One would hardly find outside of England such faithful creatures
clinging to the fortunes of descending men. He was at the end of
life and in some fearful perplexity, but one felt there was
something stanch and sound in him.
I had no doubt that there, under my eye, was the hand that had
added the cramped word to my uncle's letter.
I stood now before the fire in the long, low room. The flames
and a tall candle at either end of the mantelpiece lit it up. I
was looking at the Buddha in the glass box. I could not imagine
a thing more out of note. Surely of all corners of the world
this wild moor of the West Highlands was the least suited to an
Oriental cult. The elements seemed under no control of Nature.
The land was windswept, and the sea came crying into the loch.
I suppose it was the mood of my queer experiences that set me at
this speculation.
One would expect to find some evidences of India in my uncle's
house. He had been a long time in Asia, on the fringes of the
English service. Toward the end he had been the Resident at the
court of an obscure Rajah in one of the Northwest Provinces. It
was on the edge of the Empire where it touches the little-known
Mongolian states south of the Gobi.
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