I'll soothe him in my arms, I'll kiss him into glorious manhood, I'll be a motherly wife unto him."
So reasoned Mánkore and so she vowed. The wedding ceremonies are over; the bridal party disperse; the bridegroom is carried into his room. An hour later the bride follows. All is hushed. With a light step Mánkore enters the magnificent apartment, mirrored all round, with the scented bedstead, its silk and satin trappings, its gold and silver posts, its lovely curtains. But she heeds not all these tinsel effects. The "life" of all this beauty is her lord, and he is—SNORING! There is no ecstasy of impatience on his part. He sleepeth the sleep of the innocent. Mánkore sees this and sighs. But her love for the miserable little fellow is supremely unselfish. She feasts her eyes on the object which, under other circumstances, she could not have too strongly loathed. She lays herself down gently on the floor. Oh, the horrors of this bridal night! "The water of despair extinguishes the fire of my love, but I'll venture." Gently she nears the bed, and looking around, all fearful, she touches his feet. They are so clammy! Then, overpowered by an undefinable feeling,
