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 him, only to be rivalled by the joy of guiding other lives into the same path.

I write this in the house in which he usually lives when in Johannesburg. Yonder is the open stoep—there is the rolled-up mattress on which he sleeps. It would be difficult to imagine a life less open to the assaults of pride or sloth, than the life lived here. Everything that can minister to the flesh is abjured. Of all men, Mr. Gandhi reminds one of "Puran Daas," of whom Kipling writes:—"He had used his wealth and his power for what he knew both to be worth; he had taken honour when it came in his way; he had seen men and cities far and near, and men and cities had stood up and honoured him. Now he would let these things go, as a man drops the cloak he needs no longer." This is a graphic picture of our friend. He simply does what he believes to be his duty, accepts every experience that ensues with calmness, takes honour if it comes, without pride; and then, "lets it go as a man drops the cloak he needs no longer," should duty bring dishonour. In the position of "Puran Bhagat," he would do easily what Bhagat did, and no one, even now, would be surprised to see him go forth at some call which no one else can hear, his crutch under his arm,