of eternal night, should I show her for once just a streak of light? It might be nothing but a will-o'-the-wisp, but would it not suffice? She had such a very little way to travel?
So at last I wrote a letter to her. The writing was a counterfeit of Animesh's but the words were my own. I hardly know whether I loved her or not, but this much I will say, I wrote nothing that I did not feel. She was going to her bridal ceremony, where Death, the bridegroom, stood for her with open arms. Could I dare to stand as a rival to him? Still, I will say what I wrote was nothing but the truth, though it went in sorry disguise.
Thus it was that Molly's sister received her letter at last. I stood beyond the broken garden wall to watch. Her face looked wonderful that day. Laughter had come back to its own. I freely confess that I had cheated and sinned. But it was too late to turn myself into a saint. And heaven would have remained closed to me even had I never written the letter.
Three days after, she died. My mother went and took charge of the stricken family and arranged somehow for the funeral procession. There were a few Bengalis in the place and I collected them together after a great deal of trouble. As we started for the cremation ground, I could hear Molly's broken sobs. "Didi, don't go away. I shall bring you more letters!"
As we were about to lift the body on the pyre, something dropped down on the ground. I picked it up. It was the letter I had written. She was taking it with her to her new home. I flung it amidst the blazing pyre.
I remained there by the pyre until the fire died down. When I returned it was already dark.
After two or three months, I returned to Calcutta. Leaving my luggage for the moment, I went in search of
