I had not forgotten scarcely an incident in my past life. I often went back, in memory, to that little court where I first found myself. Everything appeared before me as if placed upon a canvas by some realistic painter. The old, dilapidated gate-way, with some of its bricks ready to tumble out on some passer’s head, the very color of the bricks, that wall at the back, with its little narrow door, the mud huts at either side, the women sitting in front of their doors preparing their scanty food, then the narrow stair against the back wall, the two little rooms above, and the narrow veranda in front, as clear to my mind as if I were standing there, and seeing it all. And that little mother, with the sad face! O, how sad! Her lustrous eyes looking, staring, until they became like glass. This was more than painted, rather engraved in my memory, on my very soul, every line and point so indelible as never to be erased. I frequently thought of going to this place, but was repelled from doing so. It gave me a chill, or kind of shock to think of it. I had often read of the anxious desires of people to revisit the lands of their birth, the places of their youth; of the Swiss, when absent, pining for a sight of their mountain homes. In my maturer years I reasoned about this apparent prejudice of mine against the place of my childhood, and called myself foolish for allowing it to influence me. Such thoughts gradually removed my objections, and I resolved that I would visit the court. The opportunity soon occurred. I had some business in Lucknow, and this being finished, I took a stroll, and soon reached the old place, guided by directions I received on the way. There was the old gate-way, the mud huts, and the two little upper rooms in the back corner, all the same as they were years ago, but in a worse condition, if that were possible. The poor were there, for they are always with us, and will be, until men learn the great lesson of humanity to their fellow-creatures, and while might makes right, and avarice makes men stony-hearted and cruel. I obtained permission, and went up into the little rooms, and seating myself on a charpoy, gave way to a host of reflections. I went back to my beginning, to the clinking sound of those rupees. I saw again that monster sahib. I heard the cries and laments of the dear mother, and then on—but why tell of it? I thought till I cried, yes cried, I am not ashamed to say it. Tears, blessed tears, they are the shower to cool the burning heat of the heart!