Since then, except for an interval in
the cabin to get our eyes bathed into decency, we have sat on deck
with aching heads, trying to read and write. At first the heat was
terrible. We drooped like candles in the sun, we wilted like flowers,
and G. gasped, "If all the voyage is going to be as hot as this, I'm
done." Limp and wretched, I agreed with her. Then we found we had put
our chairs against the kitchen, which is up on deck in this ship.
No wonder we were warm! We quickly found a cooler spot, and I have
been writing a long letter to Boggley to send off with the pilot.
Isn't he pure gold, my Boggley? I know that you too "think nobly of
the soul." He will be home in a year, and I am trying to tell myself
that a year isn't long. Well, the Indian trip is over, and I have a
lot, learned a few things, and made some friends--best of them my
faithful G. It is rather astonishing that I should have the joy of her
company home again. Many people, I am sure, expected she would remain
in India, but I think she took the precaution to leave her heart at
home, wise G. One thing you should be thankful for, there will be no
more letters. What a blessing people are nicer than their letters! How
good you have been about mine, how willing to take an interest in the
people I met, in the places I saw, in everything I told you about; and
when I was jocose, you pretended to be amused. Ah, well! Be cheerful,
sir, our revels now are ended!
And so I am going home, home to my own bleak kindly land, "place of
all weathers that end in rain.
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