cottage of a poor Brahmin, who is always busy with his books? No doubt, she has brought to me happiness with her, but what is that to Shaibalini? My age renders it impossible for her to love me—nor can my love quench the thirst of her yearning heart. Particularly, I am always busy with my books and when do I care for Shaibalini's happiness? What pleasure so young a lady can have in taking care of my books? I selfishly looked to my own happiness and that is why I could think of marrying her. What shall I do now? Shall I throw into water all the books, which I have collected with great pains and make the lily-like face of a woman as my life's sole object of adoration? Oh shame! I cannot do that. Will then poor Shaibalini undergo a penance for my sins? Ah me, did I pluck this beautiful flower, from its stalk, only to see it wither in the fire of unsatiated passions?"
Chandra Shekhar in his abstraction forgot to take his meals. Next morning, a message came from the Mir Munshi that Chandra Shekhar was to start for Murshidabad—the Nawab had some business with him.
