tears. Kiran’s eyes were also brimming over. She was filled with remorse at the thought that she had created a tie of affection, which could not be permanent.
But Satish was much annoyed at the blubbering of this overgrown boy. “Why does the fool stand there howling instead of speaking?” said he. When Kiran scolded him for an unfeeling creature, he replied: “My dear sister, you do not understand. You are too good and trustful. This fellow turns up from the Lord knows where, and is treated like a king. Naturally the tiger has no wish to become a mouse again. And he has evidently discovered that there is nothing like a tear or two to soften your heart.”
Nilkanta hurriedly left the spot. He felt he would like to be a knife to cut Satish to pieces; a needle to pierce him through and through; a fire to burn him to ashes. But Satish was not even scared. It was only his own heart that bled and bled.
Satish had brought with him from Calcutta a grand inkstand. The inkpot was set in a mother-of-pearl boat drawn by a German-silver goose supporting a penholder. It was a great favourite of his, and he cleaned it carefully every day with an old silk handkerchief. Kiran would laugh, and tapping the silver bird’s beak would say —
