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N the four sides of the large tank Bhima, there were thick rows of palm trees. The golden rays of the setting sun had fallen on the black waters of the tank, and on its dark bosom were painted the dark shadows of the palm trees, with the sun-shine between them. By the side of a ghat, a small group of shrubby plants, closely knitted together by clustering creepers, served to screen the bashful beauties, playing merry pranks in the water, with their out-stretched boughs. Under the covered shade of that grove, Shaibalini and Sundari, with brass pails in their hands, were in frolic and play with the water.

What does a play between water and a young woman mean? We do not understand it. He, whose heart beauty has melted into water, can alone say what it is. He alone can say how water, being stirred by the pail, breaks into ripples and dances, in perfect harmony, with