Throwing off a deep sigh, I said—"How are you to blame for that? You didn't do it with intention; especially as the brother-in-law—when you asked him—"
"The brother-in-law was a boy. I was of the age of his father. If he made a mistake, had I the right to act upon it?"
"It was a very sorrowful matter"—I said—"but that you should blame yourself so severely is entirely wrong. A sin is measured not by its results, but by the intention of the doer."
Madan Babu said, in feeble tones—"I cannot console myself with that argument. I am responsible. If you had seen Prabodh's grief! He said they were five brothers and one sister. This one sister—so much beloved—of about 13 years, was the victim of this calamity. My own daughter was then thirteen. I went home and gave her in marriage, but I could not look her in the face. When I looked at her, the thought of the other maiden, whose happiness I had destroyed, clouded my mind."
The train slackened speed; we had arrived at Madhupur. What consolation could I offer to the old man? "Madan Gopal Babu"—I said—"it is in vain that you blame yourself. Life and death are in the hands of the Almighty, not in those of man. Do you not believe in our sacred writings?"
