“Sara, you are a truly consistent woman!” “And you are a truly fearful object to behold, with your face all over white; no wonder Ben is staring at you. There is the post peon--it must be late.” Mr. Brande’s invitation proved irresistible, and the very next day saw Mark Jervis duly installed at Rookwood. The move occasioned no comment--his wrist was broken and he wanted looking after: the Brandes’ bungalow had ever been a sort of auxiliary station hospital. The young invalid soon made himself at home, and was certainly no trouble to any one, as his hostess frankly informed him. He was interested in the fowls and pigeons; he seemed knowing about ponies; he looked on admiringly whilst Honor filled the flower-glasses, and gave his candid opinion and advice; he played Halma with Mrs. Brande, and Patience with Honor--and acted as umpire at tennis. “Here is quite a pack of letters,” said Mrs. Brande, coming into the verandah one morning, and critically examining them as she spoke. “One for you, Honor, one for me, and two for Mr. Jervis--‘300, Prince’s Gate,’ on the envelope”--handing it to him. “Is that the new style?” “I really don’t know”--receiving his uncle’s epistle, and sitting down on the steps beside Ben. Mr. Brande had a pile of officials for his share, and soon every one was plunged in their own correspondence. “Uncle Pel,” said his niece, looking up from a crossed and scratchy letter, “here is a long epistle from Mrs. Kerry, our rector’s wife. She is going to hold a drawing-room meeting about missions, and she wishes me to tell her,” reading aloud, “what I think of the prospect of Christianity in this dark heathen land? I know nothing about the matter; what is your opinion?” “That is rather a tall order, a big question”--sitting erect, sticking his eye-glass in his eye and focussing his niece. “I am sure I can tell you very little. India is many years behind the age--it is populous and isolated. The old creeds, however, are gradually being sapped. I dare say in a hundred years India will be Christian, and”--dropping his glass suddenly--“Britons may be Buddhists.” “Oh, Uncle Pelham, do talk seriously for once; you know I could not write that home. Mrs. Kerry,” again referring to her letter, “asks particularly about the Hindoos!” “Well, you can inform her that the Hindoos are naturally a devout people, and must have a religion. Some are now theists, atheists, agnostics; some mere coarse idolaters, who even in these days have devil-worship and witch-burning--yes, within a hundred miles of a college whose students devour Max Müller, and Matthew Arnold, and the most advanced literature of the day.” “And Mahomedans?”