now live away from each other; but the wife is informed of her husband's rapid progress, physical and mental. Mánkore is "bursting" with youth and hope; she is already a moogdhá;[1] her season of leafage is over; her wise mother has already disclosed to her enraptured gaze the mysteries of wifehood. "Oh, dear, how I long to meet my lord. I am more eager for his company than is the pea-hen for raindrops. Indeed, indeed, I must be married, mother." And married she was.
Mánkore's heart died within her when, after all these years, she beheld her lord. Her fancy had pictured another form altogether. But she would not repine. She would consecrate her life to rendering his happy.
"He is little,he is ignorant, he is ugly; but is he not my wedded lord? I'll give him my own health, my own knowledge, my own beauty. Bhugwán[2] will help a virtuous wife. O Brahmá! O Shiva! O Vishnu! ye thirty-three crores of devás and devis, make me ugly and ignorant, and give the gifts ye have given to me to my dear lord. I'll cherish him in my heart,
