“I did but write a simple account of our adventures in Arabia,” said he, in reply to a question from Harold. “I thought that when it was too hot to dig in the garden, go out to shoot a pheasant, or come home to cook it, I might earn a trifle by my pen. I am astonished to receive a hundred rupees, and mightily pleased by the publisher’s note: ‘We shall be glad to have further contributions from R. H.’”
“And do you wish to give the whole of this to the mission?” asked Harold, glancing at the currency note which he held in his hand.
“Of course,” replied Robin simply; “the first-fruits are always the Lord’s.”
CHAPTER XXI
A LETTER FOR HOME.
We will now pass over a considerable space of time, and look over Alicia’s shoulder as, on the third anniversary of her wedding-day, she is penning a letter to her sister.
“I can hardly believe, dear Lizzie, that I have really been three years married, though that darling, golden-haired Robin, who is trying at this moment to climb upon my knee, serves as a charming reminder. He is like—oh, so like!—his father, only his merry laugh is Robin’s.
“You ask how the work in the fort goes on. Just to our heart’s desire. We are full of gratitude to Him from whom all goodness flows. The best room in the fort has been fitted up as a church; we have service there every day, and thrice on Sundays. A grand gift for our wedding-day has arrived—a harmonium, on which I shall play the hymns. There is a nice room for the boys’ school, with a large veranda in which the brown urchins squat at their lessons. To enter that school is like going near a hive of bees, there is such a humming of voices.
“We—Miranda and I—have a nice girls’ school of our own in quite a different part of the fort. It is in that very gallery where I first saw poor Premi pounding away at the rice. I can scarcely recognize that unhappy young Hindu widow in the tall, graceful, beautiful Christian lady who is to me as the sweetest of sisters. You write, ‘I suppose that Miss Macfinnis has quite cast off all her old Hindu ways, and is quite the English demoiselle now?’ No, not exactly. Miranda is not, I think never will be, just like one who has always trodden a drawing-room carpet; she is more like Shakespeare’s Miranda—a beautiful blossom reared under Indian skies, not in a conservatory at home. Miranda always by preference wears the chaddar when she is engaged in the mission work which she loves, but when we are at home her luxuriant hair is braided just like my own. She reads and converses well in English, but with a slight accent which to our ears makes her language more sweet. We all love her dearly, and her native pupils are ready to kiss her feet. Miranda’s influence over them is much greater than mine.
“We had an absurd little scene a few days ago; I laugh at the recollection. The bara Sahib, Mr. Thole, paid us a visit. I suspect that his curiosity drew him here, for he had never seen Premi since that strange day when, shrinking and trembling, bruised and bleeding, a poor oppressed Hindu widow was brought before the commissioner, whose verdict would decide her fate. Miranda entered our sitting-room without knowing that a guest was there; her chaddar was off, her hands filled with flowers from the garden which Robin has made. She looked herself like a rose. The commissioner rose, with his stiff, formal politeness, and said, ‘This is, I presume, Miss Miranda Macfinnis.’ Miranda started like a frightened fawn, dropped her flowers, and vanished out of the room. I could scarcely keep my countenance when I apologized for my young cousin’s unintentional rudeness. ‘A little jungly,’ said Mr. Thole, with a condescending smile. ‘You should send her to a school in the hills.’