It was night. In the ruined house Kunda Nandini sat by her father's
corpse. She called "Father!" No one made reply. At one moment Kunda
thought her father slept, again that he was dead, but she could not
bring that thought clearly into her mind. At length she could no
longer call, no longer think. The fan still moved in her hand in the
direction where her father's once living body now lay dead. At length
she resolved that he slept, for if he were dead what would become of
her?

After days and nights of watching amid such sorrow, sleep fell upon
her. In that exposed, bitterly cold house, the palm-leaf fan in her
hand, Kunda Nandini rested her head upon her arm, more beauteous than
the lotus-stalk, and slept; and in her sleep she saw a vision. It
seemed as if the night were bright and clear, the sky of a pure
blue--that glorious blue when the moon is encircled by a halo. Kunda
had never seen the halo so large as it seemed in her vision. The light
was splendid, and refreshing to the eyes. But in the midst of that
magnificent halo there was no moon; in its place Kunda saw the figure
of a goddess of unparalleled brilliance. It seemed as if this
brilliant goddess-ruled halo left the upper sky and descended
gradually lower, throwing out a thousand rays of light, until it stood
over Kunda's head. Then she saw that the central beauty, crowned with
golden hair, and decked with jewels, had the form of a woman. The
beautiful, compassionate face had a loving smile upon its lips. Kunda
recognized, with mingled joy and fear, in this compassionate being
the features of her long-dead mother. The shining, loving being,
raising Kunda from the earth, took her into her bosom, and the orphan
girl could for a long period do nought but utter the sweet word
"Mother!"