“THE PELA KOTHI,” OR “YELLOW HOUSE.” When Mark Jervis awoke the next morning, in a totally unfamiliar room, he wondered if he was dreaming, as he gazed at the heavy old carved furniture, the faded window hangings, the curious devotional pictures, and the little black crucifix and holy water receptacle at the foot of the bed. (The Cardozo family had of course been Catholics.) No, he was not dreaming, but actually under his father’s roof at last. As soon as he had dressed, he went out before breakfast to see after the welfare of his syce and pony. The yard resembled that of a serai, it was so full of natives, who gazed at him inquiringly, as he made his way through sheep, goats, buffalo calves, and children, to the stables, the tumble-down remains of what had once been an imposing pile. An old hairy Bhoetia pony and his own were now the sole occupants. His syce came to him eagerly, with a face of pitiful dismay. “No gram for pony, sahib”--holding up his hands dramatically. “Never giving gram here--nothing.” “I’ll see about that--go and buy some”--handing him rupees. “Oh, sahib”--now putting his hands into an attitude of prayer. “Plenty, plenty Budmashes in this place. Sahib, let us travel to-day, quickly to Shirani.” “In a few days, Dum Sing--not yet; meanwhile take care of yourself and the pony.” And he walked on to the garden. The gardens, though somewhat neglected, were in perfect order in comparison to the house; they were laid out in stony terraces, the walls of which were loaded with fruit; there were flowers and vegetables in abundance, a round fish-pond, several statues, summer-houses, and a large staff of mallees working away with surprising zeal. A broad terrace walk commanded, as you arrived at one end, the snows, and a grand panorama of the plains as you reached the other. A well-worn track was beaten in the middle of this path, which indicated that it was a favourite promenade, and at the end nearest to the plains there was a seat. Here Mark was joined by his father. He was dressed in a shrunken Puttoo suit, and looked frail and feeble, but such a gentleman in spite of all his shabbiness! “This is my walk and my seat,” he explained. “I sit here for hours. That white line far below is the cart road, and with a good glass you can make out carts and tongas; and far away on the plains, twice a day in clear weather, you can see the smoke of the train. So I get _some_ glimpses of the world after all.” “And how are you off for neighbours, sir?” “My nearest is an American missionary and doctor; he is twelve miles from here; and there is a German mission fifteen miles across that hill”--pointing with a stick. “And your post? What about your letters?” “Oh, I don’t want a post; once in six months or so I send a coolie down to Ramghur.” “Then you don’t take a daily paper?” “Oh no; why should I? There are stacks of old ones about the house,” was the amazing reply. “And books?”