The Pool in the Desert

e of it and the gardens of the station bungalows stretching back into clusters of crisp shadows. It was an exquisite February night, very still. Nothing

gh a silent white waste that stretched indefinitely into the moonlight on one side, and was crowned by Akbar's fort on the other. His long high line of turrets and battlements still guarded a hint of their evening rose, and dim and exquisite above them hovered th

who lived here and who lived there. At regular intervals of about four minutes she demanded if it wasn't simply too lovely. She sat straight up with her vigorous profile and her smart hat; and the silhouette of her

t on interfering with it in

verwhelming sentiment, but I think the smile upon my lips was gentle. So plainly I could see, beyond the massive archway and across a score of years, all that they saw at that moment-Arjamand's garden, and the long straight tank of marble cleaving it full of sleeping water and the shadows of the marshaling cypresses; her wide dark garden of roses and of pomegranates, and at t

yet how they had loved! I wandered away into consideration of the blind forces which move the world, in which comely young persons like my daughter Cecily had such a place; I speculated vaguely upon the value of the subtler gifts of sympathy and insight which seemed indeed, at that enveloping moment,

he arch. It showed Dacres measuring with his stick the length of the Sanskrit letters which declared the stately texts, and Cecily's expression of polite, perfunctory interest. They looked up at

g,' said I. 'I hope you di

little cold under foot,' replie

er soles. I have only my slippers. But, mamma, how lovely it is! Do

orning, after 'little breakfast,' as we say in India, he sou

r precisely his interruption. I had got no further tha

s if the old, old Indian joke

'we are having

. Then he lapsed into silence while

a look about his mouth that it was almost a

ully, 'and you're not goi

ly-' s

you and me would be grotesque,' I i

ng at me resolutely with his clear blue eyes, in whic

you know. But the prospect h

seem, under the circumstances, th

of course, better that the connoisseur should have discovered the flaw before concluding the transac

all these days-day after day and each contributory-t

mother,' I could not resis

and tell me if you have reason to believe that to the exten

ense. I reflected that any mother would be, and I quite plumed myself upon my annoyance. It was so satisfactory, when one had a daughter, to know the sensations of even any mother. Nor was it soothing to remember that

ink all this, and then I replied, 'I

eived a blow and might receive another. Then he looked at me with a flash of

r enough to h

rd a crow caw without a sense of vain, distressing experiment. Dacres got up and began to walk about the room. I v

t length, 'do you thi

ink she would. But you wou

dear girl,' he resp

not possibl

f this remarkable phrase: 'I could sta

presentable substitute that appeared, although it was strong. I made no reference to my daughter's large fund of philosophy and small balance of sentiment. I did not even-though this was reprehensible-confess the test, the test of quality in these ten days with th

nham and the probabilities of his return to Agra. So well did she sustain her experience, or so little did she feel it, that I believe the impression went abroad that Dacres had been sent disconsolate away. One astonishing conversation I had with her some six months later, which turned upon the point of a particularly desirable offer. She told me something then, without any sort of embarrassment, but quite lucidly and directly, that edified me much to hear. She said that while she was quite sure that Mr. Tottenham thought of her only as a friend-she had never had the least reason for any other impression-he had done her a service for which she could not thank him enough-in showing her what a husband might be. He had given her a standard; it might b

del of the Taj, and I let her do it-the gift was so exquisitely appropriate. I suppose he never looks at it without being reminded that he didn't marry Miss Farnham, and I hope that he remembers that he owes it to Miss Farnham's mother. So much I think I might claim; it is really very little considering what it stands for. Cecily is pe

digestible, least of all my own parents'. She has acquired a distinct affection for us, by some means best known to herself; but I should have no objection to th

e of investigation in her encounters with the opposite sex that suggests an expectation not yet extinct that another and perhaps a more appreciative Dacres Tottenham may flash across her field of vision-alas, how improbable! Myself I can n

mpossib