When they came to part, Surja Mukhi was again drowned in tears.  She blessed Satish, saying—­

“I wish that thou mayst be rich in the imperishable virtues of thy mother’s brother; I know no greater blessing than this.”

Surja Mukhi spoke in her natural, gentle voice; nevertheless Kamal was astonished at its broken accents. “Bon!!” she exclaimed, “what is in your mind? tell me.”

“Nothing,” replied Surja.

“Do not hide it from me,” said Kamal.

“I have nothing to conceal,” said Surja.

Pacified, Kamal went to her room.  But Surja Mukhi had a purpose to conceal.  This Kamal learned in the morning.  At dawn she went to Surja Mukhi’s room in search of her; Surja Mukhi was not there, but upon the undisturbed bed there lay a letter.  At the sight of it Kamal became dizzy; she could not read it.  Without doing so she understood all, understood that Surja Mukhi had fled.  She had no desire to read the letter, but crushed it in her hand.  Striking her forehead, she sat down upon the bed, exclaiming:  “I am a fool! how could I allow myself to be put off last night when parting from her?”

Satish Babu, standing near, joined his tears with his mother’s.

The first passion of grief having spent itself, Kamal Mani opened and read the letter.  It was addressed to herself, and ran as follows: 

“On the day on which I heard from my husband’s mouth that he no longer had any pleasure in me, that for Kunda Nandini he was losing his senses or must die—­on that day I resolved, if I could find Kunda Nandini, to give her to my husband and to make him happy; and that when I had done so I would leave my home, for I am not able to endure to see my husband become Kunda Nandini’s.  Now I have done these things.

“I wished to have gone on the night of the wedding-day, but I had a desire to see my husband’s happiness, to give him which I had sacrificed myself; also, I desired to see you once more.  Now these desires are fulfilled, and I have left.

“When you receive this letter I shall be far distant.  My reason for not telling you beforehand is that you would not have allowed me to go.  Now I beg this boon from you, that you will make no search for me.  I have no hope that I shall ever see you again.  While Kunda Nandini remains I shall not return to this place, and should I be sought for I shall not be found.  I am now a poor wanderer.  In the garb of a beggar I shall go from place to place.  In begging I shall pass my life; who wilt know me?  I might have brought some money with me, but I was not willing.  I have left my husband—­would I take his money?