"You need not fear, master-ji; I mean to have the scholarship. The wedding will make no difference."
Narayan Chand smiled a superior smile.
"Nay, my son; it must--it should--for a time. So is the vacation convenient. Thou canst return to school when the festal season is over. Come, I will speak to thy relations even now."
The widow was sifting wheat. A pleasant-faced little dump of a woman, with dimples on her bare brown arms.
"Mother," said Govind calmly, "is grandfather in? The master-ji' hath come about my wedding."
"What have men to say to such things?" she answered, with a shrill laugh; "go tell master--ji, heart of mine eyes, that it is settled for the first week of vacation. Her people were here but now. Hurri hai! but I shall laugh and cry to see thee! There shall be nothing wanting at all! Flowers and sweets and merriment. Thy granny and I have toiled and spun for it. And the bride sweeter than honey. Fie! Govind, be not shy with thy mother! Think of the bride she gives thee, and tell her thou art happy."
She flung her arms round her tall son, kissing him and plying him with questions till he smirked sillily.
"Happy enough, mother," he admitted, then felt Amor Vincit Omnia under his arm, and sighed. "I would much rather not be married; at least, I think not. Oh, mother, I would she had fair hair and blue eyes!"
"Lakshmi! hear him! Wouldst marry a fright, Govind? Wait the auspicious moment; wait till I lift the veil. Oh, the beauty! fresh from the court of Indra, wheat-coloured and languishing with jewels and love."
Govind shook his head.