Frequently in our evening drives we called at the library or club, where Mr. Percy introduced me as his Charles. All treated me cordially, as I thought, chiefly on Mr. Percy’s account, and for his sake I put my best in front, so as not to be unworthy of him. One evening, as I went out of the reading room into the hall, I heard Mrs. Swelter, a great, humpy dumpy woman, with a very red face, the wife of the General of the station, remark: “Mr. Percy, you seem to make a great pet of that Eurasian?” “Hit again!” I said to myself. I hurried away as quickly as I could. I concluded that the time had come when I must know the meaning of that word. When we gathered that evening in front of the fire I asked Mr. Percy what it meant. “Did you hear what Mrs. Swelter said?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “I hoped you had not heard what she said. She ought not to have made any such remark as that,” and Cockear said, for I heard him, “A dog would not have made such a remark, even about a jungly cur.” Then Mr. Percy explained it all as kindly as possible. “And,” he went on, “I assure you it makes not the slightest difference to me. I look to find in you, truthfulness, chastity, industry and ability. You have been to me, thus far, all I could wish, so never let the thought of that word trouble you.” These kind words took the sting out of Mrs. Swelter’s remark; yet I did not forget it and never will. I always forgive those who injure me, but never forget them. That is, I remember them enough to keep out of their way so as not to give them a second chance to wound me. This Mrs. Swelter was a kind of sergeant-major of our station society, and all paid deference to her, chiefly on account of the position of her husband, but she never got more than a silent bow from “That Eurasian.” Why should she? Once she asked Mr. Percy, why Charles never spoke to her, and he told her that I had overheard her remark, and she could not blame me for not being friendly. I was glad she knew my reason, and after that I took delight in avoiding her, for I had feelings as well as whiter-faced people. Several evenings after this, when we three were assembled as usual, Mr. Percy asked me, “Do you remember when I first saw you?” “Yes,” I replied, “just as well as if it was this evening.” “That was a strange meeting, wasn’t it?” he said. “Have you ever heard of that little sister of yours?” What memories that question revived! I had not forgotten her by any means, for often at school I had recalled all I remembered of her; our leaving that wretched court, our tramp on the dusty road, her smiles and playfulness, the good old faqir, the death of the new mama, and then the sad separation; and I cried many a time as I thought of these things, and resolved that as soon as I was a little older I would go in search of her.