These high-caste boys, as they are called, must not be supposed to spend their lives in what we vaguely call Oriental splendour. Many of them live in thatched mud cottages, which an English working man would despise. The windows are unglazed and uncurtained, the floors uncarpeted, the walls unpapered. If there are any pictures they are crude representations of scenes from Hindu mythology. The furniture is meagre -- no chairs, tables or beds -- as a rule, only a wicker stool or two, and some wooden boxes. The handsomest things in the house are the brass plates, dishes, cups and other vessels, which the women of the family take pride in keeping well polished.

His plain living is certainly conducive to high thinking, for Bengalis are a studious race, bom philosophers and poets, and fonder of books than of sport.

For hours two hired bands of tall, gaily-turbaned men, wielding implements of sound (one cannot truthfully call them instruments of music) of the weirdest description, had been making the day hideous with the reiterated "tweedledy clang dum dum," which was their idea of harmony.

"Poor child," said Dr. Sarkar, sighing. "Our modern-minded young students are quite right, Shanti, when they say that some of our customs are cruel. I am really glad I have no daughters, but I suppose thy mother will not be satisfied unless I marry thee some day to a baby of eight years who will bring us a dowry of 20,000 rupees.''