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.

No pity was felt for the shrinking, miserable girl as she flitted like a ghost about the house, avoiding with painful care young and old alike, lest her shadow should fall upon them and bring bad luck. In the preparations for her brother's return she had no part. When his eye should first fall upon her, he ought by all precedent to curse her, and command her to get out of his sight. It was this thought that hurt her most, and caused a sharper grief than she had felt for the loss of her husband. She was but thirteen years old. A vivid memory remained of the brother who in old days had been invariably kind. The longing to see him again was great; and many a secret tear was shed at the thought that she might no more bask in the sunshine of his fraternal love.

In the caste family that is poor the widow becomes the drudge of the house. It is often a blessing in disguise, if the work is not made too heavy, as it gives occupation for the mind. In Bopaul's family it was not necessary for Mayita to occupy that position. There were plenty of people to do the work, and she was not called upon to take any part in the household duties. She would have been happier for a little employment; but she was denied both work and play. The other children refused to allow her to join their games; and when she approached the women who ground the curry-stuffs, pounded and cleaned the rice, tended the kitchen fires or polished the numerous brass pots, they one and all motioned her away. If she begged to be given occupation of some sort, they set her a task that had perforce to be executed in solitude.

She sought her mother, but here again she was repulsed; not by rough words, but by her parent's sighs and tears. Bopaul's mother was a stout, lethargic person, who loved above all things her own comfort. Until her daughter was widowed she was rarely seen without a placid smile of content. She still wore it at times when the misfortune was forgotten. As soon as Mayita appeared the smile faded; the large, slumbrous eyes filled with tears, and she began her lamentations.

"What sin can my daughter have committed in a former birth that such heavy punishment should be meted out?"

Then she would send her with a message to another part of the house, and the child knew that she was not expected to return. If Mayita remained, the wailing was continued.

"The sight of your widowhood is a shame to the whole house. Such a misfortune can only come to those who have in some way grievously offended the gods."

The accusation of sin in a former birth was repeated so often that at last the girl became possessed with a vague sense of wrong-doing. Its responsibility added to the weight already resting upon the young shoulders, and increased her misery.

Shortly after the receipt of the second telegram, one of the women belonging to Pantulu's family slipped away to carry the news to her neighbours. She was received eagerly with a chorus of questions.

"What news? When do they come? We have heard nothing."

"It is not known when they arrive."

"Why do you look so gloomy? Is the news otherwise than good?"

"Yemmah! how can I tell? Aiyoh! to think of such a thing!"

After this enigmatic speech she began to weep with the ready ease of the oriental. The sensation created was gratifying to her vanity. There was a perfect clamour for an explanation.

"What is it? Speak! we are all on fire to learn!"

"The master has sent an order by the wire that there are to be no rejoicings. Aiyoh! to think that the young excellency should return to his father's house without rejoicings, without feastings and garlandings, and without fireworks and feeding of the poor!"

"What says the mistress?"

"That there has been an accident or an illness, and that their honours, the master and his son are not coming. If there is bad luck it will be the waning moon that will have caused it. Next week all would have gone well. What news has been received in this house? Has the ticking devil sent any message?"

"Only one. It was written on a thin slip of paper, and it came in a brown envelope."

"What did it say?"

"That the young master had landed in safety, and that they would leave Bombay by the night mail to-morrow."

"And the rejoicings?"

"There is no order to forbid them."

"Is the swami here?"

"He and his disciple arrived last night."

"Happy house! Happy mistress of an honourable family. She is to be envied."

"Our excellent lady has only one trouble; it is the presence of Coomara's widow."

"What will she do about it? It will bring misfortune on the young master if he meets his sister immediately on arrival."

"She will be locked in the room that opens into the cowyard; and she will be kept there till the middle of the next day. In the afternoon, when there is less fear of the frown of the gods, she may perhaps be permitted to see him; but only if he asks for her."

Other members of Pantulu's household slipped away to carry the news to the neighbours. The story was told and retold with variations till the whole town was agog with curiosity. Many were the surmises, but not a single one came near the true solution of the mystery.

On the morning of the day when Bopaul and his father were expected a large crowd gathered at the railway station to learn what had happened. No one knew whether Pantulu would be in the same train. It was Bopaul to whom they looked for news. Friends and fellow-caste men were permitted on the platform, which was crowded. A larger number, moved only by curiosity, assembled outside the station.

Chirapore was a terminus. The train arrived and poured forth its load of travellers. Some astonishment was caused by the sight of the large assembly gathered in and round the building; but the attention of Bopaul and his father was diverted to the recovery of personal baggage from the vans, and their curiosity as to the reason of so big a crowd was lost in anxiety to assure themselves of the safety of their property.

Through the crowd Pantulu and his son pushed their way hastily. So hemmed in were they that they escaped observation except by a few. In the hurry and bustle no attempt was made to detain them for a greeting which could be made with more dignity later. Pantulu led the way, passing straight through the station and out into the public road, where stood a row of carriages for hire. Ananda followed close upon his heels with his suit-case. His two portmanteaux were carried by a couple of coolies and placed without delay upon the roof of a hired gharry.

Father and son stepped into the carriage and were driven off. Not a word passed between them. Ananda was conducted back to the home of his childhood in an ominous silence that chilled him and destroyed all his happiness. He wondered vaguely what his father intended to do with him. He was aware that he could not join the family circle, eat with them, take part in the daily religious worship conducted by his father as head of the house before the chief meal of the day. His exclusion would have been insisted upon even if he had not taken the momentous step. Until the restoration of caste it was imperative that he should lead a life apart from the rest of the family. It would mean the occupation of an isolated room well away from the kitchen, the taking of his food in solitude, the reservation of earthen drinking vessels exclusively for his own use, to be destroyed afterwards. But with all this there would be nothing to prevent him from meeting the male members of the family in that general place of assembly in all Indian houses, the pial or verandah. There they could talk and he could relate his experiences, and the others might listen without fear of contamination. This condition of affairs might last without personal discomfort to any one for a week or ten days, or even longer, according to the decree of those who conducted the ceremonies for the restoration of caste.

Under the altered circumstances Ananda concluded that the arrangements for his accommodation would be of a permanent nature, and more comfortable than if they were temporary. He would be able to furnish his room to his liking, introducing a few western luxuries, such as an armchair or two, a writing-table, bookcase, a table at which he could sit to take his meals. He could join the family in the pial, but otherwise lead his own life as he had learned to lead it in England. No difficulty presented itself to his mind in the arrangement; in truth, there was none. Provided he did not force himself upon his family in a manner that would endanger their caste rules, no objection could be made to his staying for a time under his father's roof. Later he would propose the separate house-it might be small and unassuming-where he could live as he pleased with his wife and child.

In the midst of his speculations the noisy ramshackle vehicle drew up before the house. The plantain palms and festoons of green leaves remained where joyful fingers had placed them. The Venetian masts that were to have supported ropes of Chinese lanterns had also been left standing, some of them bare of decoration, others gaudy with red and white twists of calico. Not a living creature was visible. The big iron-studded door was closely shut. A few small windows looking towards the road were screened with Venetian shutters; the pial was empty. There was not even the joyous bark of a dog to welcome home the wanderer.

Pantulu stepped out of the carriage and directed the driver to place the two leather portmanteaux on the steps. He kept his back to his son whenever he was able, and studiously averted his gaze. The sight of the wound on his son's face hurt him more than a little. Ananda followed his father, and the coachman was paid and ordered to leave without delay. They waited till he had retreated in a cloud of dust; and then Ananda, who was impatient of delay, put his foot on the first step of the flight that led up to the pial.

"Stop!" said his father, sternly. "Follow me!"

He gave no explanation, and confined himself to as few words as possible. Leading the way round to the side of the house, he entered the compound and conducted his son to a little outer yard into which opened the door of a room that had no communication with the rest of the building. The room was empty, except for a thick layer of dust and dried leaves blown in by the wind through the open door. A tiny, unglazed, unshuttered window high up under the eaves of the roof, admitted a little light; but at best the room was but a den, and not fit for the accommodation of a human being, let alone a son of the house.

"Go in and wait there," said his father, shortly, as though the necessity of addressing his son was repugnant.

"I should like a chair-and a mat; and surely the room might be swept out with advantage," said Ananda, looking round with undisguised disgust.

Pantulu avoided meeting his eyes, and walked away without replying. Meanwhile the advent of the gharry had not been unnoticed by the wondering household. The mistress herself, overcome by her curiosity, pressed her forehead against the Venetians to peer through a chink and take a look at the arrivals. She could tell by the expression on her husband's face that something had happened to disturb him greatly. Nothing less than some serious misfortune could bring those deep lines upon his brow and cause the corners of his mouth to droop so ominously. Of one thing she assured herself with some satisfaction. Her son was sound in limb and well in health; and she caught her breath in a little sigh of relief.

Dorama, hugging her child close to her breast, stood behind her mother-in-law, listening eagerly for news.

"Has the excellent father arrived?" she ventured to ask at last, unable to repress her curiosity.

A bare affirmative was all she could elicit.

"Is he alone?" she asked presently.

Pantulu's wife shook her head without speaking, and presently moved away from the window. There was a little struggle among the women to secure her place. They were disappointed. The road and the short carriage-drive up to the house were empty except for a distant bullock-cart plodding its way to the market with a sleepy driver, who had eyes for nothing but his cattle.

Gunga went to the back of the house. She had not long to wait. Pantulu, dejected and gloomy, strode in by a door in the wall, passed quickly through the garden, mounted the verandah steps and, without a word, went straight to the front room, into which the big iron-studded door opened. He greeted no one. The men and women who had been waiting in the courtyard and inner rooms salaamed, but he took no notice of their salutations. His wife followed him, and he asked gruffly for his brother. A man some ten years younger than himself came forward and salaamed.

"All is well with my honoured elder brother! May the gods continue to smile on him and all his family!"

Pantulu suddenly flung his arms up and cried passionately-

"I am cursed! The gods have cursed me-me and my family!'

"In what manner, most excellent master of the house?"

"My son has become a Christian!-my only son! My only child!"

The words rang out sharply and reached the ears of the group that had circled round the master of the house. They were repeated from mouth to mouth with gathering consternation as the catastrophe was gradually realised. Gunga heard them, and at first seemed stunned, so still and silent did she remain. A groan escaped her lips, and the strong, shapely hands gripped the edge of her saree.

"A Christian! What do you say? My ears have played me false. I have not heard aright. My son a Christian? You jest, my husband!"

"It is true!" he replied, in a dull, despairing voice that in itself should have been convincing if she could have brought herself to believe in such a thing; but she fought against it, and refused to entertain the idea.

"Who dares to say that our son has become a Christian?" she asked fiercely.

"His own tongue. He calls himself by the accursed name, and he shows no shame."

"A Christian! a Christian!" echoed voices round him. "A Christian! a Christian!" was caught up by the women and repeated with increasing excitement.

"Oh! Aiyoh! Aiyoh! Aiyoh!"

The cry came from Gunga herself. It dominated the chorus of lamentation and silenced every other tongue. Suddenly the sound of a thud upon the floor startled the company. A childish scream followed.

"Water! bring water!" said one of the women. "The lady Dorama has fainted and let the child fall!"