“Well, doctor, is there no medicine for that disease?”

“Certainly there is:  keep her very warm; take this dose of castor-oil, give it to her early to-morrow morning.  Later I will come and give her another medicine.”

With the bottle of castor-oil in her hand, the old woman hobbled forth.  On the road she was met by a neighbour, who said, “Oh, Hira’s grandmother, what have you in your hand?”

The old woman answered, “Hira has become hysterical; the doctor has given me some castor-oil for her; do you think that will be good for hysterics?”

“It may be; castor-oil is the god of all.  But what has made your granddaughter so jolly lately?”

After much reflection the old woman said, “It is the fault of her age;” whereupon the neighbour prescribed a remedy, and they parted.

On arriving at home, the old woman remembered that the doctor had said Hira must be kept warm; therefore she placed a pan of fire before her granddaughter.

“Fire!” exclaimed Hira.  “What is this for?”

“The doctor told me to keep you warm,” replied the old woman.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A DARK HOUSE:  A DARK LIFE.

In the absence of Nagendra and Surja Mukhi from their spacious home, all was darkness therein.  The clerks sat in the office, and Kunda Nandini dwelt in the inner apartments with the poor relations.  But how can stars dispel the darkness of a moonless night?

In the corners hung spiders’ webs; in the rooms stood dust in heaps; pigeons built their nests in the cornices and sparrows in the beams.  Heaps of withered leaves lay rotting in the garden; weeds grew over the tanks; the flower-beds were hidden by jungle.  There were jackals in the court-yard, and rats in the granary; mould and fungus were everywhere to be seen; musk-rats and centipedes swarmed in the rooms; bats flew about night and day.  Nearly all Surja Mukhi’s pet birds had been eaten by cats; their soiled feathers lay scattered around.  The ducks had been killed by the jackals, the peacocks had flown into the woods; the cows had become emaciated, and no longer gave milk.  Nagendra’s dogs had no spirit left in them, they neither played nor barked; they were never let loose; some had died, some had gone mad, some had escaped.  The horses were diseased, or had become ill from want of work; the stables were littered with stubble, grass, and feathers.  The horses were sometimes fed, sometimes neglected.  The grooms were never to be found in the stables.  The cornice of the house was broken in places, as were the sashes, the shutters, and the railings.  The matting was soaked with rain; there was dust on the painted walls.  Over the bookcases were the dwellings of insects; straws from the sparrows’ nests on the glass of the chandeliers.  In the house there was no mistress, and without a mistress paradise itself would be a ruin.