"My son is not dead!" she cried in sudden terror. "No, that cannot be; nor can there be any dangerous illness. It is possible that your son may have missed his ship, in which case he will arrive by the next mail boat a week later. We shall learn in time. Meanwhile, I will go on my way to another house, where my presence is needed, and will hold myself in readiness to return a fortnight hence." Pantulu's wife felt slightly relieved by the suggestion that her son might be coming a week later. It was better than entertaining the fear that he was ill or even dead. She accepted the situation, and set about carrying out her husband's directions at once. The new clothes were packed away in camphor-wood boxes; the pickles and preserves were tied down and put in the storeroom. The women were ordered to cease grinding curry-stuffs and pounding rice. The busy household dropped into sudden inaction, and an unnatural silence reigned everywhere. The women spoke in whispers, and the men betook themselves to the bazaar, or to the houses of their fellow-caste people, where they discussed the ominous message from Bombay without fear of being overheard by the stern woman who ruled the family. Dorama with the rest had listened as the telegram was read out. Every word of it was engraven upon her brain. She went over it again and again, puzzling herself to find a reason for the strange mandate. If Ananda had missed his ship surely his father would have said so. On the other hand, if there was illness or an accident to cause delay, it might easily have been told in a few words. Some mystery lay beneath it. What could it be? Had Ananda lost his senses and become mad with the joy of his home-coming? She had known cases of temporary loss of the senses through excessive joy or grief. The child plucked at her saree, jealous of her abstraction. She caught him up and crushed his soft little body to her heart. "Thus and thus will thy father hug thee and me, my son, when he comes!" The boy, irritated at being roughly handled, beat at her with his small fists. "Thus and thus will I beat my father if he hurts me like that. Let me go, or I will ask him to find me another mother." The senseless words fell upon her ear with strange force. What was it the child said? Another mother! Could it be possible that her husband had forgotten her in that foreign country, where he had lived so long? Was he bringing home another wife? a white woman, a hated European? No, no! It was impossible! With a stifled cry she set the child down on his feet, and he seized the opportunity of escaping to the kitchen, the spot he loved best. She was left alone, and no one heeded her; they were all too busy discussing the mystery of the message and attempting to discover its solution. Suddenly she dropped to the ground, crouching as though some unseen hand were about to strike a deadly blow, her hands lifted to guard her head.