Dearest-One!
And with a rush came back accusingly something he had almost forgotten all these months of striving and stress. Poverty-prince! the Cup-of-Life! those bosses that gathered the Light and magnified what was written by Fate. Once or twice he had thought of it carelessly; but now...?
Why had the thought come back to him?
It was a speaking likeness. Faint-coloured, delicate as a dream. Perhaps Baisanghâr had meant it to be so. It was likely he did. Poor Baisanghâr! For the life of him Babar could not help pity, even when he found the back of the frame was covered with fine writing--with verses!--not even when he recollected that it was to his sister that they were dedicated!
In truth there was little in them of offence, and Babar as he went to sleep that night, King of Samarkand, caught himself repeating them. They were certainly very neat--very neat indeed. And now that he had had time to think, why should not poor Dearest-One see them? They had given him a kindlier feeling towards the writer, so why should not she...?
Why not, indeed! The Cup-of-Life held all things for all.
Yes! he would send, or give her the portrait as it stood. It was really an excellent piece of work; and the words were perfect--the construction, and the grammar so good.
He fell asleep reciting them.