The night is nearly spent. The humming of the bees wakes Vrinda Devi — keeper of the forest groves — and she bids the birds to sing, so that Radha and Krishna might wake before the dawn. First she rouses the cockerel: crow now, the sun is near. Half-asleep, Radhika hears the cock's call — and, unwilling to be parted from Krishna, softly sends it off: "go, go and help there." The cockerel falls silent. And She thinks, content: good — morning is cancelled, I shall stay. For how can the sun rise if the cock has not crowed? Do not think Radhika is angry with the bird: She loves every bee and every singer of Vraja. It is only the speech of love — as a mother, watching her reckless child, flings words she does not mean at all. Beneath them lies one thing: I do not want to be parted from Him. And all the forest's service — Vrinda, the birds, the manjaris — is woven around this love: to wake them gently, or even to wait, for here the hour obeys the heart.