circle of disciples, sleeping uncovered on the bare earth at night, and eating only the offerings of fruit and rice which his devotees bring him. A jeweled youth with a great caste-mark on his brow was sitting with the holy man when we were announced by Chaturgam Lal and the favor of an audience asked; and the worshiping youth threw his own silky white chudda around the saint as we advanced down the garden path. The holy man sat there with knees bent, soles turned upward, and hand lifted in precisely the attitude of the Buddha in art. Birds twittered and the rustling trees overhead cast checkered shadows on the lean and wrinkled old ascetic beneath. He had a kindly face, a gentle, benevolent manner; he was very gracious, courteous, and human, and the living god began at once to talk of the impermanence of the world, of the delusions and fleeting joys of which we mistakenly make so much. His richly turbaned native visitors soon forgot our interruption, listening with rapt attention, and each one bowed reverently whenever the saint's eyes were directly turned in his direction. At Swamji's request, a disciple led us to a little marble shrine in the garden to see a portrait statue of the holy man, for this living god is worshiped in the flesh and in the image, there and in other cities.
When we returned to the teacher, he had evidently had more information concerning us from the omniscient Chaturgam Lal. "You write books," said the living god. "So do I. My books are commentaries on the Vedas and encouragements to the
