cemented by continual sweetmeats. The father of Mini also makes friends with the Kabuli.
My morning conversations with Rahamat sitting before the table in my little study had for me to some extent the effect of travel. High unscaleable and inaccessible chains of hills of a burnt red hue on either side, a slender arid pathway between, lines of loaded camels pacing onwards, turbaned merchants, wayfarers on camels and on foot, some carrying lances and others the old-fashioned flint matchlocks,—this panorama would unroll and pass before my eyes as the Kabuli talked about his motherland in his deep rumbling voice and his stammering Bengali.
In the end Rahamat kills a man, and is sentenced to eight years' imprisonment. When he reappears, it is on Mini's wedding-day.
I did not recognise him at first. He had not his sacks nor his long hair nor his fine spirited bearing. At last I remembered his smile.
"Hullo! Rahamat, when did you come?" I said.
"Yesterday I came out of jail," he answered.
I told him I was very busy and that he had better go. Then he said as he stood and shuffled by the door:
"May I not see the child once more?"
But this was not to be, and with a dumb troubled look the man went away. He returned, however, and coming near, said:
"I have brought these grapes and almonds and raisins for the child. Give them to her from me, I pray? No,
