"Come hither, Ooma," she said to the girl, who was standing apart, and she whispered to her; "go, and come quickly," she added aloud.
"Do not send for any one else," said Tara; "I am well."
"Are you not ill?" said the woman. "Ah, your eyes are red and swollen."
"I have a headache," replied Tara; "it is so hot."
"Yes," said the woman, sitting down, and putting her arm kindly round Tara, and pressing her head against her own bosom,—"yes, you look tired and weary, but it will pass away. Wash your face and hands, and your feet—it will do you good, and refresh you. Put out your feet—so—I will wash them."
The cool water was refreshing as it was poured over her hands and feet; and after the woman had dried them with the end of her saree, she again laid Tara's head against her breast, and patted her as though she were her own child.
"You look so weary," she said; "have you travelled far?"
"From Tooljapoor," Tara replied.
"Is all well there?" asked the woman. It was a common question with no meaning to the asker, but of how much to Tara!