Page:The Post Office (Tagore).djvu/97

Rh sit by his pillow; he's dropping into slumber. Blow out the oil-lamp. Only let the star-light stream in. Hush, he slumbers.

What are you standing there for like a statue, folding your palms. I am nervous. Say, are they good omens? Why are they darkening the room? How will star-light help?

Silence, unbeliever.

Amal!

He's asleep.