At one time he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome waif,forsaken of the world.But the wind had just filled the sails, the boat had got
well into the middle of the turbulent
current, and already the village was left behind, and its outlying burning
ground came in sight.So the traveller,borne on the breast of the swift-flowing river,consoled himself with philosophical reflections on the numberless meetings and partings going on in the world—on death, the great partings, from which none return.But Ratan had no philosophy.She was wandering about the post office in a flood of tears.It may be that she had still a lurking hope in some corner of her heart that her Dada would return,
and that is why she could not tear herself away.Alas! for our foolish human nature.Its fond mistakes are persistent.The dictates of reason take a long time to assert their own sway.The surest proofs meanwhile are disbelieved.False hope is clung to with all one's might and main,till a day comes when it has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its bonds and departs.After that comes the misery of awakening,and then once again the longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes..