. “Hallo!” he shouted. “Welcome back! Welcome the coming. Speed,” laying his hand on his heart, “the parting guest.” “Where are you off to?” inquired the lady imperiously. “Only to the station. We are getting up grand theatricals; and in spite of coolies, and messages, and furious letters, none of our properties have been forwarded, and I began to suspect that the Baboo might be having a play of his own, and I am going down to look him up. Am I not energetic? Don’t I deserve a vote of public thanks?” “Pooh! Your journey is nothing,” cried Mrs. Brande, with great scorn. “Why, I’ve been to Allahabad, where the thermometer is 95° in the shade.”