It was night.  In the ruined house Kunda Nandini sat by her father’s corpse.  She called “Father!” No one made reply.  At one moment Kunda thought her father slept, again that he was dead, but she could not bring that thought clearly into her mind.  At length she could no longer call, no longer think.  The fan still moved in her hand in the direction where her father’s once living body now lay dead.  At length she resolved that he slept, for if he were dead what would become of her?

After days and nights of watching amid such sorrow, sleep fell upon her.  In that exposed, bitterly cold house, the palm-leaf fan in her hand, Kunda Nandini rested her head upon her arm, more beauteous than the lotus-stalk, and slept; and in her sleep she saw a vision.  It seemed as if the night were bright and clear, the sky of a pure blue—­that glorious blue when the moon is encircled by a halo.  Kunda had never seen the halo so large as it seemed in her vision.  The light was splendid, and refreshing to the eyes.  But in the midst of that magnificent halo there was no moon; in its place Kunda saw the figure of a goddess of unparalleled brilliance.  It seemed as if this brilliant goddess-ruled halo left the upper sky and descended gradually lower, throwing out a thousand rays of light, until it stood over Kunda’s head.  Then she saw that the central beauty, crowned with golden hair, and decked with jewels, had the form of a woman.  The beautiful, compassionate face had a loving smile upon its lips.  Kunda recognized, with mingled joy and fear, in this compassionate being the features of her long-dead mother.  The shining, loving being, raising Kunda from the earth, took her into her bosom, and the orphan girl could for a long period do nought but utter the sweet word “Mother!”

Then the shining figure, kissing Kunda’s face, said to her:  “Child, thou hast suffered much, and I know thou hast yet more to suffer; thou so young, thy tender frame cannot endure such sorrow.  Therefore abide not here; leave the earth and come with me.”

Kunda seemed to reply:  “Whither shall I go?”

Then the mother, with uplifted finger indicating the shining constellations, answered, “There!”

Kunda seemed, in her dream, to gaze into the timeless, shoreless ocean of stars, and to say, “I have no strength; I cannot go so far.”

Hearing this, the mother’s kind and cheerful but somewhat grave face saddened, her brows knitted a little, as she said in grave, sweet tones: 

“Child, follow thy own will, but it would be well for thee to go with me.  The day will come when thou wilt gaze upon the stars, and long bitterly to go thither.  I will once more appear to thee; when, bowed to the dust with affliction, thou rememberest me, and weepest to come to me, I will return.  Then do thou come.  But now do thou, looking on the horizon, follow the design of my finger.  I will show thee two human figures.  These two beings are in this world the arbiters of thy destiny.  If possible, when thou meetest them turn away as from venomous snakes.  In their paths walk thou not.”