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N the bank of the Ganges, there was seated a boy under the green mantles of the mango groves, enjoying the evening melody of the flowing Bhagirathi.* Under his feet lay, on the green bed of grass, a little girl, casting upon his face her lingering glances—silent and motionless. She was gazing untiringly, and turning for a while her eyes towards the sky overhead, the river below, and the trees around, again fixed them upon that face. The name of the boy was —that of the girl,. Shaibalini was then only a girl of seven or eight—Pratap had scarcely stepped into youth.

Overhead, the Papia, in its airy flight, filled the sky with waves of music and smoothly glided off. Shaibalini, in imitation, began to thrill, with her