Ojhá. "Before you became bhúta, whose body did you animate in this world?"

Áduri. "That is a question which I am forbidden to answer. It is a secret of the spirit-world."

Ojhá. "But why have you come into the body of chhoto bou?

Áduri. "Because she is vain of her beauty, and because she looks into the faces of men and smiles." Ojhá. "You must leave her immediately." Áduri. "You cannot force me to leave her." Ojhá. "I can't, you say? Just wait."

So saying, he again began unmercifully to flog Áduri, who flew about like lightning from one end of the room to the other, her eyes staring wildly, her hair dishevelled, her clothes falling off her body, the ohjá closely following. Thump succeeded thump. Groans, shrieks, and unearthly nasal sounds filled the room, and everyone present was horror-struck. After a little Áduri took breath and said, or rather the ghost in her, that she would go away in the course of an hour. The ojha insisted on instant departure; and flagellation commenced afresh. At last the ojhá took out of his bag the root of a certain

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herb, wrapped it up in a pán leaf, and forced it into the mouth of Áduri, who chewed and swallowed it. She remained perfectly still for a few minutes. The ojha again said: "Are you going immediately to leave chhoto bou?"

Aduri. "Yes."

Ojhá. "What sign will you give of your departure? How shall we know that you have left her?" Áduri. "When I go away I shall carry with my teeth a curry-stone from this room to the end of the verandah."

Ojhá. "Very good."

The ojhá ordered the curry-stone of the family to be brought. It was about ten pounds in weight. Áduri caught it between her teeth and proceeded towards the door, the threshold of which she had scarcely stepped over when she fell down and fainted. Alanga, Sundari, and Málati-for the last had returned from her father-in-law's house-took her up insensible and in lock-jaw. A pair of yánti (nut-crackers made of iron) was pushed between her teeth, a little water was poured down her throat, and she revived. On becoming conscious she pulled

the veil down her face, and, looking at Sundari, said in a whisper, "Why am I here, sister? Why are so many people assembled here?" The ghostdoctor, at whose supernatural skill everyone wondered, was rewarded with one rupée and an old dhuti, and the crowd dispersed. That night, and many following nights, Gayárám would not sleep in the same room with his wife; and he got reconciled to her only after she had been purified by a religious ceremony performed by the family priest.

CHAPTER XVII.

GOVINDA AT SCHOOL.

And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning-face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school.

As You Like It.

WE must now return to our hero, and notice what progress he was making in reading and writing under that redoubtable pedagogue, Ráma Rúpa Sarkár, of Kánchanpur. We saw him on the first day trace his letters with chalk on the ground; he remained at it for about six months, after which he exchanged the ground for palmyra-leaves, and chalk for the reed and ink. I say the reed, for the natives of Bengal, whether Rájá or ráiyat, do not use goosequill, or swan-quill, or steel pens; their kalama (kaλaμos), is made of the reed khágḍá (Saccharum

spontaneum), only the learned professors of Sanskrit tols or colleges prefer to it the more common bamboo. As for the writing material, slates were unknown, till they were introduced into the country by the English, and are used only in schools organised on the English model. The leaves of the fanpalm are preferable to slates for beginners, for three reasons:-in the first place, the palm-leaf costs nothing, especially in the villages; secondly, it is more lasting, as it never breaks, and seldom tears; thirdly, it is lighter than a slate, and therefore can be more easily carried by children. Provided with a bundle of about twenty pieces of the palmyraleaf under his left arm, the reed-pen resting on the upper hollow of his right ear, an earthen ink-pot in his left hand, and his right hand free, our hero used every morning and afternoon to go to the páṭhsálá, with other boys of the neighbourhood. He always returned home with his hands, face, and dhuti bespattered with ink; for whenever he wrote on the palm-leaf a wrong letter or an ill-formed one, he immediately used to brush it off with his hand, or his wrist. But Alanga and Sundari were rather