of our old friend Charley, of the two hundredth
and tenth regiment. Poor fellow!
He could not get leave, and the doctors said
another hot summer in the plains would be
the death of his wife. They are seven hundred
pounds in debt to the Agra bank, and
are hard put to it to live and pay the monthly
instalments of interest. Charley is only a lieutenant.
What terrible infants are these little
Merrydales! There is Lieutenant Maxwell's
pony under the trees, and if these children
had not shouted out "Mamma! Mamma!
Here is Captain Wall, Sahib!" I should
have been informed that Mrs. Merrydale
was not at home, or was poorly, which I
should have believed implicitly. (Maxwell,
when a young ensign, was once engaged to
be married to Julia Dacey, now Mrs. Merrydale,
but her parents would not hear of it,
for some reason or other.) As it is, we must
be admitted. We will not stay long. Mrs.
Merrydale is writing to her husband. Grass
widows in the hills are always writing to
their husbands, when you drop in upon them,
and your presence is not actually delighted in.
How beautiful she looks! now that the mountain
breezes have chased from her cheeks the
pallor which lately clung to them in the
plains; and the fresh air has imparted to her
spirits an elasticity, in lieu of that languor
by which she was oppressed a fortnight ago.

Let us now go to Mrs. Hastings. She is the
wife of a civilian, who has a salary of fifteen
hundred rupees (one hundred and fifty pounds)
per mensem, and who is a man of fortune, independent
of his pay. Mrs. Hastings has the
best house in Mussoorie. She is surrounded
by servants. She has no less than three
Arab horses to ride. She is a great prude—
is Mrs. Hastings. She has no patience with
married women who flirt. She thinks that
the dogma—
        "When lovely women go astray,
         Their stars are more in fault than they"—
is all nonsense. Mrs. Hastings has been a
remarkably fine woman; she is now five-and-thirty,
and still good-looking, though disposed
to embonpoint. She wearies one with
her discourses on the duties of a wife. That
simpering cornet, Stammersleigh, is announced,
and we may bid her good-morning.

The average rent for a furnished house is
about five hundred rupees (fifty pounds) for
the six months. Every house has its name.
Yonder are Cocky Hall, Belvidere, Phœnix
Lodge, the Cliffs, the Crags, the Vale, the
Eagle's Nest, &c. The value of these properties
ranges from five hundred to fifteen
hundred pounds. The furniture is of the
very plainest description, with one or two
exceptions, and is manufactured chiefly at
Bareilly, and carried here on men's shoulders,
the entire distance— ninety miles.

Where shall we go now, for it wants an
hour to tiffin-time? Oh! here comes a
janpan! (a sort of sedan-chair carried
by four hill-men, dressed in loose black
clothes turned up with red, yellow, blue,
green, or whatever colour the proprietor likes
best.) And in the janpan sits a lady:—
Mrs. Apsley, a very pretty, good-tempered,
and well-bred little woman. She is the
grand-daughter of an English peer, and is
very fond of quoting her aunts and her uncles,
"My aunt Lady Mary Culnerson," "my aunt
the Countess of Tweedleford," "my uncle, Lord
Charles Banbury Cross, &c." But that is her
only weakness, I believe; and, perhaps, it is
ungenerous to allude to it. Her husband is
in the Dragoons.

"Well, Mrs. Apsley, whither art thou
going? To pay visits?"

"No. I am going to Mrs. Ludlam's to
buy a new bonnet, and not before I want one
you will say."

"May I accompany you?"

"Yes, and assist me in making a choice."

There is not a cloud to be seen. The air
is soft and balmy. The wild flowers are in
full bloom, and the butterfly is on the wing,
The grasshopper is singing his ceaseless song,
and the bees are humming a chorus thereto.

We are now at Mrs. Ludlam's. The janpan
is placed upon the ground, and I assist
Mrs. Apsley to step from it.

Mrs. Ludlam is the milliner and dressmaker
of Upper India, and imports all her wares
direct from London and Paris. Everybody in
this part of the world knows Mrs. Ludlam,
and everybody likes her. She has by
industry, honesty of purpose, and economy,
amassed a little fortune; and has brought up
a large family in the most respectable and
unpretending style. Some people say that
she sometimes can afford to sell a poor
ensign's wife a bonnet, or a silk dress, at a
price which hardly pays. What I have
always admired in Mrs. Ludlam is that
she never importunes her customers to buy
her goods; nor does she puff their quality.

The bonnet is bought; likewise a neckscarf
for Jack. And we are now returning:
Mrs. Apsley to her home, and I to the club.
Mrs. Apsley invites me to dine with them;
but that is impossible. It is public night,
and I have two guests. One of them is
Jack, who does not belong to the club, because
Mary does not wish it.

Mrs. Apsley says she wants some pickles,
and we must go into Ford's shop to purchase
them. Ford sells everything; and he is a
wine, beer, and spirit merchant. You may
get anything at Ford's— guns, pistols, swords,
whips, hats, clothes, tea, sugar, tobacco.
What is this which Ford puts into my hand?
A raffle paper! "To be raffled for, a single-barrelled
rifle, by Purdy. The property of a
gentleman hard-up for money, and in great
difficulties. Twenty-five chances at one gold
mohur (one pound twelve shillings) each."

"Yes, put my name down for a chance,
Ford."

"And Captain Apsley's, please,' says the
lady.