And then there was the ever-haunting fear about his two desolate, helpless children--were they well or ill, alive or dead? He was seventy-six miles from his own pergunnah--no one ever visited him with tidings from home, no one came to see him, and brought him bazaar news, and sweets, a tin pot to drink from, or even a bit of a wheaten chupatti. No, he had no friends, either within the jail, or beyond its walls. CHAPTER III. Meanwhile the desolate little couple had toiled painfully back to Paroor, and halted outside their uncle’s enclosure. They dared not venture in, and they crouched timidly without the battered wooden doorway, whilst Zālim Sing laid down the law, expounded his own virtues, and denounced Chūnnee to more than half the village. He had always been secretly jealous of his good-looking brother, who, moreover, was the father of a son, whilst his wife had borne him, instead of the much-desired heir, no fewer than seven daughters, of whom four survived; and Zālim’s enemies said among themselves that his sins must be many, or he would never have been punished with seven girls! He talked freely, knowing there was no one to defend the absent, and the starving pair heard that their father was a liar, a dacoit, a budmash, a thief, and the most ungrateful kinsman to a noble-hearted brother that ever drew the breath of life--one cannot talk for ever; and as the listeners gradually dropped off, notice was naturally attracted by the two wretched little beggars in the lane--what was to become of them?--their home was empty, save for a reaping-hook, a charpoy, and a cat. Zālim Sing pulled his beard, and scowled; his crooked eye rolled fiercely, till a woman in the crowd exclaimed in a loud clear voice-- “Since thou sayest thou art a benevolent man, and the most generous of kinsmen, why dost thou stare at the starving ones, instead of taking them in?” Their dusty feet and hunger-stricken faces touched the crowd--as easily swayed as the branch of a tree to this side and that, by whatever wind may blow. There was a hoarse murmur, which the crafty Zālim quickly interpreted; now was the time to pose as a noble benefactor--or never; and he drew the two children over the threshold of the door, and shut himself in with his detested encumbrances. He gave them some coarse food and water, and showed them a sort of shed where they might sleep. “But thou mayst not enter my house,” he said, “or play with my children; thy father is a wicked man, therefore ye are pariahs, but I and my children are good.”