there-ay, he is cringing now. But if the interest be not paid he will foreclose, and the Rajput will have to cringe then or to He dared not finish the thought.

So the set look came over his face, and he hardened his bowels of compassion against his brethren. "Pay," he said-"pay me what you owe or you leave the land," and not heeding the cries for time and mercy that rose around him, he went slowly back to his house, followed by his tall sons.

The Village Banker.

But come, let us be going! We will turn down that lane which is nearly opposite the one we came by. It will lead us out to the fields again, through the weavers' quarter and past the outlying huts of the low-castes. That house a little way down, built of small well-burnt bricks, with no window opening to the lane, and a strong studded gate made of black wood, that is where the Marwari banker lives. See, he is coming out, a stout portly man, of somewhat low stature, dressed in fine white calico scrupulously clean, with a huge pink turban on his head. His chief agent and factotum, a man of his own race and caste, with a couple of stout Brahmin servants behind him. He is of a lighter complexion than the men of the village. A keen, cleverlooking man-in intelligence far above the Rajputs round him. Not a bad face on the whole, although it bears the stamp of his hereditary trade. Not a bad man either, and most useful. What Rothschild is to Europe is Seth Bullub Dass to the good village of Gardanpur. It is easy to call him names; but can the land be farmed without capital, and who will find the money if Bullub Dass closes his chests? He has evidently been sent for to arrange the present difficulty, and he will do it. They are all in his debt, and he cannot afford to let them go to ruin.

The Weavers and Low-Castes. Turn down this lane to the right: we are coming to the poorer part of the village where the lower castes live.

Here is a settlement of weavers. The huts are smaller, and boast no little en、 closures or yards to them. The chamber doors open on the lane, and if you look in you will see the looms at work. The lane is very narrow, and half of it is taken up by the trestles on which the women who are preparing the warp have stretched it. You see them hurrying up and down combing out and arranging the thread. It is a poor trade, especially since machine-made cloth flooded the markets; and this year they will tell you they have fallen on hard times. "What! don't you know the harvest was so bad? there was only eight annas in the rupee" (their way of saying it was only half a crop), "and now the rain is holding back. The cultivators are in great straits, and it is the tillers of the earth, not the rich merchants and landlords, who buy from the poor weaver. The farmers have had to pawn their wives' ornaments to Bullub Dass-ay, and their land too in some cases-and the old dhotee, torn and thin though it be, must do for another year. No new gowns for the wives for last year's fair or this year's either."

Now we are out of the village, on the opposite side to that we entered by. Here the fields are not so close to the houses. There is a wide open space of waste ground, hard and firm beneath the thick carpet of grey dust. This is where the harvest is brought home, and where the oxen tread out the corn. It is busy enough then. Now it is left to a few evil-looking, mangy, half-starved dogs, who are prowling about to see what they can devour. The dog has a poor time in an Indian village. He is a scavenger to be tolerated; useful too sometimes for watch and ward, for he can snarl and bark more than enough, if he has not always the pluck to bite; but to the ordinary Hindu villager not a companion and friend, to the Mahomedan an unclean beast and a term of reproach. At the far side of this waste ground is a big banyan-tree, and, beyond, a few old and weather-beaten mangoes, the survivors of an ancient grove. In their shade a group of huts,

smaller and poorer looking than even the worst in the village. The chumars, the workers in leather, live here, and beyond their hamlet are two or three neater and cleaner-looking hovels, where the mehters or sweepers dwell. These pariahs must not pollute the main village. You need not waste pity on them, for all that. They are quite as full of caste pride and prejudice, and quite as exclusive in their own way, as their superiors. And then, for the chumars at any rate, there are compensations when the matter is looked into. Do you see the vultures on the broken and withered stem of that old mango? A little farther off you will see a group of men busy around something on the ground. They are all squatting and shuffling like birds of prey around that something. Now you are nearer you see what it is. That is the carcass of Bullub Dass's best ox, one of the pair that drew his carriage -a fine trotting pair from Central India. It sickened and died yesterday in the yard, and the chumars came, as is their duty and their right too, and removed the carcass. They are skinning it now in this village Golgotha, and then they will divide the flesh. What! not to eat it? Yes, to eat it. You do not think that row of women sitting a few yards off, eagerly watching the men's work, is merely interested in the skinning? Each of them has brought her brass dish or pot, and they waiting anxiously for the distribution of the flesh. It will be divided justly, and with due respect to position, according to the ancient custom of chumars. Plague? cholera? Oh no; you see they are healthy-looking and well nourished enough. How many thousand years have they fed on like carrion? Pasture and water are scarce, and cattle are dying, I hear, by scores. The chumar at least will thrive, and the vultures, and so will the cunning dealer in hides, who comes up country from Mirzapur and buys the dead skins cheap for ready cash. Perhaps he has even advanced money to his chumar clients, and then he will buy them very cheap indeed. The next pair of boots

are

you get from London may be made of the hide of friend Bullub Dass's ox. So is the world tied together.

And now we are in the open fields again. It is the end of the day and the low sun glows rayless through the thick dust like a live coal. The wind is as burning hot as it was three hours ago. Hot it will be and burning all the weary night. Just as we have to rise again to march, when there is a faint gleam of pale opal light in the east and a man can see his hand, one little short sob of cool breath will come, like a whisper from heaven to a sorrowing soul, and then straightway the great sun will leap up again in his wrath, and the slow misery of earth and beast and man will begin once more. Yet another day of burning fiery drought. O God of heaven, how long? When will Thy rain fall on the just and on the unjust? Is it to no purpose that we have fed Thy Brahmins, and made offerings day by day at Thy shrine, Mahadeo?

Famine Threatens.

It is September now, and there is dole in Gardanpur. When we were there last it was the end of June, and they were waiting anxiously for rain. It was long and late in coming, but it came, and the thirsty soil drank it in greedily. The dust no longer rose in clouds, the wind ceased to howl, the crow shut its mouth or opened it only to give a cheerful and well-satisfied "caw." Like magic, after the first shower the grateful ground brought forth the herb after its kind. The dykes and tanks filled, and fish appearing suddenly swam about in the pools which were yesterday dry pits. The cattle began to look more like living things, and some of the younger beasts actually capered and kicked about as they were driven forth to pasture in the early morning. Ploughs were got out, and the oxen began to think that even a drought has its good side. The men leave the village at dawn, driving their yokes with ploughs reversed, the tail trailing on the ground marking a small furrow in the mud. Hope lives again in their eyes. Cheer

ily at noon the wives set out to the fields where the ploughs are working, the last baby astride on the hip, a dish of food and a vessel of water balanced deftly on the head. The dusky little naked children are making their mudpies in the village lanes, and marking out miniature fields and irrigation channels. Even the village dogs look more contented and less like the badly stuffed skins in a village museum.

The sugarcane is a foot high or more. It has been watered constantly, but the rain has done it more good than all the irrigation. You can see it is full of juicy life. Farther afield great stretches of land are green with the broad leaves of the millets. Here and there in the better soil are darker patches where the cotton-plants are coming up strong. Through July and August the heavens are kindly. Cool continuous rain for five or six days, and then a break of bright sun, obscured now and again by a big, fleecy cloud, just long enough to get the crops weeded and the surface hoed, and then more rain before the young plants begin to droop. The ploughs are going all the time in the fields whose turn it is to be sown with wheat and barley after the rains have ceased. The farmers are in good heart, and plough follows plough, up the field and down again, in straight furrows. Five or six ploughings will do no harm. Away there are some large even fields in which eight ploughs are working; the oxen are big, white, well-favored beasts, the best you have seen. That is Pertáb Singh's own home farm, and there is the old man himself, standing leaning on his long staff. He has come out to see how the work is going on. He is quite cheerful now. There has been no trouble about the revenue. The timely rain opened Bullub Dass's purse, and the money was found for the rent, on the security of the sugar and cotton crops. A remittance too came from the Risaldar Sahib, whose regiment is far away at Peshawur maybe. Pertáb Singh has not much idea of geography, but he knows Peshawur is a long way off, a journey of three days even by rail, and

the rail-ghari goes swiftly, as you know. The Risaldar has got furlough and will be home shortly, and then there will be rejoicing. Are not the Risaldar's wife and his two sons in Pertáb Singh's house? Where else should they be? A Rajput does not take his wife with him on service, like those Madrási sepoys Pertáb once saw on the march. Sepoys indeed! They are good enough fellows, but what business have the like of them in the wars?

This was in July. We are in September now-nearly the end of September-and a great dread overhangs the land. For three long weeks the heavens have been shut, and not a drop of rain has fallen. The wells, wherever there are wells-there are not many in Gardanpur-have been working hard to keep the sugar alive and the cottonplants from withering. The great stretches of food crops-nothing could be done for them. They should be well over a man's head now, and the fields as thick as thick can be. They are not up to my knee, would not give shelter to a boar, and the leaves are all turning yellow at the tips. Here and there a little starveling head of grain, like a famine baby, has come prematurely. The cotton on which we count for rent

the same fate is overtaking it. The plants should be fine bushy plants, shrubs almost, three feet high, bright with their yellow and brown flowers. They are dwarfed, stunted things, like suburban wallflowers in a backward spring, and some of them have formed bolls already. There is no hope of a good crop. How is Bullub Dass to be paid? The wind is beginning to blow hot again and the ground to harden. The ploughed fields, waiting for the wheat and barley seed, are drying up, and the dust rises where the cattle tread as if it were May again. There will be little use in scattering seed on that thirsty soil. "Still there is hope. If the rain comes soon," the people say, "we may get half a crop from the millets. It will be short commons, but we shall not starve, and we can sow for next harvest. The wheat and barley will be good security for Bullub Dass."

So every man who has a well works it bravely, and the sugarcane is kept alive, whether men or oxen die over it. The pulley creaks and the great leathern buckets go up and down, while the patient men toil, and the more patient beasts drag the rope down and follow it up the inclined run of the well. Were there ever such patient men and such patient beasts?

Thus it is in the fields. In the village, Pertáb Singh is sitting in the covered gateway of his house. He is somewhat sad and stern again. The Risaldar and some of the other sons are round him. A fine, seasoned-looking soldier is the Risaldar. He is in his peasant's dress, and has nothing to distinguish him from the others but a necklace of big gold beads round his neck, and perhaps his turban is a little bigger and has a smarter set. But his gait and posture and the pride of his bearing mark his profession, and he has the air of a man having authority. For а Risaldar Sahib in the Bengal cavalry of the great queen is no mean person, especially if he has seen service and has three medals, and has been called out on parade and praised by the commander-in-chief himself-ay, in his own tongue too. He will love to talk to you if you have time, and to grip you by the hand. You are a civilian, it is true; but he knows you can walk and shoot and ride, and your brothers are in the army, and every English gentleman is a fighting man at heart, and welcomes and is welcomed by the Risaldar Sahib, who has fought so often beside and under Englishmen. Moreover, it is the civilians who have the power and can help a man out of trouble. So he welcomes you warmly.

But Pertáb Singh is sad, and the Risaldar is trying to comfort him by assurances that he and his brothers in the service will be able to raise enough to pay the mortgage interest, come what may. For the fear of another bad harvest is on the old man's heart, and he knows that his people will not be able to pay their rent should this new misfortune come. He has spoken to Bullub Dass, and Bullub Dass says he

can do no more. He cannot go on advancing money forever. He too has his sons and daughters to think of, and the honor of his own house, which has lent money and met its bills quite as long as the Rajput's people have owned the land.

No more Hope.

It is October, and still no rain. Still the pulleys of the wells creak and groan. The great patient oxen labor on as before, but their heads droop and their limbs drag wearily, and the bones show prominently through the loose skin. Their masters too look downcast, and their bodies, always spare, are nothing but tense muscle and skin. There is no actual want of food yet in Gardanpur, at least for such as have farms; for they have some little stores left still, and those who have any hope of a crop can borrow for a while yet. But it is a more than Lenten fast for them all, with never-ceasing toil superadded. A few weeks of such discipline might do good to many of us who choose to grumble because we have not more than enough.

There is no doubt now as to the fate of the village. The sugar has been saved to some extent. That means at the most one acre in twenty of the village area, for sugar needs to be irrigated, and there are few wells and no canal here. The cotton is dwarfed: it is not worth picking. The millets, which should have fed the village for the next five months, have hardly moved. The stalks, which should be so juicy, are almost dry. here and there an abortive head of grain, which women and children have diligently searched out and garnered. For the rest, it will do for fodder; and as the last remnant of grass has been torn off the hard surface by the famishing cattle, most men have turned their hungry beasts into the standing fields of jowar and bajra, and let them eat them down. If rain comes in three weeks or so, it may be possible to sow wheat and barley with some chance of a harvest, late in March or in April. If it comes not, then the last flicker of hope has died

away. Until the next rainy season, full eight months hence, the fertile plain will be a barren waste unproductive as the sand of the seashore.

Day follows day. There is no sign of a cloud now. The sun is bright and hot. But the nights are chill, and there is a keenness in the morning air that heralds the Indian winter and gives a glow to the pale faces of the Englishmen; generally a cheerful and welcome time, when the country is bright with the fresh green of the springing corn, and the heart of man is gladdened by the knowledge of one harvest gathered and the promise of another to come. There is no brightness or gladness here now. No harvest has been garnered, and the harvest to come is a harvest of bones, and the reaper is Death.

The Risaldar Sahib's leave is drawing to an end. He must go to his regiment. He is anxious and full of care. How is the revenue to be paid, and the interest due to Bullub Dass? How is the household to be fed? For there are many mouths dependent on Pertáb Singh. There is the old man's wife, the mother of the stalwart sons; there are three of the sons' wives, besides the Risaldar's, and seven grandchildren, most of them very young. Then there are five or six women and men born in the house, slaves some might call them-they cannot be left to starve, and they too have children. There are the farm-servants also, but they must shift for themselves if famine comes. Besides these, there are two or three widows, whose husbands, cousins of Pertáb Singh, died when they were young, and left their child-wives to a dull life of drudgery; and two distant relatives, fat, lazy, loafing loons, with wives and children of course, who have quartered themselves on the old Rajput, having lost or dissipated their own means. God forbid that he should refuse them food and shelter, idle drones though they be! Altogether, Per táb Singh will tell you when you begin to know him, he has "to carry some thirty souls on his one shoulder." "Where is food for all these to come from?" asks the Risaldar. The granaries will not

as

hold out till the next rain comes, not nearly. He has looked into them yesterday. "The women and children must leave," he says to his father; "you cannot feed them here, and if you have to go you will not be able to take them with you." So it is settled that the Risaldar's and his brothers' wives and their children should go off under the escort of his two brothers to their fathers' houses in Rajputana. There they will be safe from harm or hunger, for letters have come to say that all is well there and sufficient rain has fallen.

So the next day the family Brahmin is consulted. Pertáb Singh and his house are pious people, especially where the womenfolk are concerned, and a journey like this must not be lightly undertaken. The priest, therefore, is sent for, and fed and feed, and told to see which is the best day for setting out. Then the Brahmin looks very wise, and taking up his quarters in a raised verandah on one side of the gateway, consults his almanacs and the horoscopes of the family. A day or two go in this way, much to the vexation of the Risaldar, whose time is short, and who has lost his faith in these ceremonies. Does not the regiment march on whatever day it is told, without all this fuss? When they last marched with Lockhart Sahib across the frontier, was any Brahmin or other padre Sahib called to find the lucky day? Not a bit of it; and as for bad luck, why, they won every fight they went into. True, they lost some men, and Jones Sahib-he was a fine lad and had just joined-was shot through the head. But what of that? It was their fate, and it is a soldier's right to die fighting. But his mother and Pertáb Singh would have none of these free-thinking notions.

Meanwhile the women are packing their possessions in leather-covered baskets. Not so big as you see at railway stations in London or on tops of cabs and carriages, but handy things, two of which can be slung and balanced at the ends of a springy slip of bamboo, and carried by one man. There are no great tall feathered hats,