As was only to be expected, Miss Baker had brought a photographic outfit with her to the Zenana Mission camp. Flint came across her next evening endeavouring to snap a little bevy of "famine wallahs," new arrivals, squatting with their cooking vessels till their turn for attention should come. There seemed to be no extreme cases among them, and though all were obviously weary, in need of food, none were too exhausted to exhibit lively alarm at sight of the Feringhee woman who waved her hands and pointed her black box at them. They hid their faces, turned their backs, jabbered expostulations, finally rose and scattered like so many frightened fowls, leaving their utensils behind them.

Philip halted, just for a moment. He was in a hurry, on his way to take over a large consignment of incoming supplies.

"Illustrations for a book, I suppose?" he said, smiling at her annoyance with the fleeing little crowd; of course she was ignorant of the belief among the rustic population that when a picture is taken a portion of the spirit goes with it, causing calamity. "Take photographs when they're not looking," he advised.

She turned the camera on to him. "Let me take you. At any rate you can stand still, I imagine. I must take something. I don't know how many plates I haven't wasted over these people. What on earth is the matter with them?"

"I can't stop to explain or to stand still at present. A lot of stuff is arriving and I must go and receive it."

"Come and have tea with us to-morrow, and I'll take you then. Miss Abigail told me to ask you, if you came along. She's over there."

Miss Baker indicated a temporary enclosure in the near distance, where he could see a short, substantial figure trundling about amidst a gathering of women and children.

"Thanks, I'd like to come. I ought to have paid my respects before now." He cantered off, leaving Miss Baker preparing to photograph the abandoned pots and pans.

When the time came for him to fulfil the engagement for the following afternoon he was surprised to realise how eagerly he had looked forward to it. Work and anxiety had slackened a little with the arrival of fresh supplies, and he felt almost light-hearted as he bathed and got into clean flannels; for the first time since he had left Rassih he caught himself singing in his bath. He walked the good half-mile that lay between his own encampment and that of the Zenana Mission lady, Jacob at his heels, well groomed like his master; they were a good-looking English pair.

Miss Baker was outside the living tent photographing Laban, the native Bible teacher, who posed in mingled pride and uneasiness—proud to be taken in his black alpaca coat and pork-pie cap, a shiny-bound Testament in one hand, a bulging umbrella in the other; uneasy because deep down in his mind, for all his enlightenment, there lurked the same fear that had brought about the flight of the famine wallahs.

"One minute," Miss Baker called out to the approaching visitor; a click, and she raised her head triumphantly. "Thank you, Mr. Laban. That ought to be very good. You shall have some copies to send to your home, and I'll put your picture in my book."

"Mr. Laban" salaamed, and withdrew hurriedly. Then it was Flint's turn. He submitted while Miss Baker took him seated, standing, with Jacob, without Jacob; she fetched a larger camera from her own tent, and talked of head-and-shoulders, profile, full, and three-quarter face portraits. She commanded him to take off his hat.

"But I shall get sunstroke, and you would have to nurse me," he quibbled, rather bored with the performance, though Miss Baker's engrossment amused him, and she was a pleasant vision in her blue linen frock, a bright flush on her cheeks, her ruddy hair curling about her neck and ears and forehead beneath what might have been a boy's straw hat.

"Oh! Miss Abigail would do that!" she assured him. "I hate nursing. I know nothing about it. Come into the shade of the trees behind the tents."

The little camp was pitched close to a couple of mango trees, probably the sole survivors of a once flourishing grove, but as the space surrounding their trunks had been appropriated by the servants as an open-air kitchen, shared by the shigram bullocks, a goat and her kids, a collection of fowls, and a few sprawling children, Flint hesitated, compromised.

"Why not the big peepul tree further back?" he suggested.

The tree in question stood solitary and majestic between the camp and the adjacent village, a landmark in the wide flatness, mightier, far more ancient than the mango trees. No doubt it had once shaded a temple long since ruined and decayed.

"But it's such a way off," objected Miss Baker. "We'd better have tea first. The light will be better afterwards, too."

Miss Abigail settled the question for the moment. She emerged from the living tent, a stout, ungainly body, grey-haired, middle-aged, browned by exposure and innumerable hot weathers. But there was character in the blunt, homely features, courage in the small light eyes; a woman to be trusted and esteemed in spite of her unfortunate appearance. Philip liked her instinctively. She reminded him of a cottage loaf, rather overbaked, all knobs and crusty protuberances, spreading and wholesome.

Miss Baker introduced them with a proprietary air that included them both, and they entered the tent where tea was laid carelessly on an unsteady camp table. The spout of the teapot was broken, the plates were all chips and cracks, there was a pat of Danish butter, goat's milk, some slabs of thick toast, and a tin of jam roughly opened with some blunt implement.

He glanced at Miss Baker, saw her nose wrinkle ever so slightly, as though in suppressed distaste. Was she contrasting the spectacle with afternoon tea in "the sort of palace" in London, and "the place in the country"?

Nevertheless, it was a cheerful little meal. They laughed and talked. Flint described to Miss Abigail the scene he had witnessed the previous evening when the "famine wallahs" had refused to be photographed. He explained the reason to Miss Baker, who said it was, of course, the fault of the Government that such silly ideas should still be general. The people should have been educated out of them by this time.

"What about the freedom of the individual?" he inquired. "Why should they be photographed if they dislike it, for whatever reason?"

"That's a smack at me, I suppose," said Miss Baker huffily.

"Not a very hard smack, any way." He looked at her with a friendly smile, and, mollified, she smiled back at him. It turned out that Miss Abigail knew the Beards at Rassih, though she had seen nothing of them for years. She asked many questions about them and their work, few of which Flint was able to answer, indeed he could hardly remember what the Beards were like. They talked "shop," discussed the works, and the shelters, and the hospital, agreed how lucky it was that the well in the village was holding out satisfactorily so far; Miss Abigail was certain she had seen a small cloud in the distance that morning, and was confident that if they all prayed hard enough rain would fall within a reasonable time. Flint said politely that he hoped so indeed; Miss Baker tried not to look scornful.

Between them they emptied the teapot and finished the toast; and Miss Baker observed that if Mr. Flint insisted on being photographed under the peepul tree they had better be up and doing. Miss Abigail was persuaded to accompany them, though she openly grudged the time, and they plodded through the dust of the rough road that led past the camp, and the great tree, on to the village beyond.

"I hate peepul trees," said Miss Abigail, with an odd little shudder; "the leaves never seem to be still, even when there is hardly a breath of wind to stir them. Look at them, hark at them now!"

The flat spade-shaped leaves trembled in the sultry evening heat; the faint, continuous rustle sounded like whispering voices. No wonder Philip reflected that spirits were believed by the people to dwell in the branches. Miss Abigail glanced disgustedly at the rough, time-worn stones scattered about its roots; some bore traces of carving, unmistakable figures of idols, others showed sacred symbols, defaced, indistinct, all remnants of a former shrine or temple. Bits of rag had been hung by some passing worshipper to the lower twigs of the tree; it looked, as Miss Baker remarked, as though someone had flown through the branches, leaving scraps of their clothing behind them.

"The rags are hung there as a protection against evil spirits," said Flint; "all the superstitions connected with the peepul tree would fill a good-sized volume. Look at that bit of thread wound round the trunk; somebody has lately been propitiating the tree by walking round it and winding the thread as they went. The peepul is the home of the Hindu Trinity, as well as of mischievous devils!"

"There's a nasty atmosphere of idolatry that doesn't suit me at all," proclaimed Miss Abigail. "It's high time a Christian was buried here to counteract all the wickedness this horrid old tree must have witnessed in its time!" She smiled at her own little pleasantry.

Philip laughed. "And then the grave would become a sort of shrine in its turn, and the people would make offerings to it, and hang more rags than ever in the branches above it!"

Miss Baker turned to Miss Abigail. "But you wouldn't like to be buried here, would you?" she inquired, aghast.

"I don't care where I am buried when my time comes, but here for choice if I thought it would do any good." Miss Abigail dived into a capacious pocket, pulled out a pair of folding scissors, and calmly proceeded to cut the thread that encircled the tree trunk. "There! That's my protest against the devil and all his bad works."

To the embarrassment of her companions she then knelt down on the roots and in a loud voice said a vigorous prayer. What a curious contrast she presented to her surroundings—an almost grotesque figure in an attitude of supplication with her dust-coloured gown flowing about her, and an unlovely sun hat on the back of her head. Jacob sniffed at the soles of her boots that protruded from beneath her skirts. The prayer finished, she rose without a trace of self-consciousness, brushed the dust from her knees, and requested Miss Baker to make haste over the photography as her help would soon be needed in the camp with the evening work. Then she stumped off towards the tents.

"Did you ever!" exclaimed Miss Baker, looking after the retreating figure. "Now I suppose something awful will happen to us all. I feel quite nervous. Hark at the leaves. There really might be something moving about in the branches!"

"Shall we hang up a piece of rag?" suggested Philip chaffingly.

Half in earnest, she took out her handkerchief, a white wisp with a pretty coloured border.

"It's a pity to tear that," said Philip.

"A sacrifice!" she replied; and before he could stop her she had torn it in two. "Now, you hang up one bit and I'll hang up the other. What would Miss Abigail say! For goodness' sake don't tell her."

Laughing, they hitched the bits of cambric to the twigs above their heads, and Miss Baker picked up her camera.

"Now, then, take off your hat, and let's hope the spirits won't spoil my pictures."