when their requests were accompanied by the wistful looks of the little ones. Ablebodied men of the poorer class, who were able to work for their living and support their families, used to beg that their children might be admitted. The preference had to be given to those who had lost a parent or whose father was incapacitated for work.
A fair-skinned boy of eight with a pair of pathetic grey eyes manifestly English was admitted on his own entreaty. One day he was found sitting on the steps of the chaplain's verandah just outside the study. How long he had been waiting there it was impossible to say.
'Who are you, my boy?' 'Pat.' 'Pat what?' 'Pat Campbell.' 'Where do you live?' 'In the bazaar.' 'Who is your father?' 'Father is drunk and mother is dead. Please, sir, can I go to the orphanage?' The request was accompanied by such a wistful look of entreaty that it was impossible to say no. On inquiry it turned out that the little boy's story was perfectly true. The old Scotch pensioner, to whom he owned his existence, was rarely sober. He was one of the tough old Englishmen who had survived the hardships of the Mutiny campaign. He had settled in the country and was devoted to fishing when he was sober. He left his children to the care of an old native woman who kept house for him. Pat and a younger brother were admitted to the orphanage to their great joy and comfort.
Another child, whose circumstances were somewhat similar, found a haven of refuge in the orphanage. When he arrived he was a miserable little bag of bones with unkempt hair and grimy skin. After a few weeks in the school he picked up flesh and grew bright and happy. One day his father arrived at the school with a request that his son might be allowed to spend a few days at home. Remembering the old times, the scanty meals,
