Mayita's eyes sparkled, and the beautiful brown tones of her skin were enriched as the warm blood coursed through her veins. In spite of her shaven head and coarse garment, her youth and comeliness asserted themselves. She babbled on about the wedding, the difficulties that had occurred over the dower as well as the horoscope, the number of guests to be invited, and other details to which Dorama listened, her hand over the hidden glove, her thoughts wandering back into the past when there was another wedding less nebulous than that of Mayita's devising, and she herself was the bride. A call outside checked the flow of description, and Mayita rose quickly to her feet. "It is my brother. Come to the entrance of the yard while I ask him for news; and listen." Bopaul in the customary manner of a caste man, stood a little way off waiting for his sister to join him. "What news of Ananda?" asked the child, stopping in the entrance and calling to him. "They have none." "Where is he?" "They still speak of the well; but I do not believe that he is dead. Come, little one, it is time we returned." Mayita kissed Dorama. "My brother is right. Your husband lives; but for the present you are his widow. To-morrow Coomara's widow will come again. There will be news by that time from the astrologer, and we shall be able to begin the preparations for the wedding. Sister, those big boxes must be pushed aside; they will be in the way. Do you think that we could move them? We will try to-morrow." Another call from Bopaul, and Mayita beat a hasty retreat. Dorama was left standing at the entrance. The sun had disappeared in a heavy bank of cloud that later would be streaked with electricity. Rain was wanted; there had been none for the last few days. Her eye rested on the gourd that had been trampled by the inquisitive crowd. She went to it. "Poor plant! They killed you I am afraid; but no, you are not dead! Here are some buds coming and fresh leaves!" She stooped over the vine and plucked away the bruised foliage leaving the stalks almost as bare as her own poor head. Unlovely though the rough stems were they were full of virility; and the rain and sun would mend what was marred and reclothe the plant with verdure. She straightened out a few twisted stems and lifted some leaves that had been trodden down but escaped total destruction. It was a curious sight; the crushed tending the crushed. Then she entered the room again and thought of the child. Why should she not have the small pleasure of playing her little game on the morrow. She looked at the two portmanteaux and considered how they could be moved out of the way. They were her husband's and must be cared for, as they contained his clothes and books. Of course they were heavy and beyond her power to move.