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ROSADPUR in the District of Jessore is an obscure village, the only river or rather rivulet near being the Chitra, which is about two miles distant from the place. On the banks of the rivulet, which flows sluggishly on, there are clusters of date palms and palmyras and various other trees among which can be heard the chirping of birds at all hours of day. The place has a desolate aspect, for within two miles of it, there are no houses except a few shops belonging to a bazar on the border of Prosadpur. Within a few hundred yards of the brook there is a large ancient building, which once belonged to an Indigo factor, who lived and transacted his business here. The house, which had passed into more hands than one since it ceased to be used as a factory, has lately been bought by a gentleman, who has spent a considerable sum of money in repairing and furnishing it.

It is a two storied building with a broad courtyard now laid out in gardens. The veranda and the staircase are decorated with flower-pots. On the upper story over the floor of the largest and most spacious room facing the veranda is spread a valuable carpet covered with a clean sheet, and the walls of it are hung with large mirrors and beautiful pictures, some of which undoubtedly show the vitiated taste of the present owner of the house. In this room, opposite each other are seated two persons, one a beautiful young woman, and the other an elderly man with a thick grizzly beard and moustache. A glance at the man would be enough to let any one know that he is a Mohammedan. Being a musician he has been employed by the owner of the house to give lessons in music to the young lady. A fiddle, which lies between them, the music-master presently takes up; and putting it into tune by giving the pegs a few twists as he scrapes the bow over the strings to see if it is all right, he begins to play a sweet air, accompanying his voice on it, and signing to the young lady to follow. While the music is going on, the sweet silvery voice of the woman clearly distinguishable from the loud deep voice of the music-master, in the adjoining room, which opens into this, a handsome young man is reading a novel, casting occasional glances through the open door at the young lady.

The reader perhaps need not be told that the young man is Gobindalal, and the young woman, Rohini.

While the singing is going on a stranger enters the room and sits down unbidden. We know this man. He is Nishakar.

Rohini had a nice comfortable room upstairs, and she had every comfort that Gobindalal's money could buy. The servants over whom she exercised full control had their quarters below. In this solitary and out-of-the-way place Gobindalal had as few visitors as he could wish to have. If any traders called, though such calls were few and far between, the servants would let their master know, and he would walk downstairs and see them on the ground floor where he had a room reserved for occasional use.

Having discovered Gobindalal's whereabouts Nishakar, with whom the reader is acquainted, approached the house, and standing at the entrance cried, "Who is here?"

Gobindalal had two servants—Sona and Rupa. Hearing a man at the entrance they quickly appeared before him. Nishakar's features, which were pretty imposing, and the costly clothes he had taken care to wear, made them pause a little, wondering and exchanging looks with each other, for they had never known a gentleman of his appearance cross the threshold before.