This view of the matter brought a great relief to Fidá. Perhaps, after all, the incident of the curse had been just the wild dream of a sick man. Perhaps those sinister words had been spoken by his own heart. Perhaps.—Perhaps.—Perhaps. But, unnaturally, after Fidá was up and about again, he did not get well. There were days when it seemed as if his old-time vitality were returning to him; but there were many more when he felt as if, by no possibility, could he bear the weight of his limbs: when, racked with an inward fever that penetrated to the very bone, he dragged himself about only by a superhuman effort. Yet, unspeakably dreading that time when he must face the end, the slave made every effort to conceal his illness, forcing himself to much that seemed impossible for a man in his condition. One thing only he could not do. He could not see Ahalya. Now, in the light of their past vital relationship, he realized that he could no longer attempt his former rôle. Day and night, it is true, he longed for her sympathy, her tenderness, the touch of her gentle hands. But in return for her ministrations he could give her nothing—nothing but the weary plaints of a sick man. And so, steeling his heart to loneliness, he went his way, blindly and dumbly, yet still, after the pathetic human custom, hoping that life held yet a few empty years for him. When, with mid-February, the spring appeared, Ahalya could no longer bear her unhappiness, and one evening sent Churi to Fidá, bidding him come to her. It was a summons that could not be refused; and, in the early darkness, he stole to her rooms by the little courtyard. Alas! How many, many times had he come to her thus in highest joy! How differently to-night he came! In each heart there was dread, and fear:—in hers that he long since tired of her, in his that she could no longer care for him. When he appeared she was alone, standing at the end of the room by her narrow bed, her face turned to the window through which he entered. Seeing him, she did not move, but her eyes grew big with inquiry, and her mouth drooped a little. Fidá, who could not look upon her without deep emotion, also stood silent till he could command his voice. Then he said, gently, but without much expression: “Thou hast sent for me. I have come.” Ahalya’s lip quivered, pitiably; and she lowered her head, without replying. Fidá, watching her, moved forward a step or two. “Ranee—what is thy grief?” he asked, putting her, by his appellation, infinitely far away. Ahalya gave a sob that was like a scream, and, flinging herself face down upon the divan, laughed and wept hysterically, but still without speaking. Fidá, bewildered, miserable, yet hoping something that he dared not voice, knelt at her side and longed to give her comfort; restraining himself only by a great effort. She wept as long as she would, and then suddenly ceased, lifted herself, and turned a burning gaze on him.