In his hovel there were his children--Girunda, a boy aged ten, and Gyannia, a girl of four. There was also a mat, an old charpoy, a reaping-hook, a couple of earthen pots, and a white cat. This was all that Chūnnee possessed in the wide world. It might have sufficed, had he had wisdom like his brother; but, alas! he had no brains. There he sat, on the kunker heap, that glaring February afternoon. The land was still covered with cane crops; the barley was green, and in the ear; dry leaves were whirling along the road; the banka tree was dropping red flowers from its grey, leafless branches; the mango tree was in blossom. Yes, the hot weather, the time of parching and scarcity, would be on them soon. Suddenly he heard a rattling, and felt a cloud of warm yellow dust. It was his brother’s ekka. Zālim Sing and a friend tore past at a gallop, and scarcely noticed the coolie on the side of the road, beyond a hoarse laugh of derision. Why had fortune been kind to one brother and cruel to another? Why had his cows died?--his wife been bitten by a “karite” as she cut vetches, and expired at sundown in agonies? Ah, Junia was a loss--nigh as great as the cows. She cooked, and minded the children; she earned one anna a day for reaping; she was fortunate to die young; she had never lived to know hunger. Why had some people stores and treasures, to whom they were of no use, whilst others lacked a morsel to keep them from perishing? Chūnnee sat for half an hour with his arms loosely folded on his breast, and pondered this question in his heart. Presently he arose, and picked up his basket, and took the path towards his village, where its brown mud walls and straw roofs stood out in strong relief against a noble tope of mango trees; but these mangoes were the property of the sirkar (government). Many an envious eye had been cast on them and their fine yearly harvests. Despite bazaar rumours about scarcity, it was surely what is called a bunnia’s famine; for this hungry, handsome Rajpoot, with the form and sinews of some Greek god, made his way homewards between marvellous crops at either side of the well-beaten path. The self-same rich land was yielding gram, rape, linseed; whilst barley towered high above all. Where else will the earth yield four harvests with little manure or care? But not an inch of this fertile soil called Chūnnee master! And what to him was all this fertility? As he strode along, a fierce temptation kept pace with his steps, and whispered eagerly in his ear--