breakfast. Then on until the shadows begin to lengthen, past the great grim fort of Jhansi; past Gwalior, set in the midst of leafy groves, on a plain dominated by a fort-crowned hill; past many a little nameless stronghold, whose narrow loopholes tell of the days of strife before peace settled upon the land. Last and best scene of all, in the misty sunset, a glimpse of a river, gleaming red far away to the point where its waters merge with the advancing darkness.
Presently the train steams past mighty battlemented walls, and pulls up in a station blazing with light and thronged with people. It is Agra, but you look in vain as you approach for a glimpse of the Taj. For Agra is bathed in white fog, which even the moonlight fails to pierce; it remains a picture of huge vague structures, with here and there a lamp shining warmly. And the cold grows more intense every hour, until at last, when you plunge into the long tunnel-like station at Tundla, where the fog lingers and the air is absolutely biting, you feel that this place is not the India you know; it is the Underground Railway on a November night.
From Tundla onwards the pace is slower, and there are frequent stoppages. You drowsily wonder whether the engine is affected by the still falling thermometer. By this time even the expedient of closing every window fails to exclude the all-pervading chilliness; even inanimate steel, you think, must feel the temperature. Finally,
