pulse. He startled; for it seemed to him that his pulse-beat was so faint as to be scarcely perceptible. He abruptly left the room, saying only that he would be back in a little time.
Without losing a minute, Gobindalal hastened to the physician. "Oh, come quick, sir," said he as soon as he saw him, "uncle seems so very bad just now, and I am so afraid." The physician, who had noticed no premonitory symptoms to fear anything of the kind, looked rather amazed. However, he made haste to take a few pills and walked off with Gobindalal with hurried steps. On reaching the house they quickly went and entered Krishnakanta's room. The old man looked rather alarmed. When the physician had felt his pulse, he asked him if he feared anything worse.
"I cannot assure you, sir, that there is no reason for apprehending anything of the kind," said the physician in a serious tone of voice.
Krishnakanta understood the drift of his words. "Do you think my end is near?" he asked again.
"I do not know. I mean to wait and see what effect this medicine has on you, and then I may be able to give my opinion," he returned, offering him a pill which he wished him to swallow in a little water. But Krishnakanta instead of taking the pill dropped it into the spit-box at his side.
The physician looked up with some surprise.
"You need not mind my not wishing to take any medicine," said Krishnakanta. "It won't—it can't do any good to an old man like me whose last hour is at hand. I would rather wish all of you to chant the praise of God as the only remedy that can do any real good to me now."
There was an awful silence in the room. No one spoke a word, nor stirred hand or foot. Krishnakanta alone sang a hymn, one he loved to sing, and his face betrayed no signs of fear. After a while he said to Gobindalal, "Open the drawer and take out my will. The key is there."
Gobindalal took out the key from underneath the pillow where it used to be kept, opened the drawer, and taking out the will handed it to his uncle.
"Call my clerks here and all the respectable men of the village," said he to Gobindalal.
In a little time the room was crowded; and Krishnakanta told one of his clerks to read out the will. When he had finished he declared that he wished to change the will, and ordered the clerk to write a fresh one.
"A fresh will?" said he, looking up to his master's face.
"I do not mean any changes in the wording of the will," said Krishnakanta. "Only—" Here he paused, and the clerk looked inquiringly at him.
"—Only," he continued, "you are to leave out Gobindalal's name, and in its stead to put his wife's. Write also that after her death her half share of the estate will go to her husband."
All were silent, and no one dared to speak a word. The clerk looked significantly at Gobindalal, who by a motion of his head told him to write as he was bid.
When the writing was finished, Krishnakanta signed the will and asked the witnesses to put their signatures to it. After which he took up the will again and signed as one of the witnesses.
In the will Gobindalal had not a farthing. To his wife was given his half share of the property.
That day toward the small hours of the morning Krishnakanta breathed his last; and even to his last moments the name of God dwelt upon his lips.
(To be continued)
Translated by D. C. Roy
