a serjeant in the 31st; and when the regiment
was ordered to India, I drew a lot to
go, and I was more thankful than I can tell;
for it seemed as if it would only be a slow
death to me to part from my husband. But,
indeed, ma'am, if I had known all, I don't
know whether I would not rather have died
there and then, than gone through what I
have done since. To be sure, I've been able
to comfort Sam, and to be with him; but,
ma'am, I've lost six children," said she, looking
up at me with those strange eyes, that I have
never noticed but in mothers of dead children
—with a kind of wild look in them, as if
seeking for what they never more might
find;—"Yes! Six children died off, like little
buds nipped untimely, in that cruel India.
I thought, as each died, I never could—I
never would—love a child again; and when
the next came, it had not only its own love,
but the deeper love that came from the
thoughts of its little dead brothers and sisters.
And when Phœbe was coming, I said to my
husband, 'Sam, when the child is born, and
I am strong, I shall leave you; it will cut my
heart cruel; but if this baby dies too, I shall
go mad. The madness is in me now; but if
you let me go down to Calcutta, carrying my
baby step by step, it will may-be work itself
off; and I will save, and I will hoard, and I
will beg,—and I will die, to get a passage
home to England, where our baby may live!'
God bless him! He said I might go; and he
saved up his pay, and I saved every pice I
could get for washing or any way; and when
Phœbe came, and I grew strong again, I set
off. It was very lonely; through the thick
forests, dark again with their heavy trees—
along by the rivers' side—(but I had been
brought up near the Avon in Warwickshire,
so that flowing noise sounded like home),
from station to station, from Indian village to
village, I went along, carrying my child. I
had seen one of the officer's ladies with a
little picture, ma'am, done by a Catholic
foreigner, ma'am, of the Virgin and the little
Saviour, ma'am. She had him on her arm,
and her form was softly curled round him,
and their cheeks touched. Well, when I
went to bid good-bye to this lady, for whom
I had washed, she cried sadly; for she, too,
had lost her children, but she had not
another to save, like me; and I was bold
enough to ask her would she give me that
print? And she cried the more, and said
her children were with that little blessed
Jesus; and gave it me, and told me she had
heard it had been painted on the bottom of a
cask, which made it have that round shape.
And when my body was very weary, and my
heart was sick, (for there were times when I
misdoubted if I could ever reach my home, and
there were times when I thought of my
husband; and one time when I thought my baby
was dying) I took out that picture and looked
at it, till I could have thought the mother spoke
to me, and comforted me. And the natives
were very kind. We could not understand
one another; but they saw my baby on my
breast, and they came out to me, and brought
me rice and milk, and sometimes flowers—I
have got some of the flowers dried. Then
the next morning I was so tired; and they
wanted me to stay with them—I could tell
that—and tried to frighten me from going
into the deep woods, which, indeed, looked
very strange and dark; but it seemed to me
as if Death was following me to take my
baby away from me; and as if I must go on,
and on—and I thought how God had cared
for mothers ever since the world was made,
and would care for me; so I bade them
good-bye, and set off afresh. And once when
my baby was ill, and both she and I needed
rest, He led me to a place where I found a
kind Englishman lived, right in the midst of
the natives."

"And you reached Calcutta safely at
last!"

"Yes! safely. Oh! when I knew I had
only two days' journey more before me, I
could not help it, ma'am—it might be idolatry,
I cannot tell—but I was near one of the
native temples, and I went in it with my
baby to thank God for his great mercy; for
it seemed to me, that where others had prayed
before to their God, in their joy or in their
agony, was of itself a sacred place. And I
got as servant to an invalid lady, who grew
quite fond of my baby aboard-ship; and, in
two years' time, Sam earned his discharge,
and came home to me, and to our child.
Then he had to fix on a trade; but he
knew of none; and, once, once upon a time,
he had learnt some tricks from an Indian
juggler, so he set up conjuring, and it answered
so well that he took Thomas to help him—as
his man, you know, not as another conjuror,
though Thomas has set it up now on his own
hook. But it has been a great help to us that
likeness between the twins, and made a
good many tricks go off well that they made
up together. And Thomas is a good brother,
only he has not the fine carriage of my
husband, so that I can't think how he can be
taken for Signor Brunoni himself, as he says
he is."

"Poor little Phœbe! " said I, my thoughts
going back to the baby she carried all those
hundred miles.

"Ah! you may say so! I never thought I
should have reared her, though, when she
fell ill at Chunderabaddad; but that good,
kind Aga Jenkyns took us in, which I believe
was the very saving of her."

"Jenkyns!" said I.

"Yes! Jenkyns. I shall think all people
of that name are kind; for here is that nice
old lady who comes every day to take Phœbe
a walk!"

But an idea had flashed through my head.
Could the Aga Jenkyns be the lost Peter?
True he was reported by many to be dead.
But, equally true, some had said that he had