that hurt his own pride. As for me,—but what does it matter what I thought?
One day the Master mustered up courage to say in his most dulcet tones: ‘Damini, my little mother, do you think you will have a little time to spare this afternoon? If so’
‘No,’ said Damini.
‘Would you mind telling me why?’
‘I have to assist in making sweetmeats at the Nandi’s.’
‘Sweetmeats? What for?’
‘They have a wedding on.’
‘Is your assistance so indispensably?’
‘I promised to be there.’
Damini whisked out of the room without waiting for further questioning.
Satish, who was there with us, was dumbfounded. So many men of learning, wealth, and fame had surrendered at the feet of the Master, and this slip of a girl,—what gave her such hardihood of assurance?
Another evening Damini happened to be at home. The Master had addressed himself to some specially important topic. After his discourse had progressed awhile, something in our faces gave him pause. He found our attention
