The day after the storm brought forth the loveliest afternoon that can be imagined. The sun shone out brightly, the clouds were lifted from the Dhoon, and the vast panorama resembled what we read of in some fairy tale. All Mussoorie and Landour turned out. The mall was so crowded, that it was difficult to thread one's way through the throng.
Was the lady at the rock? Yes; there she stood, as usual, watching those who passed. The Maharajah with his suite appeared. I was convinced that the woman was the Maharajah's mother; but I did not breathe my suspicions, lest I might cause her to be arrested. When it became dusk, and the visitors were taking their departure, I again approached the lady, and made my "salaam," in that respectful phrase which is always adopted when addressing a native woman of rank. She at once recognised me as the person who had spoken to her during the storm on the previous afternoon, for she alluded to its fury, and said she had taken a wrong road, had lost her way after I had left her, and did not reach home till nearly midnight. She concluded her little speech with a hope that I had been more fortunate.
"You should have allowed me to escort you," said I. "I would have helped to carry your load of sorrow."
She looked at me, and suddenly and abruptly said, "Your name is Longford."
"You are right," said I.
"About three or four years ago you stayed for several days with a friend in a tent near Deobund? You were on your way to these mountains?"
"I did."
"You had a little dog with you, and you lost it at Deobund?"
"I did lose my dog, and made a great noise about it. But how do you know all this?"
She smiled and sighed.