"No, I wait for Mahala. Where can he be?" said Chola, running back into the courtyard. Mahala was there, busily washing out the inkstand which he always carried to school, while Shriya hung out of one of the _zenana_ windows talking to him. "I cleaned my inkstand yesterday, oh, tardy one!" exclaimed Chola. "Mine, too, is ready," said Mahala, giving it a final polish as he spoke. "Now we will be off." To-day was the great holiday for the children. It was the festival of Sarasvati, the Hindu Goddess of Learning, who is supposed to be the especial guardian of children. The boys were going to the temple to lay their inkstands before the queer image of the Goddess of Learning, as was the custom on this holiday festival. "Thou art not keeping the holiday," called out Nao, looking up at Shriya. "No, indeed," answered the little girl, shaking her head. "I do not want to be a widow some day; and the grandmother says this is what would happen if I should read books and learn to write while I'm little." The boys laughed; and then ran out to join the crowd of little boys, who were making their way toward the temples, all dressed in bright yellow in honour of the day, some carrying their inkstands stuck in their belts, others swinging them in their hands. "What shall we do to amuse ourselves?" asked Mahala, after they had dutifully laid their inkstands before the queer image of Sarasvati. "I know," answered Chola. "We will find the potter and beg a bit of clay from him. It will be fun to make some toys for ourselves." The boys turned down a street; and there, under a big tree on the river-bank, the potter was at work with piles of damp clay around him. As usual, a lot of children were gathered about him. They loved to watch him take the clay and put it on a revolving wooden wheel before him and mould dishes and jugs and bowls of all sorts and shapes. Each neighbourhood has a potter whose business it is to make the ware for that village; and he does a good trade, for it is the custom among many of the people to throw away their dishes after each meal. This of course means that they must have new ones all the time. "Eh! well, thou wouldst have clay for thy toys?" said the gray-bearded old potter, when the boys explained what they wanted. "Here it is then," he said, good-naturedly, and gave them each a lump of the wet clay. Carrying their treasure carefully the boys hurried back to Chola's garden. Shriya was there in a shady nook, swinging Chola's baby brother gently as he lay in his cradle. His cradle was a kind of little hammock, swung between two bamboo supports, and, as Shriya swayed it gently backward and forward, she was singing: "Here is a handful of white rice, Here is a bit of sweet, Here is a tamarind ripe and nice, A curry for thee and me." "The little one is fretful. He is not well; and it may be that he has a fever, the mother fears," said Shriya, stopping her song as the boys came up.