fell on the water I felt a longing to hold it fast in my stones," says the Ghât; "such rare loveliness it had." And when her anklets clinked the weeds and ferns were delighted. As for the river—there was some peculiar understanding between her heart and its tide. She loved the water like another self. But a day came when Kusum did not appear at the water-side, and her playmates did not ring changes on her name—Kusi, Rakkusi, Khushi. The Ghât understood from them that she had become a child-bride and been taken away to her father-in-law's house, as the custom is. There was no Ganges there; the people were strangers, and everything was strange—the houses, the very road before the door, everything. It was as if they had taken a water-lotus and tried to make it grow on dry land. A year went, and Kusum returned, still a mere child, but a widow. Her old playmates were gone; but when she sat crouched down on the steps of the Ghât, her knees up to her chin, it seemed to her that the river-ripples held up girlish hands and called to her, Kusi, Rakkusi!
Time went on—eight, ten years, and the full beauty of youth and young womanhood
