going back, Aunt?"

The aunt looked very much upset.

"What a question to ask!" said she, "I've never seen such a restless
body as you. We've only just come, and you ask when we're going back!"

"It is all very well for you," Hemangini said, "for this house belongs
to your near relations. But what about me? I tell you plainly I can't
stop here." And then she held my hand and said: "What do you think,
dear?"

I drew her to my heart, but said nothing. The aunt was in a great
difficulty. She felt the situation was getting beyond her control; so
she proposed that she and her niece should go out together to bathe.

"No! we two will go together," said Hemangini, clinging to me. The aunt
gave in, fearing opposition if she tried to drag her away.

Going down to the river Hemangini asked me: "Why don't you have
children?"

I was startled by her question, and answered: "How can I tell? My God
has not given me any. That is the reason."

"No! That's not the reason," said Hemangini quickly. "You must have
committed some sin. Look at my aunt. She is childless. It must be
because her heart has some wickedness. But what wickedness is in your
heart?"

The words hurt me. I have no solution to offer for the problem of evil.
I sighed deeply, and said in the silence of my soul: "My God! Thou
knowest the reason."

"Gracious goodness," cried Hemangini, "what are you sighing for? No one
ever takes me seriously."

And her laughter pealed across the river.

V

I found out after this that there were constant interruptions in my
husband's professional duties. He refused all calls from a distance, and
would hurry away from his patients, even when they were close at hand.

Formerly it was only during the mid-day meals and at night-time that he
could come into the inner apartment. But now, with unnecessary anxiety
for his aunt's comfort, he began to visit her at all hours of the day. I
knew at once that he had come to her room, when I heard her shouting for
Hemangini to bring in a glass of water. At first the girl would do what
she was told; but later on she refused altogether.

Then the aunt would call, in an endearing voice: "Hemo! Hemo!
Hemangini." But the girl would cling to me with an impulse of pity. A
sense of dread and sadness would keep her silent. Sometimes she would
shrink towards me like a hunted thing, who scarcely knew what was
coming.

About this time my brother came down from Calcutta to visit me. I knew
how keen