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outraged to see them, and also, as far as I could make out, the Hindustani prayer was all for the conversion of the ‘wretched Mussulmans and Hindus;’ at least the English one was. Mrs. Wilson is always my idea of as perfect a character as there can be in this world, and so regularly merry with it. She lives in this jungle without any society but these 150 little black orphans. She has married off thirty of them at the usual early age of this country to native Christians, who have built little huts round her and act as gardeners or labourers; and she is now building a church for her little colony, trusting entirely to Providence for funds for herself, her school, and church, &c., and she. always finds that she has just enough at the end of the year for all the good she does. The children are all so fond of her, and she fetches out a little black tadpole and says, ‘This is a dear little child; she came to me quite providentially—found near the river.’ ‘These little darlings survived the inundation at Saugur,’ and soon. They are all dressed alike, in a long white muslin scarf with a red border, which is first wound round them, so as to make a sort of petticoat, and then the end is brought over the