from left to right, lazily at first, then with increased interest, and finally in that absorbed effort of continued comprehension which constitutes real study.  Page after page, syllogism after syllogism, conclusion after conclusion, I followed for the hundredth time in the book I love well—­the book of him that would destroy the religion I believe, but whose brilliant failure is one of the grandest efforts of the purely human mind.  I finished a chapter and, in thought still, but conscious again of life, I looked up.  They were still down there by the well, those two, but while I looked the old priest, bent and white, came out of the little temple where he had been sprinkling his image of Vishnu, and dropped his aged limbs from one step to the other painfully, steadying his uncertain descent with a stick.  He went to the beautiful couple seated on the edge of the well, built of mud and sun-dried bricks, and he seemed to speak to Isaacs, I watched, and became interested in the question whether Isaacs would give him a two-anna bit or a copper, and whether I could distinguish with the naked eye at that distance between the silver and the baser metal.  Curious, thought I, how odd little trifles will absorb the attention.  The interview which was to lead to the expected act of charity seemed to be lasting a long time.

Suddenly Isaacs turned and called to me; his high, distinct tones seeming to gather volume from the hollow of the well.  He was calling me to join them.  I rose, rather reluctantly, from my books and moved through the trees to where they were.

“Griggs,” Isaacs called out before I had reached him, “here is an old fellow who knows something.  I really believe he is something of a yogi.”

“What ridiculous nonsense,” I said impatiently, “who ever heard of a yogi living in a temple and feeding on the fat of the land in the way all these men do?  Is that all you wanted?” Miss Westonhaugh, peering down into the depths of the well, laughed gaily.

“I told you so!  Never try to make Mr. Griggs swallow that kind of thing.  Besides, he is a ‘cynic’ you know.”

“As far as personal appearance goes, Miss Westonhaugh, I think your friend the Brahmin there stands more chance of being taken for a philosopher of that school.  He really does not look particularly well fed, in spite of the riches I thought he possessed.”  He was a strange-looking old man, with a white beard and a small badly-rolled pugree.  His black eyes were filmy and disagreeable to look at.  I addressed him in Hindustani, and told him what Isaacs said, that he thought he was a yogi.  The old fellow did not look at me, nor did the bleared eyes give any sign of intelligence.  Nevertheless he answered my question.

“Of what avail that I do wonders for you who believe not?” he asked, and his voice sounded cracked and far off.

“It will avail thee several coins, friend,” I answered, “both rupees and pais.  Reflect that there may be bucksheesh in store for thee, and do a miracle.”