ngth a young man of about Debendra's age, of a placid
countenance, came and sat with him. This was his cousin, Surendra.
Surendra was in every respect the opposite of Debendra, yet the latter
was much attached to his cousin; he heeded no one in the world but
him. Every night Surendra came to see him, but, fearing the wine, he
would only sit a few minutes.

When all were gone, Surendra asked Debendra, "How are you to-day?"

"The body," replied Debendra, "is the temple of disease."

"Yours is, especially," said his cousin, "Have you fever to-day?"

"No."

"Is your liver out of order?"

"It is as before."

"Would it not be better to refrain from these excesses?"

"What, drinking? How often will you speak of that? Wine is my constant
companion," said Debendra.

"But why should it be?" replied Surendra. "Wine was not born with you;
you can't take it away with you. Many give it up, why should not you
do so?"

"What have I to gain by giving it up? Those who do so have some
happiness in prospect, and therefore give it up. For me there is no
happiness."

"Then to save your life give it up."

"Those to whom life brings happiness may give up wine; but what have I
to gain by living?"

Surendra's eyes filled with tears. Full of love for his friend, he
urged:

"Then for my sake give it up."

Tears came into the eyes of Debendra as he said: "No one but yourself
urges me to walk in virtuous paths. If I ever do give it up it will be
for your sake, and--"

"And what?"

"If ever I hear that my wife is dead I will give up drink. Otherwise,
whether I live or die, I care not."

Surendra, with moist eyes, mentally anathematising Hembati, took his
leave.

CHAPTER IX.

SURJA MUKHI'S LETTER.

Dearest Srimati Kamal Mani Dasi, long may you live!

"I am ashamed to address you any longer with a blessing. You have
become a woman, and the mistress of a house. Still I cannot think of
you otherwise than as my younger sister. I have brought you up to
womanhood, I taught you your letters; but now when I see your writing
I am ashamed to send this scrawl. But of what use to be ashamed? My
day is over; were it not so how should I be in this condition? What
condition?--it is a thing I cannot speak of to any one; should I do
so there will be sorrow and shame; yet if I do not tell some one of my
heart's trouble I cannot endure it. To whom can I speak? You are my
beloved sister; except you no one loves me. Also it concerns