How salt the falling tear, the joys how few."


"Nay, Saheb, I accept no money for my songs from you and your friend; for
you have taken a kindly interest in me and my past history, and have shewn
me the respect which my birth warrants, but which alas! my occupation hath
made forfeit in the eyes of the world. But,--if you have found satisfaction
in my singing, then write somewhat of me and of my Mimi to the paper, even
as you did of Imtiazan, that thus your people--the people who know not the
inner life of India may learn that I was not born amid the saringis and the
bells, and that I, the singer, hide within my heart a life-long regret."

[Illustration: Nur Jan.]

So she spake, seated on the clean white floor-cloth of the brightly-lighted
"diwankhana," like some delicate flower cradled on a crystal lake. We had
seen her once before at the house of an Indian friend, who had hospitably
invited a company to witness her songs and dances; we had heard her chant
the subtle melodies of Hindustan and even old English roundelays
for the special delectation of the English guests; we had remarked her
delicate hands, the great dark eyes, the dainty profile, the little ivory
feet, and above all the gentle voice and courteous bearing; and we realized
that Nur Jan had not been bred to this uncurtained life, but must once have
known the care, affection and the gentle training of a patrician home.

By what caprice of evil fortune had she come to this, hiring out her voice
and her nimble feet to enhance the pleasure of a chance entertainment, far
from her own people and from her northern Indian home? What secret lay in
the song of the frail maiden on the banks of the Jamna, in the earnest
request she made to us not to mention the name of dead Royalty before her