_Saralota sitting with a letter in her hand._ _Saralota._ Now, my dear love with an honest tongue is not come, and an elephant, as it were, is treading on the lotus-like heart. I have become hopeless amid very great hope. In expectation of the coming of the Lord of my life, I was waiting with greater disquietude of mind than the swallow (_chátak_) does when waiting for the drops of rain at the approaching rainy season. The way in which I was counting the days exactly corresponded with what my sister said, that each day appeared, as it were, a year, (_deep sigh_). The expectation as to the coming of my husband is now of no effect. The course of his life itself will prove successful, if the great action in which he is now engaged, can prove so. Oh, Lord of my life! We are born women, and cannot even go out to walk in the garden; we are unable to walk out in the city; can by no means form clubs for general good; we have no Colleges nor Courts, nor Brahma Samajs of our own; we have nothing of our own, to compose the mind, when it is once disturbed; and, moreover, we can never blame a woman when she feels any disquietude. O my Lord, we have only one to depend upon,—the husband is the object of the wife’s thought, of her understanding, her study, her acquisition, her meeting, her society; in short, this jewel—the husband—is all to a virtuous woman. O thou letter! thou art come from the hand of the dear object of my heart, I shall kiss thee, (_kisses it_); in thee is the name of my Lord; I shall hold thee on my burnt heart, (_keeps it on her breast_). Ah! how sweet are the words of my Lord; as often as I read it, my mind is more and more charmed (_reads_).