II
It was the last day of Pous. Surama was seated by her father's bed, nursing him; but whenever an opportunity came, her mind flew back to that desolate home of the Dutts. She was to have returned to Gopal that very day; but this, alas! was not to be. The fair at Sashipur was over. The charm of the music, the dream of a thousand lights, had vanished; the golden fetters which could keep Gopal chained to his village had burst. His vacant mind, free from its spells, sought to fly to his sister-in-law; it yearned for a nearer consciousness of her caress and reproof amid the details of daily life. But his young heart did not clearly know its hidden want. He was now angry with Surama, now pouting his lips at the thought of her neglect, and the cakes at his cousin's house had lost all their sweetness. It was too bad of her to break her word! Why hadn't she come, even to-day? Really, that was too bad of her! It was too bad! He would not stand it! He would go and drag her home somehow or other. In a fit of anger, Gopal went to the length of composing a letter.
III
It was a morning in January. The court-yard of Surama's father's house was blazing in the sun. All the little children of the family were seated on the ledge of the kitchen with their backs to the sun, eating cakes and making a deafening noise. One little fellow, wrapped in a check shawl fastened at his neck with knots, had a stream of treacle trickling down his dress. Up the quilt of another a swarm of ants was marching, eager to join in the feast. One over-cautious youngster was carefully saving his best cakes to eat them at leisure; while another, more greedy, having quickly finished his own plate, was now leaning over his hands pressed on the floor like paws, wistfully contemplating the beautiful fullness of another's plate. For
