dirty place. The babel of many tongues broke on the ear afar off.

The neighbourhood was a notoriously bad one, so that the fighting and sickening sound of blows that usually ended these gatherings of convivial spirits excited no comment.

Even the deep groans from those who, wounded, lay helplessly for many hours gained no sympathy or succour of any kind.

Often, but in vain, in the hot, sulphurous nights Mah Khine had found her way there, and begged of the great coarse brute whom she called husband to return with her, but for a long time past she had ceased to plead, realising how useless it was.

And yet, strangely, with all his drunkenness and cruelty, the faithful soul refused to desert or even see him as he really was. He had been the chosen one of her girlhood, when she, young and pretty, had left her people to wed this stranger out of India.

They had deemed her disgraced by the union.

They had been well-to-do people, and would have married her to one of her own race.

Her life had held many bitter, unhappy years, but she was proud in her way, and from her lips no word or moan had ever passed.

Children had come and multiplied, and though the wants of such people are very few, often they had not the wherewithal to supply them.

But of late years things had been better, for Mah Khine, who had a keen eye for business, had made and saved a little unknown to every one except Mah May.

The money was kept buried away in a teak-wood box in a corner of their damp, worm-eaten house.

Mah Khine's cherished ambition, trader that she was, was to open a little shop, as many of her class did.

A little place filled with miscellaneous articles: pillows, lacquer boxes, wooden trays, crockery, pewter pans, some sandals, and perhaps, there was no knowing—that is, if she was lucky—some tameins and silk potsos for the men.

There behind it the proud possessor, she dreamt that she would sit and roll the cheroots and have her children by her, keeping an eye on the younger as they played.

This picture Mah Khine often painted to herself; it was her ideal of earthly bliss. She dreamt of it by day and night, but kept it locked up in her own heart.

Anything that she could spare from what she made by washing the clothes of her richer neighbours she put by so carefully, handling it so fondly, storing it so cautiously: grimy brown pice, little silver pieces, one or two soiled, crumpled notes, how often she looked at them and counted them and took them in her lean brown hands! She would start out of her sleep, fearing some one had stolen her treasure, that represented the scraping together of two hard, long years.

There was some little history attached to every coin.

She remembered how each one was gained, every circumstance of toil or sacrifice through which it was put by.

And not a soul knew, not a soul save Mah May and herself; Mah May she could trust. Mah May loved her, and was as honest and true as a little dog.

Mah Khine never left the box in the house with no one to mind it, for fear it should be taken, though for two years gone by it had rested securely and undisturbed in its hiding-place.

The knowledge of its existence, and what in the end it was to accomplish, leant a courage to her to bear with the blows, the sickness, and the abject poverty of her surroundings; it upheld her, it leant a brightness to her eyes, a lightness to her feet when they would have been otherwise pitifully weary. When she spoke there was oftentimes a strange ring of gladness in her voice; for Hope, that wonderful strengthener, dwelt with her.

So time went on, and it wanted but three months for the money to be complete. They had been rarely lucky.

Mah May had sold well every day. Mah Khine had had much to do. A great content abode with her. Even the morose, savage manner of her husband troubled her but little.

The children flew at his approach, and hid behind the mud hill close by, or their mother's ragged skirts, or anywhere they could, and she soothed and comforted the little trembling ones as she best could, and on her face was a happy smile.

"At last! at last!" she thought.

One warm, clear night, when the sky glittered with stars, and a young moon showed against it, Mah Khine made ready to take some silks that she had been washing home. She had promised them, for it was the eve of a great Buddhist feast. It was a long way for her to go, right across the town, but she did not mind. So she cleared up the remains of their evening rice, swept the floor with her straw besom, filled the water-chatty standing in the corner afresh, bade Mah May to watch carefully; and Mah May assured her, as she had often done before, that if any one was ever to find out their secret, the money they should never have, save they killed her first. So Mah Khine took up her bundle and went forth into the radiance of the night.

Mah May looked after her until she was out of sight, and then squatted down, smoking.

The hours went by; the lights were put out in the huts. Mah May felt very sleepy and tired where she sat, but she was good—she remained awake, staring out into space....

A tall, dark figure stood before her. It was Moulla Khan; he had not been home for two days. His eyes were blood-shot, his turban disarranged. He stood over her, and looked down at her. She trembled a little; she feared him greatly. She stirred uneasily, but nevertheless met his look without flinching.

He only uttered one word, and that in a voice which drink had rendered hoarse and thick.

"Money." He spoke in Hindustani.

"I have none," she answered him in the same tongue.

He gave a sort of gurgling laugh.

"Look you," he muttered, "I know there is money hidden somewhere—pice and annas and rupees—and I will have it; I know it, I tell you, I know it."

"There is none," the girl replied. She had risen; she had her back to the hole in the wall where the money was.

"Give it to me," he cried, in a voice of frantic rage.

"I do not know who has told you this thing," she said, "but it is not true."

She felt chilly with fright. She knew that, once his suspicion aroused, he would search till he found. She would be powerless to protect it. Tears dimmed the fond eyes of the child. She knew, none better, all the toil, privations, and hopes that lay in that poor little box.

Yet what could she do? She was so small and her strength so puny. If he searched he would find it; its hiding-place was not so secure as to be proof against those cruel fingers.

Though all Mah Khine's future lay there, she gave no sign of fear. She kept her ground boldly. He shook her savagely, when she stood. She was wondering who could have told him. She watched him with a dull, throbbing brain move unsteadily round the wretched room, groping by the light of the moon; feeling, feeling everywhere along the wall for holes; turning over all the things; then, with a muttered word or two, out he went on to the rafters, made of mud, behind, into a little piece of ground; but there was nothing, nothing anywhere. Her breath came a little quicker, a little more freely. Perhaps, after all—but, with a bound, he was by her side. He nearly wrenched her slender, childish wrists off. "It is there!" he cried in triumph.

She set her strong white teeth in his black arm; but with a brutal gesture he flung her light weight from him. She fell with a dull, heavy thud. He did not heed her for awhile, searching eagerly, thirstily, his eyes glittering with cruel greed.

At last he drew it forth triumphantly, the poor little shabby treasure-house, and took the money, letting some drop in his haste, hiding it with trembling, feverish hands in his white linen jacket.

Then he put the box back, and turned to Mah May. He looked; she was very still; he crept nearer and nearer, and his cowardly soul shrank within him. The moonbeams had found her out and fell upon her thin, upturned face. He peered round, he held his very breath; no one was stirring, there was silence everywhere. His dark, acquiline face was as cunning as that of any fox cub. He paused for a second or two. Then, as if a sudden thought struck him, he gathered her up hastily in his arms.

She was a little heavy, but he was strong.

The river, that was drifting outward to the ocean, and the moon were the only things that shared the secret of that night with him.

And they guard their secrets well.

"If Mah May wanted the money, I would have given it to her, for I loved her; she need not have left me," Mah Khine said, with a great sorrow and sense of desolate despair in her heart, and tears in her honest eyes, when Moulla Khan told his tale.

She never learnt different—she never will—unless, indeed, the day dawns when the sea shall give up its dead.

THE KING'S PALACE.

THE PETITION TO THE KING.

IN the reign of King Mindoon, who was the father of King Theebaw, a servant sent a petition to him in which he set forth that he had been his humble and faithful servitor before his accession to the throne, but now, although seven long years had gone by since then, he had remained forgotten and unnoticed. Continuing in this strain for a space, he ended with the following parable:—

In the Zita country there lived a King who had a son named Padoma, whom he sent to Thakada to be educated, and with him he sent a young attendant called Thomana.

For three years they stayed at Thakada, at the end of which period the Prince, having completed his studies, prepared to return home; on their way, travelling by easy stages, they paused at a small village situated in deep-wooded lands, where a great feast was being held. Hundreds of people had gathered there from all parts. A large tent was erected in one part, where a banquet was spread, to partake of which they humbly begged the Prince.

And he willingly accepted.

On the ground had been spread matting, on a part of which a gorgeously embroidered scarlet cloth with a golden fringe was put for the Prince, and a white one, less magnificently worked and with a silver fringe, for his friend and attendant Thomana.

When they had seated themselves, the rest of the company did likewise, remaining, however, at a distance, and separated by a cord.

Now Thomana was very learned in astrology, having read and thought deeply on that subject, and he knew as soon as he saw the Prince seat himself on the red cloth that he would become King upon that very day.

It was a brilliant assembly, every one clad in delicate silks of all hues, and glittering with jewels. The feast lasted long, it seemed, indeed, as if the constant succession of dishes was to be an endless one. All were in the best of spirits, and laughed and talked greatly.

When the Prince had finished his repast, he was shown into an inner tent, where a couch of the same royal colour had been placed, and in front was a slightly raised platform of bamboo, draped with violet and rose-pink satin, richly worked and lighted with lamps, that shed a subdued radiance round and about the little graceful figures of several dancing girls who had been bidden to dance for his royal highness.

Their dresses were so formed as to represent armour, and on their heads were similar coverings. They performed peculiar, dreamy, kind of movements, amidst a mist of varying hues. The Prince was much interested, and postponed retiring until late.

Thomana, having bidden his royal master good-night, felt disinclined for sleep, so, strolling into a park-like demesne that was adjacent, he seated himself under a large tree, whose branches spread for a considerable way, and became lost in thought.

It was a glorious night, with not a sound in the air save the soft whirr of some purpled-eyed or golden-winged insect as it floated by in the darkness. As he sat there musing on the events of the evening and the future of the Prince, two large leaves fell from above into his hand: one was old and withered, the other was fresh and green. "Ah," he murmured, as he looked at them, "in the same way as an old and a young leaf drops from the tree, so may a man full of years and one who is in the morning of life die at the same time."

In the midst of his meditations, which lasted long, he became a rahan,[3] and was taken from the garden to the Gandremadana Mountains. At the same time a chariot of pearl, drawn by four pure white horses with trappings of gold, was on its way to the Prince to carry him back, as his father had died that day. Following the chariot came four ministers and a train of Court officials, accompanied by soldiers.

[90]They awakened the sleeping Prince and acquainted him with their news. Then, when he was prepared, he stepped into the chariot that was waiting, and was borne with all speed to the palace, where he was proclaimed King the following day with the utmost pomp, ceremony, and rejoicings.

In his new life, and amidst his many duties and responsibilities, he entirely forgot the existence of his attendant, who had been his constant companion for three years; therefore his absence passed unrecorded and unnoticed; for what the King forgets the courtiers must never be unwise enough to remember.

At the end of thirty years, when the King was getting old, he remembered Thomana, and wondered greatly where he might be. Whereupon he immediately caused it to be made known throughout his dominions that he would give a lac of rupees to any one who should give him any news of his lost servant.

Now Thomana, owing to his great piety and powers of clairvoyance, became aware immediately of the fact that his old master had recollected him, and desired his presence. Therefore he went at once to the garden where he had been seated before he attained his rahanship so many years before. Close by the tree, under whose branches he had sat, were four shepherd boys, their flocks grazing near, while they themselves talked together of the big reward that the King had offered for news of his old servant.

Thomana, coming through the leafy aisles, heard them, and accosted them, declaring that he was the person whom the King desired. They rose and glanced at him doubtingly.

"Let two of you," he said, "go to the palace and tell His Majesty, that I await him here." To which they assented.

A short while passed, and then an