Mark Jervis, as we know, had not been permitted time or opportunity to read anything, whether referring to past or present, in the Persian’s eyes; but this omission was corrected ere long. One afternoon he noticed a figure, stick in hand, resting on the mess-house steps, as he rode by--a figure which raised the stick, and imperatively summoned him to approach. It was undoubtedly his recent acquaintance, who pulled the veil further over her head, as she said-- “Sahib, I wish to thank you for your charitable benevolence. Truly, but for you, I should have lain all night in the forest, in the rain, and among the beasts.” “I hope you are better?” he asked, doffing his cap. “Yea, nearly well. Though I am a stranger to you, I know that you are Jones Sahib’s son.” “Major ‘Jervis’ is his real name. Yes--I am his son.” “I have heard of you,” she continued, rather loftily. “Indeed!” “From the leper-folk,” she added, significantly. “It is you who keep the graves yonder in order?” “May be!” was her cautious reply. “And who sing English hymns in the old church?” A slight contraction passed over her face as she replied-- “Nay--I am a Persian woman from Bushire. What should I know of thy songs or thy tongue?” “Then who--can it be?” inquired Jervis, looking at her steadfastly. “Noble youth--why ask me? A woman from the dead, perchance,” she retorted mockingly. “At least, it is you who do so much good among the sick Pahari-folk and lepers?” he persisted. “Yea, I am but one--the field is great. Who can fill jars with dew? I would I could do more.” “I believe that were hardly possible.” “As far as these hands go,” extending a pair of delicately-shaped members, “I do what I can; but what is one lemon for a whole village to squeeze! If I had a big house that would serve as a hospital, I should have my heart’s desire. I am skilled in medicine, so also is my servant; we would have our sick beside us, and could do much--that is my dream. It will never come to pass till the sun shall be folded up and the stars shall fall.” “Surely one of these bungalows would answer. Why not this mess-house?” suggested Jervis generously. “True; but the sircar would not yield it to me. Already the sircar has given me my abode; and, doubtless, were I to ask for the Mess Khana, they would aver that I was like to the man who, on receiving a cucumber, demanded a tope of mango trees! Moreover this dead station may reawaken once more. Even in _my_ memory the merry sahibs and mem sahibs have sojourned here, and held great tamashas; but it is years since they came, and the place, perchance, is forgotten.” “And so you have lived here alone--for years?” said the young man. His remarkably expressive eyes distinctly added the “_Why?_” his tongue refrained from uttering.