While in the sleeping—­chamber, bathed in a sea of joy, Nagendra and Surja Mukhi held loving converse, in another apartment of that same house a fatal dialogue was being held.  Before relating it, it is necessary to record what occurred on the previous night.  As we know, Nagendra had held no converse with Kunda Nandini on his return.  In her own room, with her head on the pillow, Kunda had wept the whole night, not the easy tears of girlhood, but from a mortal wound.  Whosoever in childhood has in all sincerity delivered the priceless treasure of her heart to any one, and has in exchange received only neglect, can imagine the piercing pain of that weeping.  “Why have I preserved my life,” she asked herself, “with the desire to see my husband?  Now what happiness remains to be hoped for?” With the dawn sleep came, and in that sleep, for the second time, a frightful vision.  The bright figure assuming the form of her mother, which she had seen four years before by her dead father’s bedside, now appeared above Kunda’s head; but this time it was not surrounded by a shining halo, it descended upon a dense cloud ready to fall in rain.  From the midst of the thick cloud another face smiled, while every now and then flashes of lightning broke forth.  Kunda perceived with alarm that the incessantly smiling face resembled that of Hira, while her mother’s compassionate countenance was very grave.  The mother said:  “Kunda, when I came before you did not listen, you did not come with me; now you see what trouble has befallen you.”  Kunda wept.  The mother continued:  “I told you I would come once more, and here I am.  If now you are satisfied with the joy that the world can give, come with me.”

“Take me with you, mother; I do not desire to stay here longer.”

The mother, much pleased, repeated, “Come, then!” and vanished from sight.

Kunda woke, and, remembering her vision, desired of the gods that this time her dream might be fulfilled.

At dawn, when Hira entered the room to wait upon Kunda, she perceived that the girl was crying.  Since the arrival of Kamal Mani, Hira had resumed a respectful demeanour towards Kunda, because she heard that Nagendra was returning.  As though in atonement for her past behaviour, Hira became even more obedient and affectionate than formerly.  Any one else would have easily penetrated this craftiness, but Kunda was unusually simple, and easily appeased.  She felt no suspicion of this new affection; she imagined Hira to be sour-tempered, but not unfaithful.  The woman said—­

“Why do you weep, Ma Thakurani?”

Kunda did not speak, but only looked at Hira, who saw that her eyes were swollen and the pillow soaked.

“What is this? you have been crying all night.  Has the Babu said anything to you?”

“Nothing,” said Kunda, sobbing with greater violence than before.

Hira’s heart swam with joy at the sight of Kunda’s distress.  With a melancholy face she asked—­