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 of the sky and the stars to their beds; he paced away the night, and the dew rose under his feet. He paced up the dawn, but in the early hours of the white day he was rolled westward in a train of cars, his feet on the seat opposite, a pipe in his mouth, and a song in his heart. He saw the names upon the stations: Cawnpore—Lucknow—Delhi. He read them thus: "This is the way home, Tom Beauling." "This is the way to the haven where you would be." "This is the way to Phylis." But there were moments when he dared not believe that he had read her letter right.

The steamer Caledonia, with black smoke that gyrated in the sea-breeze pouring out of both funnels, stood in the harbor of Bombay, between the city and the emerald islands. An important puffy little donkey-engine was clacking up her anchor, and the pilot was fingering the brass bell-pull that should teach the engineer when to set the shafts revolving. Along the shoreward rail was a double line of people in thin white clothes and