And if the wife complains to her husband, and he speaks about it, they say, 'Very well, if you are such an unnatural son you'd better turn your mother and sisters out of doors; but while we live here, we'll rule the house.' So there is always plenty fighting. It's not unkind of the mother and sisters—it's custom.
My husband was a servant in Government House—that was when Lord Clare was Governor here. When I was twenty years old, my husband died of a bad fever, and left me with two children—the boy and the girl, Rosie.
I had no money to keep them with, so I said, 'I'll go to service,' and my mother-in-law said, 'How can you go with two children, and so young, and knowing nothing?' But I said, 'I can learn, and I'll go;' and a kind lady took me into her service. When I went to my first place, I hardly knew a word of English (though I knew our Calicut language, and Portuguese, and Hindostani, and Mahratti well enough) and I could not hold a needle. I was so stupid, like a Coolie-woman;[1] but my mistress was very kind to me, and I soon learnt; she did not mind the trouble of teaching me. I often think, 'Where find such good Christian people in these days?' To take a poor, stupid woman and her two children into the house—for I had them both with me, Rosie and the boy. I was a sharp girl in those days; I did my mistress's work and I looked after the children too. I never left them to any one else. If she wanted me for a long time, I used to bring the children into the room and set them down on the floor, so as to have them under my own eye whilst I did her work. My mistress was very fond of Rosie, and used to teach her to work and read. After some time my mistress went home, and since then I've been in eight places. One lady with whom I stayed wished to take me to England with her when she went home (at that time the children neither little or big), and she offered to give me Rs. 5000 and warm clothes if I would go with her; but I wouldn't go. I a silly girl then, and afraid of going from the children and on the sea; I think—'May be I shall make plenty money, but what good if all the little fishes eat my bones? I shall not rest with my old Father and Mother if I go'—so I told her I could not do it.
My brother-in-law was valet at that time to Napier Sahib,[2] up in Sind. All the people and servants were very fond of that Sahib. My brother-in-law was with him for ten years; and he
