On the evening of that day, Kunda was sitting near the talao[9] in the middle of the garden.  The talao was broad; its water pure and always blue.  The reader will remember that behind this talao was a flower-garden, in the midst of which stood a white marble house covered with creepers.  In front, a flight of steps led down to the water.  The steps were built of brick to resemble stone, very broad and clean.  On either side grew an aged bakul tree.  Beneath these trees sat Kunda Nandini, alone in the darkening evening, gazing at the reflection of the sky and stars in the clear water.  Here and there lotus flowers could be dimly seen.  On the other three sides of the talao, mango, jak, plum, orange, lichi, cocoanut, kul, bel, and other fruit-trees grew thickly in rows, looking in the darkness like a wall with an uneven top.  Occasionally the harsh voice of a bird in the branches broke the silence.  The cool wind blowing over the talao caused the water slightly to wet the lotus flowers, gave the reflected sky an appearance of trembling, and murmured in the leaves above Kunda Nandini’s head.  The scent of the flowers of the bakul tree pervaded the air, mingled with that of jasmine and other blossoms.  Everywhere fireflies flew in the darkness over the clear water, dancing, sparkling, becoming extinguished.  Flying foxes talked to each other; jackals howled to keep off other animals.  A few clouds having lost their way wandered over the sky; one or two stars fell as though overwhelmed with grief.  Kunda Nandini sat brooding over her troubles.  Thus ran her thoughts:  “All my family is gone.  My mother, my brother, my father, all died.  Why did I not die?  If I could not die, why did I come here?  Does the good man become a star when he dies?” Kunda no longer remembered the vision she had seen on the night of her father’s death.  It did not recur to her mind even now.  Only a faint memory of the scene came to her with the idea that, since she had seen her mother in vision, that mother must have become a star.  So she asked herself:  “Do the good become stars after death? and if so, are all I loved become stars?  Then which are they among those hosts? how can I determine?  Can they see me—­I who have wept so much?  Let them go, I will think of them no more.  It makes me weep; what is the use of weeping?  Is it my fate to weep?  If not, my mother—­again these thoughts! let them go.  Would it not be well to die?  How to do it?  Shall I drown myself?  Should I become a star if I did that?  Should I see?  Should I see every day—­whom?  Can I not say whom? why can I not pronounce the name? there is no one here who could hear it.  Shall I please myself by uttering it for once? only in thought can I say it—­Nagendra, my Nagendra!  Oh, what do I say? my Nagendra!  What am I?  Surja Mukhi’s Nagendra.  How often have I uttered this name, and what is the use?  If he could have married me instead of Surja Mukhi!