I was now as hungry to learn as I once was for food, and was soon changed from one class to another. I could not help learning for it was a delight to me. On entering the school I was put in a class studying English, and I gave my whole mind to learning this language, and the munshi who taught this class, seeing me so interested, allowed me to study with him out of school hours. Each new word and idea gave me extreme pleasure. I was very busy with my lessons, caring little for the simple sports of the boys. Yet busy as I was, often at night and often when I was sitting under the big tree my thoughts went back to the two upper rooms in that little court. It all seemed like a dream, and yet so real. I always commenced with those rupees, poured into the dear mama’s lap. I could not go beyond their clinking sound, for at that moment my conscious life was born. I saw the white sahib standing there, the pitiful face of the mama, the tears running down her cheeks. I saw her clinging to his feet and him rushing from the room, and heard again her wailing cries. How well I recalled her sitting day after day, from week to week, peering with those large eyes toward the west; how the two men carried her away, so far away that she never returned. The grief I then experienced always came to me whenever I thought of her. Then followed the thoughts of that desperate poverty, the fearful zemindar, our wanderings, the scene at the death of the new mama, and always the good old faqir came in for a grateful thought. The little sister—was she ever left out? Never. That little face, radiant with smiles and the mama’s eyes, my joy, my all, how could I forget her? Recalling these chapters of my life always gave me pain instead of pleasure, yet they would be remembered. If we could blot out all the pain and follies of the past and retain only the good and pleasant, what happy mortals should we be! But memory is eternal.