Page:The Spoilt Child.djvu/64



Vaidyabati house was all astir with preparations for a religious ceremonial. The sun had not risen when Shridhar Bhattacharjea, Ram Gopal Charamani and other Brahman priests, set to work repeating mantras. All were employed upon something: one was offering the sacred basil to the deity: some were busy picking the leaves of the jessamine: others humming and beating time on their cheeks. One was remarking: "I am no Brahman if good fortune does not attend the sacrifices;" and another, "If things turn out inauspiciously, I will abandon my sacred thread." The whole household was busily engaged, but not a member of it was happy in mind. The mistress of the house was sitting at an open window and calling in her distress upon her guardian deity: her infant boy lay near her, playing with a toy and tossing his little limbs in the air. Every now and again she glanced in the direction of the child, and said to herself: "Ah my darling, I cannot say what kind of destiny awaits you! To be childless is a single sorrow and anxiety: multiplied a hundredfold is the misery that comes with children. How is a mother's mind distracted if her child has the slightest complaint! she will cheerfully sacrifice her life in order to get him well again: so long as her babe is ill, all capacity for food and sleep deserts her: day and night to her are alike. If a child who has caused her so much sorrow grows up good, she feels her work accomplished; but if the contrary be the case, a living death