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that boat, moving under the shade of the night, on the dark bosom of the flowing Bhagirathi, rose from sleep—Shaibalini.

There were two cabins in the Budgrow—Foster occupied one and Shaibalini with her maid the other. Even then, Shaibalini had not dressed herself out as an English lady. She had put on a black bordered Shari and had worn bangles and anklets after the Indian fashion. She had with her Parbati, that very maid of Purandarpur. Shaibalini had been sleeping. While asleep she was dreaming that the water of the familiar Bhima pond was edged by a thin line of darkness, cast upon it by those trees on the bank, which stooped their boughs, as if, eager to embrace its watery bosom, and that Shaibalini herself was floating there, with only her face above the water, transformed into a lily; she saw that a golden swan was gliding about at one extremity of the pond and a white boar moving around on the mounds; Shaibalini was anxious to get hold