looked full at Messua, the woman who had been good to him, and whose life he had saved from the Man-Pack so long before.

She was older, and her hair was gray, but her eyes and her voice had not changed. Woman-like, she expected to find Mowgli where she had left him, and her eyes travelled upward in a puzzled way from his chest to his head, that touched the top of the door.

“My son,” she stammered; and then, sinking to his feet: “But it is no longer my son. It is a Godling of the Woods! Ahai!”

As he stood in the red light of the oil-lamp, strong, tall, and beautiful, his long black hair sweeping over his shoulders, the knife swinging at his neck, and his head crowned with a wreath of white jasmine, he might easily have been