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 memory of the familiar spot by the side of the wall of the compound, where Shaibalini had planted with her own hands the Karabi tree, came into her mind—how the topmost branch of that tree, once her object of love and care, towering above the wall, used to swing to and fro with the red flowers on it, as if, anxious to touch the blue vault of the sky—how sometimes bees and little birds used to come and rest on it! The sacred Tulashi—the neat and clean space around it—the pet cat, the talking bird in the cage and the stalwart mango tree by the side of the house—all appeared in her mind one by one in the vividness of reality. Thousand other things came into her recollection. Oh, how agreeable was her situation when from the roof of her house, at Bedagram, she used to see every evening various delightful and charming aspects of the blue serene sky; how pleasant it was for her to fill everyday, for Chandra Shekhar's use, at the time of worship, the flower basket with numerous sweet-scented, snow-white blooming flowers, moistened by her with pure water! Again, how happy was she when she used to breathe every evening the gentle, refreshing, fragrant breeze on the mounds of the familiar