built a well guaranteed not to drown any one who leaped into it, and a lean boy in a tattered sheet begged us to see him jump. "One rupee—only one rupee, memsahib. Ek rupia." He fell, anna by anna, to half that price. We shivered in furs to think of a cold plunge in that icy air and keen wind, and finally bargained, in the presence of the priest, to give him six annas if he would go home, put on more clothes, and not jump that day. One crazy foreigner more or less, with notions crazier than the last one, could not disturb a molla; but as it was past his prophesying what we might not pay six annas for, in the course of our crass philanthropy, he himself conducted us about and to the tomb of Khusrau, "the sweet-singing parrot of India, memsahib." Khusrau was a Turk, but his Persian verses were so beautiful that Sadi made a pilgrimage from Persia to pay homage, and to this day all the gild of Delhi musicians and dancers remember him with garlands and bouquets. In this group of tombs is that of Jahanira, the daughter of Shah Jahan and Mumtaz-i-Mahal, who is a very real personage. Her years of devotion to her blind and captive father, her long life of piety and goodness, dying unmarried at the age of sixty-seven, warranted her burial in the Taj Mahal, or the Jama Masjid at Agra, built especially for her, rather than with that mixed but interesting company in the suburbs of Delhi.
The most beautiful tomb of them all is that of Mirza Jahangir, Akbar's son,—a platform of white marble supporting a white marble screen, with heavy doors of marble carved in low relief, likewise the
