slowly towards his home. The rain of the previous night, dripping from the boughs of the trees, soaked his clothing.
Gradually he reached the entrance gate. It was shut. On each side of it was a brick-built seat much broken from long neglect. On either side grew flowering shrubs now a mass of bloom.
Sitanath in a thin hoarse voice called out—"Nitai!" After the third call an answer was obtained from within—"Coming"—and Nitai rushing forward opened the gate. A glance at his master rendered him speechless with surprise. In one week's time Sitanath's appearance had become so greatly changed. No umbrella, no walking stick, no bag, and where had he got that tattered quilt from? Nitai could not make it out at all. He was of the weaver caste. A serving lad in his apprenticeship, he received no wages, only food and protection. Sitanath asked—"How are things going on, Nitai? Is the family well?"
"Quite well. But where is your stick, Sir, and your umbrella?"
The old man cast a piteous look upon Nitai, who said—"You have come back without them I think?"
Weeping, the aged man replied—"Yes, Nitai, they are gone."
