"No! no! no! If there were another I could not bear it. I should die!" she wailed. Then passion took hold of her. She stuffed the corner of her saree into her mouth and bit it savagely. "No, I will not die! It is the strange woman who shall die! Hear me, swami of the big temple! Hear my vow. I will live and have my own! my own!" CHAPTER VI The house in which Bopaul's father lived was situated in the same road, about a hundred yards distant, and on the opposite side. It was nearer the town, and though a substantial building, was not as large as the silk merchant's; nor was the compound as extensive. A similar preparation had been made by the family, but not on so large or expensive a scale; nor had the mistress thought it necessary to go on a pilgrimage. New clothes had been bought, and store-rooms were replenished. The house had been repainted and decorated. There was no young wife with her little son to await the coming of Bopaul; but his bride was already chosen, and the marriage ceremony would be performed as soon as the restoration of caste was accomplished. She would not be present at his home-coming. The girl was a stranger to him, and he had yet to make her acquaintance. As in Pantulu's family, there were many relatives and dependents who performed the duties of servants; but claimed a right to share in the rejoicings as relations. One forlorn little figure in that busy happy company was not a participator in the joy of Bopaul's return. This was his own sister Mayita, married in her infancy to Coomara. By Coomara's death she had become a widow, although she had been only a wife in name. Her degradation was aggravated by the fact that her husband had died abroad, with the funeral ceremonies, in which she should have taken a certain part, unperformed. In dying out of his country the dead man was laid, as we have seen, under the ban of broken caste. It was irrevocably broken, no ritual having ever been devised by which it could be restored. Dressed once more as a bride--this time in bitter mockery--the jewels had been stripped from her neck and arms; her head was shaven; the glass bangles of her childhood were broken upon her wrists. Never would she forget, young as she was, the crash of glass as the delicate circles were splintered under a sharp, irritable blow that in itself indicated how deeply her fate was resented by the family. The soft brown-and-gold saree that harmonised with her complexion was ruthlessly unwound with unnecessary force as she stood weeping and unresisting in the hands of the wailing women. It was thrown aside as though defiled by contact with her half-developed form. In place of it she was obliged to wear a coarse cotton cloth, with rough edges, that chafed her tender skin and brought her unfortunate condition constantly to mind.