gunge, Akrola of the Ford, and little Phulesa, where Kim gave the soulless woman a blessing.
But news travels fast in India, and too soon there shuffled across the crop-land, bearing a basket of fruits with a box of Kabul grapes and gilt oranges, a white-whiskered servitor—a lean, dry, Oorya—begging them to bring the honour of their presence to his mistress, distressed in her mind that the lama had neglected her so long.
'Now do I remember'—the lama spoke as though it were a wholly new proposition—'she is virtuous, but an inordinate talker.'
Kim was sitting on the edge of a cow's manger, telling stories to a village smith's children.
'She will only ask for another son for her daughter. I have not forgotten her,' he said. 'Let her acquire merit. Send word that we will come.'
They covered eleven miles through the crop-lands in two days, and were overwhelmed with attentions at the end; for the old lady held a fine tradition of hospitality, to which she forced her son-in-law, who was under the thumb of his women-folk and bought peace by borrowing of the money-lender. Age had not weakened her tongue or her memory, and from a discreetly barred upper window, in the hearing of not less than a dozen servants, she paid Kim compliments that would have flung European audiences into unclean dismay.
'But thou art still the shameless beggar-brat of the parao,' she shrilled. 'I have not forgotten thee. Wash ye and eat. The father of my daughter's son is gone away a while. So we poor women are dumb and useless.'
For proof, she harangued the entire household unsparingly till
