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 up tenderly and kiss away her tears, she would shiver at that gentle touch, and place her head on his manly bosom where she found a new solace and a new strength.

All careful nursing and treatment were in vain. Nobo Kumar had lived his life and worn out his strength, and a little before dawn, one winter morning, he passed away painlessly. A wail of lamentation rose in the chamber of death, and the house and the town soon knew that the old Zemindar was no more.

The end had been foreseen, and every preparation had been made. Amidst the chanting of priests and the lamentations of women the body, covered with snow-white cloth, was laid on a light bedstead and carried out of the house. It was many hours' journey to the shores of the Ganges, but friends and relations pressed forward to carry the mournful burden on their shoulders. A long train of mourners headed by Sirish, followed on foot, taking the name of God and invoking His mercy. In every village through which they passed men and women came forth in crowds and did honour to their departed Master. The sun was high in the heavens and the mourners had hardly gone half the way. The bedstead was lowered and placed under a shady tree, and all rested awhile. The day had departed, and the shadows of the winter evening had closed around before the waters of the Ganges came in sight. With a loud and continuous invocation of the name of the Merciful God the body was lowered on the river side.

Messengers had been sent ahead, and preparations had been made there. A pyre had been constructed of fragrant sandal wood, and priests uttered holy