tions."

Oh! what lies we women have to tell! When we are mothers, we tell lies
to pacify our children; and when we are wives, we tell lies to pacify
the fathers of our children. We are never free from this necessity.

My deception had the effect of bringing about a better feeling between
my husband and Dada. Dada blamed himself for asking me to keep a secret
from my husband: and my husband regretted that he had not taken my
brother's advice at the first.

At last, with the consent of both, an English doctor came, and operated
on my left eye. That eye, however, was too weak to bear the strain;
and the last flickering glimmer of light went out. Then the other eye
gradually lost itself in darkness.

One day my husband came to my bedside. "I cannot brazen it out before
you any longer," said he, "Kumo, it is I who have ruined your eyes."

I felt that his voice was choking with tears, and so I took up his right
hand in both of mine and said: "Why! you did exactly what was right. You
have dealt only with that which was your very own. Just imagine, if some
strange doctor had come and taken away my eyesight. What consolation
should I have had then? But now I can feel that all has happened for the
best; and my great comfort is to know that it is at your hands I have
lost my eyes. When Ramchandra found one lotus too few with which to
worship God, he offered both his eyes in place of the lotus. And I hate
dedicated my eyes to my God. From now, whenever you see something that
is a joy to you, then you must describe it to me; and I will feed upon
your words as a sacred gift left over from your vision."

I do not mean, of course, that I said all this there and then, for it is
impossible to speak these things an the spur of the moment. But I used
to think over words like these for days and days together. And when I
was very depressed, or if at any time the light of my devotion became
dim, and I pitied my evil fate, then I made my mind utter these
sentences, one by one, as a child repeats a story that is told. And so I
could breathe once more the serener air of peace and love.

At the very time of our talk together, I said enough to show my husband
what was in my heart.

"Kumo," he said to me, "the mischief I have done by my folly can never
be made good. But I can do one thing. I can ever remain by your side,
and try to make up for your want of vision as much as is in my power."

"No," said I. "That will never do. I shall not