After crossing the river, we followed the right bank along which the road continued. Then our path lay through rice-fields, very treacherous to ride over. Our horses constantly sank in the boggy ground. In front of us were mountains, whose summits were covered with dark clouds when we started, but, as the day went on, rain and fleecy mist succeeded the lowering curtain, and, as if by magic, the mists faded away, and left the clear outline of the green hills painted on the autumn sky. As we advanced on Atchibul, a hill clothed with young deodars rose grandly before us, and, as we approached the gate of the gardens, we passed under magnificent chenars. The entrance is rather formal, but the Pavilion, situated in the centre of a tank of clear water, is very charming. A civil old fellow bade us welcome in the name of the Maharajah, and, after bringing us some fine peaches, left us to ourselves. In a short time the _jets d’eau_ which surrounded us began to play, and continued doing so all the time we were there. The day was warm, as the sun had conquered the clouds, and the splashing music of the waters was soothing and thoroughly Eastern. The old gardener brought us grapes, peaches, and plums, so we passed a few hours very happily, having brought a supply of books. The fruit which is to be got in India is not equal to what we have cultivated at home in hot-houses. There are, of course, certain fruits peculiar to the country, such as mangoes, bananas, and oranges, which we cannot surpass, but as a cart-horse may be a very fine animal, yet in refinement cannot be compared with a thorough-bred, neither can the natural produce of the soil be compared with the highly-cultivated results of skill. In Cashmere there is an abundance of the fruits of the earth when they are in season. No high walls and locked doors are required to keep out thieves, or to prevent visitors from wandering about among the extensive garden-paths. But at home it is different. A friend of mine in the south of Ireland was taking some ladies to see his very fine hot-houses. When they reached the garden, the door was found to be locked, and the key was there, but in the inside. Great perplexity was felt on the part of the Irish host how to get in. He shouted to the gardener, and a voice answered, but not much to the purpose. There was much excitement and confabulation as to how the party outside the walls was to be admitted. Finally a happy thought struck the master. ‘Whisper, Pat!’ he shouted, ‘throw the key over the wall, and we shall let ourselves in.’ So, with many a ‘Stand clear--are ye ready?’ whiz the key came over the wall, and, with considerable triumph, our friend said, ‘Now we’ll get in!’ It had never occurred to any of them that the easiest way would have been to unlock the door on the inside.