So the days passed one by one. Some were worse and some were better. But Sita was always hungry for since her head was shaved she was only allowed to eat once a day and that only of the least pleasant kind of food. She was lonely too, for most of the children fled from her. But there was one girl called Tungi, who used to manage to speak to her sometimes. Tungi was a little wife, but she had not yet gone to stay with her husband. He was in school, and he had sent word that his wife must go to school too, till they were both older, because he wished her to be able to sing and to read books and be happy with him when he spoke of the things he cared about. Tungi’s mother did not like this at all. She thought as very many people in India think that it is a bad thing for women to read and write; but Tungi was married, and, just as her mother would not have thought it right to save her from her husband if he had been ill-using her, so she did not think it right to refuse to let her go to school. Tungi was a bright girl and she quickly took in many of the lessons that were taught at school. One of these was that it would do her no harm to talk to a widow, so though she dared not let her mother see her talk to Sita, she used to sit by her whenever she could get a chance to do it without being seen. It was not a great thing for Tungi to do, for she loved to see the light steal into the frightened eyes; but if it was only another joy in Tungi’s full life it was like the gate of heaven to Sita. Even to catch a passing sight of Tungi made a day a red letter day for the little widow. Sita told Tungi all about what the woman at the well had said to her, and Tungi told her that many of those who were at school did not believe such things about widows. She told her too, that there was a better God than the ones who would treat a child as she was treated, and so she tried to comfort her little friend. Soon Tungi had to go back to school and nine months passed before the children met again. There had been a great contrast between them at the beginning of the nine months, but it was far greater at the end. Tungi’s eye was brighter. She had learned a great deal more, and life was interesting and glad to her. But poor Sita was sadder and more worn. Her husband’s family had used her worse and worse. They had almost forgotten that she could feel, and they treated her as if she had really killed her husband.