That same afternoon Julia Smith once more picked her way along the gutters to the mud steps and closed door of Kuniya's house. Kirpo was lying alone on a bed in the shadow of a grass thatch.
"And where is the baby?" asked Julia, cheerfully.
"Mother-in-law hath it. 'Tis a son--doubtless the Miss hath heard so." There was the oddest mixture of pride and regret in the girl's dull face.
"She will let thee have it when thou art stronger," said her visitor quickly. "Thou must give me back the dolly, Kirpo, now thou hast a live one of thine own."
The girl's head shifted uneasily on the hard pillow.
"Ay! and the prize-giving day must be close, I have been thinking. If the Miss-sahib will look behind the straw yonder she will find the doll. It is not hurt. And the Miss can give it to some one else. I don't want it any more. She might give it to a little girl this time. She could play with it."
"Mai Gungo!" said Julia severely, as, on her way out, she found the mother-in-law surrounded by her gossips, exhibiting the baby to them with great pride, "you must look to Kirpo; she thrives not. And give her the baby--she pines after it."
"The Miss doth not understand," flounced Gungo. "What can Kirpo do with a baby? She is a fool; besides, a mother like that hath evil influences till the time of purification hath passed."
Ten days afterwards the mistress of the school told Julia that Kirpo had the fever, and they did not think she would recover. It was never safe for such as she to have sons, and nothing else was to be expected.
Perhaps it was not; for Julia found her on the bare ground of the courtyard where she had been set to die. The oil lamps flared smokily at her head and her feet, and Mai Gungo, with the fortnight-old baby in her arms, cried "Râm! Râm!" lustily. But the girl lingered in life, turning her head restlessly from side to side on Mother Earth's bosom.