bits of wood.  It seemed as if she would never come to the surface, and when at length she did, she did not attempt to seize the rope thrown to her, but sank without a movement.  The truth flashed upon me in an instant.  She had struck her head against some of the floating drift and was unconscious!  Something must be done at once.  I seized the rope and sprang in after her, taking good care to avoid obstructions, and although, as you know, I never learned to swim, I succeeded in reaching her, and we were drawn up together.  I bore her in my arms into one of the storerooms close by, and, laying her upon a bale of cotton, used such restoratives as could be quickly procured.

I was kneeling by her, my arm under her neck, in the act of raising her head, when she opened her eyes, and fastened them, full of wonderment, upon my face.  A moment more, her memory returning to her, she made a little movement, as if to free herself.  I was too excited then to heed it, and continued to support her head.  She did not repeat the movement, but half closed her eyes and leaned back resignedly against my arm.  If, I thought, these few minutes could be expanded into an eternity, it would be my idea of heaven.  She was recovering rapidly now and soon raised herself into a sitting posture, saying, in very good English, “I think I can stand now, Sahib.”  I gave her my arm and assisted her to her feet.  Her hand closed upon my sleeve as if to see how wet it was, and glancing at my dripping garments, she said simply:  “You have been in the water, Sahib, and it is to you I owe my life.  I shall never forget your kindness.”  She raised her eyes to my face and met my gaze for a moment, as she spoke.  We are told that the eye is incapable of any expression save that lent it by the lids and brow,—­that the eyeball itself, apart from its direction, and the changes of the pupil resulting from variations in the intensity of light, can carry no message whatsoever.  This may be so, but, without any noticeable movement of the eyes that met mine, I learned with ineffable delight that this young girl’s soul and mine were threaded upon the same cord of destiny.  My emotion so overpowered me that I could not speak, and when my self-possession returned the young girl had vanished.

From the height of bliss I now plunged into the abyss of despair.  I had let her go without a word.  I did not even know her name.  I had caught her to myself from the ocean only to suffer her to drown herself among the half-million inhabitants of Bombay.  What must she think of me?  I asked the wharfinger if he knew her, but he had never seen her before.  All my other inquiries proved equally fruitless.  I wondered if she knew that I loved her, but hardly dared to hope she had been able to correctly interpret my boorish conduct.  I could think of but one thing to do.  If I did not know her name, neither did she know mine, and so if she desired a further acquaintance, she, like myself, must rely upon a chance meeting.  If she had detected my admiration for her she must know that I too would strive to meet her again.  Where would she be most likely to expect me to look for her?  Clearly at the same place we had met before, and at the same time of day.  She might naturally think my duties called me there daily at that hour.  I determined to be there at the same time the next day.