Going back to the house a little later, I saw that Probha was lying on her bed. Her eyes were half closed, and she seemed to be in pain. She lay like a flower which has dropped on the dust at the end of the day.
Putting my hand on her forehead, I found that she was feverish. Her breath was hot, and her pulse was throbbing.
I realised that the poor child, feeling the first symptoms of fever, had come with her thirsty heart to get her father’s love and caresses, while he was trying to think of some stinging reply to send to the newspaper.
I sat beside her. The child, without speaking a word, took my hand between her two fever-heated palms, and laid it upon her forehead, lying quite still.
All the numbers of the Jahirgram and Ahirgram papers which I had in the house I burnt to ashes. I wrote no answer to the attack. Never had I felt such joy as I did, when I thus acknowledged defeat.
I had taken the child to my arms when her mother had died, and now, having cremated this rival of her mother, again I took her to my heart.
