THE ORDEAL 



trate through the massive foliage of 

 the mango-trees and the double fly 

 of the roomy tent beneath them, 

 Miss Edna seemed in a restless 

 mood. She could not sit down to 

 write, as her mother did, long screeds 

 to their men-kind at home, nor was 

 she gifted with the power to sketch 

 the sunny view outside their door ; 

 her banjo lay neglected in its case, 

 and the latest novels failed to-day to 

 attract her. 



"What is it, my dear?" asked 

 the patient mother for the fourth 

 time, looking up from her letter- 

 writing. 



" It is this, mamma. I am not 



going to leave India I know it." 



She was standing at the moment, 



with her hands clasped behind her, 



86 



