228 



PINJOR 



pink veil seemed to rise. The plains turned from 

 rose to grey, a soft blue grey, rising slowly over 

 the rosy light, and deepening into the dark purple 

 of the sky overhead. Lights at once appeared, 

 marking the villages on the hills behind the 

 gardens, and higher shone the brighter lights of 

 the small hill station. Far off a faint trail of red 

 smoke showed where a train was rushing down 

 to the cities in the plains. The stars came out. 

 Lamps moved among the trees of the upper 

 garden, all the world was hurrying homewards, 

 and the quick magic of another Indian sunset 

 was gone. 



