So, at last, long after everyone, even Dya Ram--who looked terribly disjointed between his frock coat, white tie, grey trousers, and the gold mohur which he persisted in holding after native custom in his gloved right hand--had passed, the politicals gathered in a knot, like church-wardens for the offertory plates, and the distribution of _atta_ and _pân_, that sacrament of servitude and sovereignty, began. It, too, was exactly like an offertory; that is, a languid passing round of a plate by an official, and yawns for the rest of the congregation. Finally, with a vigour savouring--like a voluntary--of relief, the band attacked "God Save the Queen" once more, the Viceroy retired, the _durbarees_ trooped out, still calm and silent, yet satisfied, and the Commissioner, sinking into a vacant seat, said:-- "Thank the Lord! That's over without a hitch. So India's safe for another six months at the cost of a trumpery title or two." "I don't see on what ground," began the Under Secretary, laboriously. "Then ye don't read your Bible. Didn't Adam, when he was given dominion over the lower animals, begin by bestowing names on them? Ah! my dear Mrs. Smith, I didn't know ye were so close. A thousand congratulations, my dear lady." "You don't mean it, sir," she interrupted, laughing. "Do you think I have forgotten the consolatory verses you wrote me last year when Eugene _didn't_ get anything? You are a fraud." "Not a bit of it; only an Irishman," put in Father Ninian, with an almost tender smile for the keen, whimsical face which had been friend to him, and foe to him, for many a long year. "Let us have the verses, Mrs. Smith." "Say ye don't remember them, there's a kind soul," urged the Commissioner, persuasively. "But I do: "I dreamt, and lo, the stars fell from the sky To blaze upon the breasts of naughty men; And as I wondered, came this swift reply:-- 'Each star is some soul's inmost aim, and when The angels don't approve, it is returned To feed the base-born flame by which it burned. The nice, they keep until--life's struggle striven-- The owners find them at the gates of heaven.'" "Striven--heaven!" groaned the Commissioner, amid the clapping of hands. "My dear madam, did I commit such a crime--I mean rhyme? But the poet's right. Ye can't go wide of the mark, annyhow, even in a song, but you're sure to find the fact again in the heart of a friend."