The Puja was over, the day of full moon had come. At dawn the mother of Bhabatosh, a widow, went to bathe in the Ganges. The ghat lay a little distance from the village. A number of women from the adjoining villages thronged its steps that morning. The mother of Bhabatosh, as she came up from the stream, saw an old friend of her girlhood, the wife of Upendra Babu.
Greeting each other, the friends exchanged the usual enquiries, and then Upendra Babu's wife asked—"Is Bhabatosh at home?"
"He came, but his holiday is over and he will be returning to Calcutta."
Upendra Babu had a pretty little daughter, thirteen years old, named Pulina. She was unmarried.
Upendra Babu's wife said—"Sister, would it not be well if my Pulina and your Bhabatosh were to marry?"
The widow answered—"That has been my wish also this long time, sister;—but my son does not wish to marry. What can I do? How often have I tried to arrange a marriage for him and it has always fallen through."
"Well, try once more. Your son is grown, and if he marries you will have much happiness. Why won't he marry?"
