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 could not be tuned. The Nawab said, "That will do, you just sing with it." At this, Dalani came to suspect that the Nawab thought she had no good sense of music. Then again, Dalani could not open her lips. She attempted several times, but nothing could make them obey her—they remained closed in spite of all efforts. They quivered—they trembled—but, after all, they remained closed. Like the petals of a lily in a cloudy day, they seemed to open but remained closed. Like, a timid poet's verses, or the choked voice of love of a woman, silent in piqued pride, her song seemed to come out but died in her lips.

Then, all on a sudden, Dalani laid aside the harp, and said, "I won't sing."

"What is the matter? Are you displeased with me?" inquired the Nawab in surprise.

Dalani. I shall never again sing in your presence, unless you get for me one of those musical instruments, which Englishmen, in Calcutta, use when they sing.

"I shall certainly give you one, if nothing stands in the way," said Mir Kasim smiling.

Dalani. Why? What would prevent it?

"I am afraid we may fall in a quarrel with the