of the marble and the one long inscription in black inlay, did not appeal. The white court with its mirror tank, the white cloisters, the vista of white arches and columns, and the pale shadows of the interior had beauty,—Vereshchagin's painting had told one that,—but the Moti Musjid gave the chill of the first disappointment in Agra.
The tomb of I'tamadu-daulah, father of Nur Jahan, the famous wife of Jahangir, and grandfather of Mumtaz-i-Mahal, is on the opposite side of the Jumna; far above the Taj and from the high railway bridge and from the garden terraces one has still different views of the Taj. All the roads leading there were crowded one Sunday afternoon with strings of ekkas and bullock-carts overflowing with women and children, and the garden-paths and the marble platform around the marquetry tomb of the Persian treasurer were crowded with family parties. The women and children were all in their most brilliant holiday attire, their jewels and tinsel, fantastic fineries and fripperies of every kind making the green garden around the white pavilion a dazzle of color, a dream of India. Complacent fathers sat stocking-footed on outspread blankets, their veiled women and children, huddled near, regarding the superior being with awe—a joyous Indian family holiday of the middle classes. A small boy flashed by in a petunia satin coat and gold-embroidered cap, bare-legged and tugging at a bow and arrow. Another boy in gorgeous red satin top-clothes munched a green apple, and the petunia archer flew at him with the fury of a tiger. Screams from the
