She sniffed at the soap and handled it as though it were brittle. “Now I shall sweeten the air for a great space as I walk along,” she said, and moved off to crouch near the wall of my room, with the soap at her nose the whole time. But she had a husband, and he had been looking for her. Mingo ushered him into my room. He looked more like her grandfather than her husband, for he was very old, and she almost a child. He was a dirty old man too, and belonged to another branch of this Ukit tribe. He came up to me grumbling, and as I put out my hand, he pinched the tips of my fingers. He then showed me his wrist, round which was tied a piece of mouse-deer’s bone to take away his sickness, as he had sprained his arm whilst cutting down trees in the forest a few days previously. He did not remain long with us, but told his wife to come away. She obeyed meekly, and he followed her, scowling, and chewing betel-nut. We wondered whether he were jealous of his attractive wife, and felt sorry for the little creature, whose soft and charming manners had, even in so short a time, won our hearts. I bade Salleh and his party good-night, but Penus stayed behind, as she wanted to have a parting word. Moreover, she had brought a basket she had made for me, thinking it would be useful in packing some of my things on my boat journeys. The basket was a large cylinder, made of palm-straw, and woven in intricate patterns of black and white, with a dome-shaped cover fitting into its top. These kind of baskets are quite impervious to rain, and the Tanjong people excel above all other tribes in their manufacture. I thanked Penus for her kind present. “It is good to see you here,” she said, “and our hearts are glad, I only wish my daughter, who died last year, had been here too.” Penus was very sad about the death of this daughter. She had never spoken about her to me before, but I suppose the lateness of the hour, the night, and our parting of the next day, made her more expansive than usual. “Do you think the dead come back, Rajah Ranee?” I could not answer her, for I don’t suppose I knew more about the matter than she did. But I asked her if she believed in Antus (spirits), or if she had ever seen one. “Oh yes,” she said; “a spirit often comes to our house. When it gets dark, and night is not yet come, he stays in the rafters of our room, and the spark from his cigarette comes and goes in the darkness.” “Do you ever speak to him?” I asked. “Oh no; because Antus never answer human beings. If I could speak to him I would ask him the road by which my dead daughter went, so that I could follow her.” We touched hands, and Penus left me to join her friends. As I fell asleep, I heard the murmur of the people as they settled themselves for the night in their boats anchored in the river. CHAPTER XXV