too. But the third always filched everything away from Molly. So she had to take shelter behind the pillar of the gate whenever she had anything extra good to eat. Children have no nonsense about them. If they want to go to some one, they simply do so. A guava, pear or anything serves as an excuse, because they understand naturally that the desire is the really important thing and the excuse is nothing but an excuse. It is a more difficult world for the grownups. If we went near one another or talked to one another on the simple plea that we wanted to go or talk we should be set down as fools by the wise ones of the world. They have learnt that the mere wish is nothing, and the lamest of excuses is of greater importance.
But for all that, the two families did come to know each other, though not so soon and not so simply as Raju and Molly. The old gentleman even invited me once to dine with him. Since coming to this district he had scarcely seen the face of a fellow Bengali, so mine had some attraction for him. In the course of conversation, he told me that his second daughter was suffering from a serious disease. The doctors had nearly given her up, but still the parents had brought her here, hoping against hope that a change of climate might do something for her.
I tried to reassure him, holding up my mother's case as a great certificate for the re-invigorating power of the climate of the place. I do not know whether he found any comfort in my remarks, for the topic of his daughter's illness was soon dropped.
Molly's mother and eldest sister called on my mother once or twice, while Molly herself gradually became almost one of our family.
One day I had just finished my afternoon nap, when the postman brought in the letters. Molly was standing there, busy sharing a half-ripe guava with Raju. Suddenly she left it and flung herself upon the postman, crying, "Give, me a letter."
