Oman sat silent on the floor, looking on with rising emotions. It was such an unspeakable luxury to watch her, low-caste and poverty-stricken as she was, moving about in the one-roomed hut which was none too tidy in its simple arrangements, that he could not be ashamed of his beggary. The meal was soon ready; but, before he ate, the wanderer, suddenly realizing what his appearance must be, took occasion to make use of some of the contents of the water-jar for his face and hands. The girl brought him a piece of cloth on which he dried himself; and, when he turned to the fire again, she cried out: “Why! Thou art beautiful! And—ah! You are not an outcast!” And, leaning over, she laid her hand on the Brahman cord still fastened over his left shoulder. Oman looked at it—and flushed. He had a momentary impulse to tear the thong away. But the impulse passed, and it was not done. His father had not removed it. Why should he? So, without answering the girl’s exclamatory question, he turned again to the fire, and she, with great forbearance, refrained from pursuing the subject. It was a pleasant meal,—the pleasantest, perhaps, that Oman had ever known. The girl, who gave her name as Poussa, chattered to him unrestrainedly:—of her life; of her brother-in-law, who took most of her wages, and beat her when these were too little; of the doings of the little village; and a thousand details of the people therein, that brought new warmth to Oman’s heart. In return he told her something of himself:—that he had been a weaver, but had gone to join the Bhikkhus, with whom he had now tired of living. She seemed satisfied with what he said, and they talked, comfortably, while she cleared away the remains of their meal, and then, returning, seated herself in front of him, and took his two hands and kissed them. “See how my heart inclines to my lord. I love him,” she said, simply. Oman started to his feet, shaking her from him violently. Then he strode to the doorway, and stood there, staring into the night, till Poussa, frightened, crept to him again, and, kneeling at his feet, timidly sought his pardon. “Nay, Poussa, nay, there is no fault. But I must not remain with thee, for I am not of thy kind—not like other men.” “Lord, I know it well. Thou art far above me; yet I beseech thee to remain, and I will trouble thee no more. Ah, let my lord incline himself to my forgiveness!” And so prettily did she entreat, and so weak was he with the yearning for sympathy, that, in the end, he did as she asked, and returned into the hut, where they fell to talking again.