"
"So my mother used to think," said Tungi; "but my husband is in school, and
he has sent word that I must go until he calls for me to come to his home.
Then he can have a wife who can understand when he talks about his books.
He says the English have happy families, and it is this that makes them so.
The wives know books, and how to sing, and how to make home pleasant. My
mother says it is all very bad, but he is my husband, and I must do as he
says. I am very glad; for it is very pleasant there."
Thus the bright-eyed little Brahman wife chatted away, as gay as a bird.
The fount of knowledge was opened to her--the beaming eye, the elastic
figure, and the individuality of her Western sisters were becoming hers.
But none of these things seemed for Sita.
For nine weary months after Tungi went to school, the shaven-headed child,
living on one meal a day, went about sad and lonely. When she again saw her
bright-faced little friend, her condition had grown worse. Her neck and
arms were full of scars where bits of flesh had been pinched out in
vindictive rage by her husband's relatives, who believed her guilty of his
death.
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