Her cousins and their father have resorted to every description of clever intrigue to get on terms with their lucky relatives, but in vain. It is the dream of Zālim Sing’s life to bestow one of his sallow daughters in marriage on Girunda, and thus keep the fortune in the family; but it is not probable that the boy—who retains a lively recollection of the ladies’ nips and blows and floutings—will ever meet his wishes. Moreover, Turroo has already a bride in view.
The cat prospers, though as lanky and grimy as of old; she must be a cat of some breeding, or of Chinese extraction, for when, after all her vicissitudes, she found herself once more in her native village, she did not exhibit the least surprise—she merely stretched out her long body, and strolled over and sharpened her claws in the bark of a familiar tree. She has accepted the transformation from poverty to wealth with complete equanimity, and sits washing her face outside Turroo’s door, or surveys the village from the tree that grows through his roof, as if she had never lived elsewhere; she has also implanted a wholesome fear of her displeasure in the breast of Chondi the pariah. But then she is a cat who has travelled and seen the world, and he is but a common village cur!
Who would recognize Chūnnee Sing now? He wears a handsome turban, and coolies salaam to him, and address him as “ap.” He rides on a white horse—yes, a horse, not a pony—with a long pink tail, and is the leading man in those parts; for all he takes in hand appears to thrive.
As he passes through the villages, coquettish glances from pretty dark eyes are cast at him, and he is greeted with playful remarks. Chūnnee is as much sought after now as he was formerly shunned. It is a matter of common talk that a rich thakur would gladly give him his daughter to wife; but Chūnnee appears satisfied with his present lot, and shows no signs of changing his condition.
Our story is ended, and we will now take leave of Chūnnee and his charger, of Gyannia and her ferret-faced cat, of Girunda—who is almost as precious to Turroo as the forty pairs of pearls again buried beneath the floor—of the envious, adder-tongued family of Zālim Sing—and cast a final glance on the sleepy patriarchal village, where it lies among its waving crops on the hillside, within sight of a glint of the sacred Ganges.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings have been retained.
A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.