silent, but yet in harmony, with that cuckoo-strain. She saw the newly swollen mango buds, golden white, peeping out from masses of dark leaves, cool, sweet-scented; only the humming of the bees blending with the cuckoo-song. She saw on the banks of the tank Gobind Lâl’s flower garden, where flowers were blooming in clusters on clusters, thousands upon thousands, rows upon rows, on every bough, with every leaf-everywhere were flowers blooming: white, red, yellow, blue, small and large; in some the honey bee, in some the humble bee—all in harmony with that cuckoo-song. On the air their perfume came blending with that cuckoo-strain in sweetest harmony. And in that flowery wilderness, standing in the shade, Gobind Lâl himself. His dense black hair fell in ringlets on his splendid shoulders, beautiful as the champak flower, and exceeding the tree in beauty; a lovely flowering creeper swayed over that noble figure—how blent in unison! he, too, in sweetest harmony with that cuckoo-song. From an asoka tree the bird again called "kuhu!" Then Rohini descended the steps of the tank, and, reaching the lowest
