not know what they are seeking?  If he meets it, again becoming troubled he withdraws his eyes; can I not understand that?  For whose voice is he listening at meal-times when he pauses in the act of carrying food to his mouth? and when Kunda’s tones reach his ear, and he fastens to eat his meal, can one not understand that?  My beloved always had a gracious countenance; why is he now always so absent-minded?  If one speaks to him he does not hear, but gives an absent answer.  If, becoming angry, I say, ‘May I die?’ paying no attention he answers, ‘Yes.’  If I ask where his thoughts are, he says with his lawsuits; but I know they have no place in his mind; when he speaks of his lawsuits he is always merry.  Another point.  One day the old women of the neighbourhood were speaking of Kunda Nandini, pitying her young widowhood, her unprotected condition.  Your brother came up; from within I saw his eyes fill with tears; he turned away and left them quickly.  The other day I engaged a new servant; her name is Kumuda.  Sometimes the Babu calls Kumuda; when so doing he often slips out the name Kunda instead of Kumuda, then how confused he is—­why should he be confused?  I cannot say he is neglectful of me, or unaffectionate; rather he is more attentive than before, more affectionate.  The reason of this I fully understand:  he is conscious of fault towards me; but I know that I have no longer a place in his heart.  Attention is one thing, love quite another; the difference between these two we women can easily understand.

“There is another amusing matter.  A learned pandit in Calcutta, named Iswara Chandra Bidya Sagar, has published a book on the marriage of widows.  If he who would establish the custom of marrying widows is a pandit, then who can be called a dunce?  Just now, the Brahman Bhattacharjya bringing the book into the boita khana, there was a great discussion.

“After much talk in favour of widow-marriage, the Brahman, taking ten rupees from the Babu for the repairs of the Tote,[6] went his way.  On the following day Sharbabhoum Thakur replied on the same subject.  I had some golden bracelets made for his daughter’s wedding.  No one else was in favour of widow-marriage.

[Footnote 6:  The village school in which Sanscrit is taught.]

“I have taken up much time in wearying you with my sorrows.  Do I not know how vexed you will be? but what can I do, sister?  If I do not tell you my sorrows, to whom shall I tell them?  I have not said all yet, but hoping for some relief from you has calmed me a little.  Say nothing of this to anyone; above all, I conjure you, show not this letter to your husband.  Will you not come and see me? if you will come now your presence will heal many of my troubles.  Send me quickly news of your husband and of your child.

“SURJA MUKHI.

“P.S.—­Another word.  If I can get rid of this girl I may be happy once more; but how to get rid of her?  Can you take her?  Would you not fear to do so?”