huge hall soldiers in red uniforms and Indians struggling together; great pools of blood were on the floor, and women and children were weeping. At first my mother thought it was only a dream; but when she opened her eyes she saw it as vividly as when they were closed, and terrified she longed for the dawn. At daybreak she
told my father of the vision. He was surprised, as were his followers; for years before during the Mutiny a massacre had actually taken place in the hall. My father had not told my mother lest she should be nervous; when she heard the story my mother insisted on moving into another house, and we left then and there.
I remember a journey to Jubbalpore when I first realised the devotion of Indian wives to their husbands. We drove to a little house built upon a rock among the hills, about which there was this story:
"In bygone times a certain Maharajah was going to fight the Mohammedans, and his wife, who loved him, wished to accompany him.
"It is impossible," he said. "How can you go with me?" "I will not remain alone in the palace," she answered firmly. "But I am going to fight." "No matter, my place is by your side." "You cannot come with me."
The loving Maharani then said to her husband: " I came to this palace as your wife, your Maharani. I shall not remain in the palace without you, my
