in successive order, like what is called a zoetrope, or wheel of life.  By cutting holes in the side, and arranging a mirror from Lady Meadowcroft’s dressing-bag, I completed my machine, so that, when it was turned round rapidly, one saw the procession actually taking place as if the figures were moving.  The thing, in short, made a living picture like a cinematograph.  A mountain stream ran past the monastery, and supplied it with water.  I had a second inspiration.  I was always mechanical.  I fixed a water-wheel in the stream, where it made a petty cataract, and connected it by means of a small crank with the barrel of photographs.  My zoetrope thus worked off itself, and piled up Karma for all the village whether anyone happened to be looking at it or not.

The monks, who were really excellent fellows when not engaged in cutting throats in the interest of the faith, regarded this device as a great and glorious religious invention.  They went down on their knees to it, and were profoundly respectful.  They also bowed to me so deeply, when I first exhibited it, that I began to be puffed up with spiritual pride.  Lady Meadowcroft recalled me to my better self by murmuring, with a sigh:  “I suppose we really can’t draw a line now; but it does seem to me like encouraging idolatry!”

“Purely mechanical encouragement,” I answered, gazing at my handicraft with an inventor’s pardonable pride.  “You see, it is the turning itself that does good, not any prayers attached to it.  I divert the idolatry from human worshippers to an unconscious stream—­which must surely be meritorious.”  Then I thought of the mystic sentence, “Aum, mani, padme, hum.”  “What a pity it is,” I cried, “I couldn’t make them a phonograph to repeat their mantra!  If I could, they might fulfil all their religious duties together by machinery!”

Hilda reflected a second.  “There is a great future,” she said at last, “for the man who first introduces smoke-jacks into Tibet!  Every household will buy one, as an automatic means of acquiring Karma.”

“Don’t publish that idea in England!” I exclaimed, hastily—­“if ever we get there.  As sure as you do, somebody will see in it an opening for British trade; and we shall spend twenty millions on conquering Tibet, in the interests of civilisation and a smoke-jack syndicate.”

How long we might have stopped at the monastery I cannot say, had it not been for the intervention of an unexpected episode which occurred just a week after our first arrival.  We were comfortable enough in a rough way, with our Ghoorka cook to prepare our food for us, and our bearers to wait; but to the end I never felt quite sure of our hosts, who, after all, were entertaining us under false pretences.  We had told them, truly enough, that Buddhist missionaries had now penetrated to England; and though they had not the slightest conception where England might be, and knew not the name of Madame Blavatsky, this news