not read and write yet, but I can. So I ordered the gardener to plant the seeds in the shape of thy name."
Barath looked at the flowers wonderingly. To see his name in print was a new delight. "Sister mine, teach me to write my name for myself? Thou art so clever! Shall I ever be as clever as thou?" He looked at her with a new admiration.
"Perhaps; perhaps much more. But see me write thy name."
She took a stick, a small bamboo, and wrote on the sand. Large Hindi characters, the letters detached. Then she ordered the gardener to fill a small can with fine sand.
"Now I shall write thy name with the pouring sand." She chose a part of the gravel path, and poured out the sand from the spout, moving the can all the while to form the letters which were all attached in consecutive order as the sand was falling all the time in the spaces between. "They would be so attached if thou didst sign thy name with a pen," she explained wisely.
Barath laughed with joy, and clapped his hands. "Now let me do it," he cried. He noted the shapes of the letters, took the can and imitated Delini.
"That is not quite perfect," she said, examining the signature critically. "The letters are all wobbly and jumpy. Try again."
Barath tried several times, till his teacher was satisfied.
"Now come with me to the outer palace," he cried in sudden inspiration. "I must show this to all!"
She thought a moment. "Yes, I shall come. I am not yet thirteen, and need not veil for another year. But still I cannot go just like this." For in the inner
