That night Shámkore's "This" saw Devkore's "This," and in less than a week the mothers-expectant were "married" in right Shráwak fashion. "It is a splendid stroke, my dear," said the uxurious Kastur to his young wife that night. "That hog [his friend Moti] is worth a plum."
But unluckily for them, both gave birth to girls. This was a sore disappointment, but it was overcome by the arrangement that the next male birth should wed the promised bride. It was four years before Mrs. Kastur did present her lord with a thing which the midwife declared would be a boy by-and-bye. Unfeigned were the rejoicings thereupon, not somuch at Kastur's house as at Shett Motichand's. Mrs. Moti was wild with joy. "Oh, sister mine, I feel as if I had done it, I so badly want the little rogue, my poor Mánkore (the promised bride) is growing so."
Time flies. Mánkore is now sixteen, her boy-husband is nearing twelve. Mánkore looks older than her age by at least five years. Devchand, her husband, looks nine at most. He is short, dull, consumptive. She is the reverse. But is she not his promised bride? The families
