I can never forget the shame of being detected by him. He might
possibly have thought that I was trying to earn merit secretly.
But no, no! That had nothing to do with merit. It was my
woman's heart, which must worship in order to love.

My father-in-law's house was old in dignity from the days of the
__Badshahs__. Some of its manners were of the Moguls and
Pathans, some of its customs of Manu and Parashar. But my
husband was absolutely modern. He was the first of the house to
go through a college course and take his M.A. degree. His elder
brother had died young, of drink, and had left no children. My
husband did not drink and was not given to dissipation. So
foreign to the family was this abstinence, that to many it hardly
seemed decent! Purity, they imagined, was only becoming in those
on whom fortune had not smiled. It is the moon which has room
for stains, not the stars.

My husband's parents had died long ago, and his old grandmother
was mistress of the house. My husband was the apple of her eye,
the jewel on her bosom. And so he never met with much difficulty
in overstepping any of the ancient usages. When he brought in
Miss Gilby, to teach me and be my companion, he stuck to his
resolve in spite of the poison secreted by all the wagging
tongues at home and outside.

My husband had then just got through his B.A. examination and
was reading for his M.A. degree; so he had to stay in Calcutta
to attend college. He used to write to me almost every day, a
few lines only, and simple words, but his bold, round handwriting