Mother, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a strange and dangerous country. You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a red horse. It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of Joradighi lies wan and grey before us. The land is desolate and barren. You are frightened and thinking-"I know not where we have come to." I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid." The meadow is prickly with spiky grass, and through it runs a narrow broken ...

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