Chapter IV: Part 4

"My mother-in-law beat me. She took my jewels away from me. She shaved my head and drove me from the house. But I got work as a sweeper and for two years I have swept up the scrapings in the streets and made fuel cakes. I never went back to my husband's home."

Her story told, to which the old woman had listened with sympathy, the girl covered her face with her sari and, clasping her bundle in her arms, sat silent, shaking occasionally as with sobs.

Finally the other woman put her hand upon the girl's arm to soothe her. "What are you going to Benares for?" she asked.

"I am going to Benares," was the only answer the girl made.

Most of the women had left the carriage by this time and night was coming on. The old lady leaned over to the window and peered out through the semi-darkness.

"There is the Ganges River--Holy Mother Gunga!" she cried.

The girl started up and eagerly looked from the window, too. "Is that the Ganges River?" she asked and looked and looked until the last gleam of the water was lost as the train sped on.

"What are you going to Benares for?" the old woman asked again.

"I am going to Benares," the girl answered again with a frightened stare, clutching her bundle.

As there were but few passengers left, the two women soon lay down at full length on the hard benches and went to sleep. But the girl did not use her bundle for a pillow as her companion had suggested but lay with it in her arms.

Before the sun was up the next morning, the younger woman was awake and staring out with frightened eyes as the train ran through a country entirely strange to her. And when the old woman woke up and announced that soon she must be getting off, the girl's fear seemed to increase.

"Is the Ganges River near here, too?" she asked.

"Why, I think so," the old woman replied and her statement was confirmed by another woman in the next seat.

"Then I'll get off here with you," announced the girl with a brighter look. "If the Ganges River is here, this place should do as well as Benares, I think."

The older woman looked astonished but offered no objections to the girl's sudden change of plan.

In a few minutes the train stopped at Allahabad and again arose the mad confusion of a large railway station at train time. But the old woman got out safely, followed closely by the girl, holding her bundle tightly in her arms.

They stepped aside from the crowd and the old woman looked at the younger in curiosity as to what she would do here in Allahabad. The appearance of the latter had suddenly changed. Her face was eager and her eyes were bright.

"Take me to the Ganges River quickly," she demanded, "for I must throw these into the sacred river," and she held out her bundle.

"What is in it?" asked the old lady, eyeing the strange bundle with a frightened look such as the girl herself had worn until the excitement of being near her goal had driven it from her face.

"I must throw them into the Ganges River," repeated the girl. "They are my husband's bones," she whispered eagerly, lowering her voice. "When they burned his body I crept along and after all had left I picked them out of the pile of ashes and here they are!" she exclaimed triumphantly. "For two years I have kept them near me day and night and saved all my money to come to Benares to throw them into the Ganges River that I might be forgiven for his death and that he might have life and happiness as the priest said. But if the Ganges River is here, surely this place will do as well as Benares. I am so tired! I am so tired of being a cursed woman!" she sobbed, her excitement giving way to tears. "I want to be happy. Take me to the Ganges River!"

The old woman's expression had turned from fright to astonishment as she heard what the bundle contained; but at the girl's sobs her face grew sweet with a motherly tenderness. She turned away as if to think, murmuring to herself, "The memsahib will surely forgive me if I come a little late. She would like to have me help this poor child, I know, and perhaps she might make her an ayah like me if I take her with me. That would make the girl happy, indeed. Yes, I will help her."

Then she turned back to the girl. Tenderly taking her free hand, for one still tightly clasped the precious bundle, the old woman said, "Come, we will find the way to the sacred river."

Quickly the two went down the platform, now somewhat thinned of the earlier crowd, and passed through the station gate, the old woman still holding the girl's hand and the girl still tightly holding the bundle which was to be the price of life and happiness to her.

IX

Bachelor Dreams

Caldwell-Sahib, opening his eyes, let his head roll slowly over on his pillow. As the veranda door came within his line of vision the delicious drowsiness which had held him was suddenly disturbed, for there stood, looking out across the rows of potted plants to the dry lawn beyond, a woman whom he had never seen. For several moments he simply stared in weakness. Then, trying to brush away the strange, sickly haze which enveloped his brain, he let his eyes rove over the room as far as he could without physical effort. There in the corner was his desk. There, hanging above it, was the picture of the Taj which he had bought when Parsons had paid him a flying visit from England and they had gone to Agra together. Just to the right, out of the edge of his eye, he could see the foot of his steamer chair and, extending from beneath it, the hand-woven rug which he himself had spent a week in buying from a native dealer in Delhi, holding grimly to his first bid each day as he had passed the shop on his constitutional until a bargain had been struck the very day his train pulled out. Those things certainly belonged to him, but the woman did not. Where had she come from? For there she was still as his eyes again reached the door.

His strangely tired mind was just getting to the point of realizing what she looked like--that she was tall and fair--when the woman turned her face towards him and with a smile came to the bed.

"So you are awake and better. That's good! You will be all right now. Let me feel your pulse, please," and pulling the omnipresent mosquito netting aside, she laid a cool hand upon his wrist. "That is all right too. Your pulse is normal. Isn't that splendid!

"Now, listen to me," she continued after a deft fluffing of his pillows and a careful tucking in of the netting. "I'm sorry, but you've got to be your own nurse now. Your boy is frightened to death, but he'll stay with you and do your bidding. You'll be all right. I must go. Take one teaspoonful of this every hour," and she lifted a tumbler from the table. "At seven o'clock take half of this in the cup here," and she brought a flowered teacup into view. "Don't get up until you really feel strong enough to. Have your boy give you broths to-morrow, an egg the next day, and so on, getting back to your regular diet by degrees. I guess you are used to being your own nurse."

She turned towards the door. "I'll get your boy in but you will have to make him stay. I can't wait to do that."

She left the room, but soon returned followed slowly and reluctantly by his "boy," only a boy in Anglo-Indian nomenclature, for he was a tiny native man about forty years of age, who was bowing and salaaming but keeping as near to the door as possible.

"Come," said the lady in a low but compelling tone. "Come. Come along quickly," she added a trifle sharply as he lagged behind. "Aren't you ashamed to have left your master when he was sick! Now," for he had reached the bed by this time, "lift the netting and take hold of the sahib's hand."

"There!" she exclaimed as he touched the Englishman's hand and took his own quickly away. "There! You see it didn't hurt you. You haven't caught the cholera. Now, do as your master tells you; take good care of him and behave as a boy should," and she was gone.

Ah! Cholera! That explained it all to Caldwell. So he had had the cholera, he--Caldwell--who had served the government for fifteen years in India, had taken every risk, and had considered himself immune! That explained his extreme weakness, his befuddled brain, and the unusual soreness of his muscles. That explained the terror of his boy. But it did not explain the woman. Where had she come from? Who was she?

For some time Caldwell thought over this interesting matter, for it was easier just to think than to question the shivering boy who was still crouching as close to the outside door as possible. Who was she? She was tall and thin; her face was very fine-featured and intelligent. And she was an American. He knew that last fact from her speech and from her appearance, too, for although Caldwell never had looked at ladies in his life, especially American ladies, except when politeness absolutely compelled him to, yet even he could not mistake the something in the appearance that marks every American girl, and,--yes, secretly approve, although his English nature would not let him acknowledge it. And she wasn't very old either!

Suddenly a thought struck him, so suddenly and such a thought that he almost started up in spite of his weakness. There was only one other European in Baihar besides himself and that was a missionary, a woman,--a doctor, he had understood, and--an American.

"Boy," as strong a voice as a usually strong Englishman could command after a fit of cholera demanded, "was that the missionary?"

"Yes, Sahib, I got her. She's a doctor-memsahib, master."

"Boy, did you run away and leave me?" Caldwell continued, remembering the words of the woman to the boy and making his tone as sepulchral as possible in order to frighten the man still more.

"I ran to get the doctor-memsahib, master," shivered out the unhappy fellow, ignoring in his reply his later entire disappearance while the doctor-memsahib was left for five hours to struggle alone for Caldwell-Sahib's life.

But Caldwell-Sahib, although suspecting the truth, was in no state just then either by chastisement or preaching to teach the beauty of courage and self-sacrifice. So he sank back upon his pillow and gave himself to thought.

During the next few days, while his strength was returning, Caldwell-Sahib had plenty of time to think and, for the first time in his bachelor life, his thoughts centred about a woman--for he knew cholera and he knew that the doctor-memsahib had saved his life.

The boy, emboldened by feeling no symptoms of the dread disease in his own system, gradually took up his accustomed duties and cared for his master's wants in the quick, noiseless, and perfect way of the well-trained Indian servant that soothes a man's soul. So for several days with the punkah swinging over him the convalescent lay stretched out upon his steamer chair, the very picture of comfort and pleasant dreams. To have one's life saved by a woman and a good-looking one, too, touches even a crusty heart. But to find that this was the very woman whom for a whole month he had thought of only with contempt and disgust broke clear through the crustiness of Caldwell-Sahib's heart and added a little pleasurable anxiety to the tenderness engendered within.

One month before this time very suddenly the government had sent him up to Baihar to look after some matters which would consume about a year's time. So having taken possession of the bungalow built by the government for such official visits and having moved up enough of his belongings to be comfortable, Caldwell-Sahib had settled down for a "dead" year such as so many government officials live through in parts of India, as in duty bound. Baihar, a city of about ten thousand inhabitants, is a purely religious city, where no business is transacted but religious business and where no pleasures are indulged in but those of religion; those of the Hindu religion being so vile that "Baihar" is almost another name for Hell. Caldwell had expected to be the only European in that whole city of blackest Hinduism; so the prospects of a year alone in such a place had been, indeed, anything but inviting to an Englishman who despised the natives and who could find no pleasure in Indian life apart from the sports of a large cantonment or the resources of a well-stocked library.

However, after he had been in Baihar but a few days, he had heard that there was another European in the city, a woman, an American missionary, who for six years had lived alone in that horrible place in order to bring Christian, medical help to the poor women of that city, especially to the four thousand Hindu widows devoted to temple worship and the lusts of the priests. To say that Caldwell-Sahib had been horrified at the thought of a lone woman in that place would have put it too strongly, for he was simply disgusted. He said that she must be mad, certainly far beyond the realm of sense, let alone common sense, to have undertaken such a thing. This woman's presence in Baihar would not make any difference with the beastly dullness of the life ahead of him, that was certain, for he would have nothing to do with her and he did not even want to see her; for he hated women in general and this one must be an especially objectionable specimen of the species.

But now Caldwell-Sahib had seen her and she was sweet and wholesome to look upon. Now this very woman had saved his life. If she had not been there engaged in her foolish work, he would have died. Therefore, he was full of regret for his former unkind thoughts and he was, moreover, exceedingly grateful, for he put considerable value on his life, did Caldwell-Sahib, and to be less than grateful to her who had saved it would be to prove himself less than a man.

During the days of convalescence the Englishman's thoughts turned often to the probable experiences of the six years that this sweet American woman had spent alone in this "Hell." Even his stout English heart recoiled at the mental pictures his mind conjured up. He could see her threading her way alone through the crowded bazaars where vile Hindu priests, dirty shopkeepers, men red-faced with smallpox, or hideous lepers must again and again have jostled rudely against her. He saw her, unattended, with difficulty passing the frenzied religious processions which accompany the silver car of the great god as it makes its sacred rounds, or being pushed to the wall by a surging mass of religious devotees, eager to reach the sacred river to bathe in its holy waters. But the worst picture to him was of the nights of those six years when unprotected she must have crouched within her chamber in fright at the awful and unholy confusion of night in a Hindu city.

"My----!" He pulled himself up short. "I must not swear, for she is a missionary, but by--by--by Oliver Cromwell, I'll save her from all that."

The instinct of gratitude will assert itself and it is easy for gratitude to pass over into affection and enduring devotion. When the rescuer is a beautiful and capable woman, who can measure the consequences? All of Caldwell-Sahib's philosophy of life was thrown into confusion. His complex nature would no longer run according to his will. Staid, cold, hard, matter-of-fact Englishman though he was, his imagination played fantastic tricks with him and so through all these days while his body was regaining its lost strength, her face lived in his memory and the memory gave him a warm and comforting sensation about the heart, a sensation intensified in its delight by the thought that she was probably thinking about him, for so the old romance has run since the beginning of the human drama.

As soon as Caldwell-Sahib was able to get out, he inquired his way to her home. He had an easy time finding it, for everybody seemed to know where she lived and every face brightened at her name. But when he reached the compound and through the gate saw the plain but comfortable bungalow within, his courage gave way and he turned back home. However, he got into the habit of strolling around that way towards nightfall and standing a few minutes at the point of the wall nearest to what he thought her window and watching the people who came and went from her compound; but never on these occasions did he catch a glimpse of her. As a courageous and polite Englishman, he should have gone in and thanked the good American lady for having saved his life, but he had grown to feel that there was only one way in which he wanted to thank her and he had not yet reached the height of courage where he could tell her how she had wrecked his philosophy of life. So he lingered around outside the compound walls and watched the natives; "lucky beggars" he called them to himself, as they came and went from a small, low building at one side of the compound which he knew from appearance must be her dispensary. Those who passed him were lame and halt and, yes, even blind. But they were all "lucky" in his sight because they had been in her presence and had been speaking to her.

He overheard their remarks occasionally and now it was: "It hurt awfully but she put her hand on my head and took all the pain away;" or "She gave me the worst medicine to take, but since she said 'Take it!' I will;" and even the blind man said as he passed, a strange light in his face, "She says to come to-morrow and she will cut something in my eyes and then she thinks I shall see again. Since she says it will be all right, I am coming back to-morrow, but I wouldn't believe any one else."

Caldwell-Sahib's heart ached for the sweet, clean American woman who must touch, heal, and minister to such foul, dirty creatures. Every night as he watched them he felt that he ought to go in and tell her of his love and take her away from such a dreadful life at once. Possibly she was wondering why he had not come. How cruel he was to delay! But every night home he would go again and put off the visit, bachelor-like, until the next day.

However fate took a hand in the affair at last. One day a couple of months after his illness, as Caldwell-Sahib was standing in the narrow bazaar with, for a wonder, very few people about, he saw a lady's topi above some sari-covered heads turn into the street at the corner.

Caldwell-Sahib could not conceal from himself that his heart was beating with strangely quickened throbs. This sight of the woman who had saved his life and for weeks had filled his thoughts now brought to him an overwhelming consciousness that his bachelor dreams were at an end, that his hour had come, the happiest of a man's life; for when a man sees for the first time the light of love in the eyes of the woman whom he loves, that is the happiest hour of life. She came nearer. He could hear her voice, low in Hindustani, addressing a young native girl at her side.

For a blissful moment he watched her approach, saw the grace of her carriage, the pretty bend of her head as she talked with the girl, the slender, strong hands which had ministered to him and saved his life. He saw also, in anticipation, the light in her eyes and the blush upon her cheek when she should see him.

He stammered a good-morning. Strange how his lips seemed to tremble!

She glanced up.

With unrecognizing eyes turned upon him, slightly bowing a greeting in return, she passed on.

As Caldwell-Sahib stared stupidly after her, he heard the girl say: "That was the Inspector-Sahib whose life you saved when he had the cholera," for apparently the girl was astonished at the lady's uninterested manner in the presence of such an important official.

Caldwell-Sahib did not hear the lady's reply, as she and the young Hindu girl passed on.

"Oh, is that he? I had forgotten about him. I had such a good laugh afterwards at the surprised expression on his face when he saw me in his house the morning he regained consciousness that I ought to have remembered him. We must turn here, my dear, for I must get back to my work at once."

So the two turned down a side street which led to the doctor's office where at least thirty dirty, but well-remembered and beloved native patients were waiting for the tender treatments daily administered by the missionary's skillful hands.

The Englishman still stared.

X

The Cost

Yes, that is a Bible. Oh, yes, I speak English. I've spoken it ever since I was a young girl. Nearly every Parsi, you know, learns to speak English as soon as possible. We admire English people in a great many ways and try to emulate them in some things, although we are proud enough to think that we are superior to them in some others.

Yes, I'm a Parsi--that is--I'm a Parsi in race but not in religion. This Bible shows you what I am in belief. Yes, I'm a Christian, but not one of long standing, for I was baptized only one year ago.

You're an American, aren't you? I thought so, for in many ways you are like my dear Miss Miller. Won't you have this pillow at your back? Even second-class carriages are not any too comfortable. If you will let me pull that leather bag out a little from under the seat so that you can put your feet upon it, you will rest more easily. A second-class carriage is a luxury for me nowadays, since I became a Christian. I really can't afford to travel any other way than third, but I've been a little ill the last few weeks and Miss Miller insisted upon my coming second this time. You look so much like Miss Miller that you must excuse me, if I have stared at you a little impolitely since we left Grand Avenue Station.

Oh, an American is privileged to do that, you know, to watch us closely, for he is here to see a new people and to find out all he can about them. I don't mind that at all. We really expect it. We have so many Americans in Bombay that I have got quite used to it and don't notice it any more. At first I used to get embarrassed and think that they were looking at me, but I soon found out that it was only my clothes and my manners that they were interested in and that they couldn't distinguish me from any other Parsi lady; we were only a sort of curiosity to them. It wasn't exactly flattering to find it out, but still it made one feel more comfortable on the streets.

Oh, I've got quite accustomed to it now, I assure you. But you do resemble Miss Miller, if you don't mind my saying so; only she wears her hair quite plain and always dresses in gray.

She is my teacher.

Here we are at A----. I'm just selfish enough to hope that no other lady will want to get into this compartment. Since each of us has a whole seat to herself we can be pretty comfortable.

There is an unusual crowd of third-class passengers to-day, though there are always crowds here for that matter. I don't see where they get the money for all the travelling they do. Since so many pilgrimages are required in their religion the people seem to work very hard for a long time and then spend every anna that they have saved on a pilgrimage somewhere. But to-day is a special feast day at N----. That is another reason why Miss Miller insisted upon my coming second class this time, for the third was terribly crowded when we came down this noon. She is so good! She left her work just to come down and see me off, because I have been ill.

No, thank you. I don't care for a cup of tea now, for I shall reach my destination in time for tea. Oh, yes, the tea at these stations is quite safe. But I would not take the milk if I were you, for Miss Miller never does.

Oh, yes. We stop here about ten minutes. You'll have plenty of time to drink it and the man will come back with his tray and get your cup before the train starts. It is two annas a cup. Don't you want a piece of cake with it? Here, boy!

Yes, some of the stations have very good food.

The new passengers are nearly all located now and no one seems to be going to get in with us. I am so glad! Now we can be nice and comfortable.

Yes, they do keep the plants nicely watered and well taken care of at these stations. If they were not so dreadfully noisy and confused at train times, they would be pretty enough places to live in.

There goes the bell! Here comes your boy. I'll hand it to him.

Two annas. That's right. I suppose it is hard for you to get accustomed to our money; I believe it is quite different from yours, is it not?

Oh, is that some of your American money? How interesting! It is worth about three-quarters of a rupee, you say? I am so glad to have seen it. What do you call it?

A quarter! See, I'll use that word in speaking to Miss Miller some time. Won't that surprise her! She will wonder where I have learned it.

Now we are off and there isn't another station for half an hour at least. Isn't that nice? Now we can rest. Wouldn't you rather lie down?

That is very kind of you, for I do feel just like talking this afternoon. This little trip is a holiday for me, you see, and has quite excited me, almost as much as it would my little girl. But I expect that she is excited, too, this afternoon, for she knows I am coming to see her.

One little girl. I am a widow and have been so for several years.

She is in school down here at A----. And since I've been ill, Miss Miller had me come down to see her for a rest.

Indeed, I'll be glad to tell you about myself, especially about my becoming a Christian, if you would like to hear, for I love to tell that story. You Christians in America are so good to send teachers to us!

You are not a Christian! But I thought all Americans were Christians!

Don't you believe in God?

You suppose there is a God but you've never thought much about it! How strange! Don't you believe in Christ?

No? Why, how can that be possible when He has done so much for you people in America and is doing so much for us here?

Do I believe in Christ? Why, of course I do. Do you think I would be here, a penniless woman, going to see my daughter, kept in school by charity, if I did not believe in Jesus Christ; if I did not know Him personally and if I had not confessed my belief before my family and friends?

I can't understand why you do not believe in Christ, unless--yes, it must be so--you have been too busy to think about Him and you have not really needed His help yet. You never have had any trouble and felt all alone in the big world, without any one to help you, have you? Until that time comes I suppose people are too busy having a good time to think about religion. I have noticed that here in my teaching among my own people, but I did not suppose it was so in America, for I thought everybody believed there. Here I have seen that when people are kept quiet for a time because of sickness or sorrow, when they have time to think and when earthly friends cannot help, then Christ most easily makes Himself known to them. I know this is so for I have proved it myself. And I know Christ!

Yes, it does make me very happy!

Oh, I had forgotten this station. But we will stop here only a few minutes and as it is a small station I don't think any one else will get on. Here comes a gentleman to the window.

Thank you. An orange would taste good and refresh me. Although this is our cold season, it does get pretty warm in the middle of the day.

Your husband? You are taking a trip around the world for pleasure. What interesting things you must have seen! Your husband is a lecturer. Oh, I see, and he is taking pictures with his camera for his lectures, I suppose. He is going to take that boy with his pan of sweets. See?

There is the bell! He got the picture just in time.

Shall I go on with my story? But, please, don't let me tire you.

No, I'll save my orange a little while for I cannot eat when I have a chance to talk on this subject. Do you know much about the Parsis?

Well, I'll tell you a little so that you can understand my situation. We Parsis are Persians; but when the Mohammedans came into our country and began to persecute us, gained political control, and tried to make us accept their religion by force, many of us fled to India, most of whom are now settled around Bombay.

The women all dress about as I do with a little cotton waist, you see, and a one-coloured sari; delicate pinks and blues are favourite colours, edged with fancy embroidered borders, often of pure gold or silver. We wear stockings and slippers, the latter usually more elaborately embroidered than mine. We wear, also, this peculiar head-binder, a white cloth drawn tightly around the head, covering the hair under the sari. Our men invariably dress as Europeans these days, for that dress is so convenient, but they may be recognized by an oddly shaped cap which Miss Miller says looks as if it were made of what you in America call black oilcloth, I think it is. Of course the sacred emblems of Parsiism are worn under the clothing and do not show, the shirt and the kusti.

Our people have lived in India for many generations, but they have kept themselves separate from the other peoples. There has been very little intermarriage; we have kept our own religion; and we are practically a distinct people. Of course in our religion and our social customs we have been somewhat influenced by the Hindus and Mohammedans among whom we have lived so long; but we differ from them greatly. We believe in education and begin to teach our children early in life. We believe in monogamy and a happy family life. We are industrious, keen, and honest in business; and I am not overstating facts when I tell you that we are the bankers and most important business people in India. Of course we are not many in number compared with the dense population of this great land, but we are scattered throughout the whole of it, and hold, as a rule, the places of greatest influence.

Let me throw your orange peel out of this window which is already open. You've let your husband take your satchel into his compartment and you haven't a towel? That's too bad! I have a perfectly clean one in my bag; won't you please use it?

Oh, please don't mention it. I assure you it is a pleasure to me. I suppose you are more accustomed to the first-class lavatories, but, really, our second-class accommodations are comfortable; don't you think so?

No, indeed. I don't mind interruptions in my story. I'll rearrange my bag while you are gone, for I packed in a hurry and I don't just know where my things are.

It is convenient to have a lavatory for every compartment. Isn't it so in America? You don't have compartments at all! Why, how funny! I can't imagine what your trains must be like. Miss Miller says that she will take me to America with her some time. But I don't believe I'd like to leave India even for a little while, interesting as America must be.

Yes, I'll go on with my story. Well, I was the daughter of a wealthy Parsi in Bombay and we had a beautiful home in a part of the city which is now not quite so pleasant, for Bombay as it has grown towards one million in population has changed very much. I had a governess and even at ten I began the study of English in connection with my regular lessons and music. When I was about thirteen, my father, who was really a little more advanced than the average Parsi, decided to have English only spoken in our household. Knowing the value of the language in commercial relations he considered it a very important part of an education.

But I must tell you about our, that is the Parsi, religion. We are the followers of Zoroaster, you know, and we believe that God is represented by fire. Therefore fire is sacred and in our temples a fire is always kept burning, with an order of priesthood to care for it. You can see how this belief might degenerate and become a worship of fire itself, as I fear it has with many people. Even the fires in our homes have to be cared for with ceremonies of various kinds. We are taught that one should be faithful to his wife; that every one should be charitable. But we do believe in demons and must go through all sorts of rites to keep them away. You see I can't give you more than the briefest account of our belief, for it is more or less complicated as all beliefs are, but I wanted you to see that in almost every way it is superior to the other religions of India, but still lacking the vital elements of Christianity. One strange thing about our teaching is that we are not told to try to get converts; indeed, the Parsis do not want any new believers. Isn't that strange? Really, I must confess that I think we are a very self-satisfied people in every respect.

At first we did not believe in early marriages, but in that respect we have been gradually influenced by the Hindus. So at fourteen I was married to the son of a rich merchant. Of course my husband was chosen for me, but he proved to be a fine young man and we were very happy together. Part of the wedding ceremonies took place, as our weddings usually do, in the large public wedding hall which probably you saw in Bombay. Really, the customs have got to be so elaborate that a poor Parsi can hardly marry off a child without being in debt for the rest of his life. Fortunately our family, as I have said, did not lack for money and everything was beautiful. It was, indeed, a very happy and joyous occasion, a prophecy of our life together. For we were very, very happy for eight years. My husband was an unusual young man and gave promise of surpassing his father in business sagacity and literary ability. Our little girl came after two years of marriage and she was dearly beloved by him, although, of course, he would have liked a son. We were happy, oh, so happy! After he died it used to hurt me so to think about it that for two years I never spoke of my married life to any one, but since I have found Jesus, I love to think about it and speak of it.

But one day our joy was turned to sadness and our gladness to grief, for my husband was smitten with enteric fever. You know how prevalent that is here in India and how often fatal. He had been overworking at his office and in the study. Our family was too enlightened to believe that the illness was caused by demons, as most of our people do, and he was not neglected as most of our sick people are, but he had the best of English medical attention and the most tender nursing from us. He was young and strong and we fought hard, but after six weeks of deepest anxiety and all the devotion I could lavish upon him, I saw him sink away and leave me.

They took me from him while they prepared him for our peculiar funeral rites and while I myself had to go through certain ceremonies of purification. You have been to the Towers of Silence in Bombay? No? But you are going back next week. Well, when you stand upon the terrace and look across to those great towers, black around the tops with ugly vultures, think of me as on that day three years ago I stood and watched.--Please excuse my tears, but I don't usually tell this part of my story; it is too sacred; but I don't think you could understand the rest without knowing these customs of ours. You know that the elements, earth, air, fire, and water, are sacred in the sight of the Parsis and cannot be defiled by the dead; therefore we cannot bury our dead; we cannot burn them; nor can we throw their corpses into the river to be carried away by its current. So our ancestors devised the plan which we now use. Our dead are exposed upon high towers and vultures are allowed to tear away the flesh, leaving the bones to crumble. So we Parsis in Bombay have, upon a hill overlooking the harbour, really the most beautiful spot in the city, a park in which at the top of the hill are located five white towers between twenty-five and fifty feet high. The park is well cared for and contains a shrine where fire is always burning. A high terrace looks out towards the towers, about five hundred feet away, which are never approached except by the officers of the dead.

Yes, visitors are admitted to the garden by permit before nine in the morning. After that time the grounds are kept clear for funerals and mourners who come to pray for the dead.

I need not tell you of the long, sorrowful approach to the gardens on that day three years ago, or how, standing upon the terrace, I saw that dear body borne to the tower to become the prey of the ugly birds swarming about the gardens. I need not tell you either of my loneliness in our home or of my return to my father's house with only one desire in life, to bring up my child so that she should be an honour to her father.

For a year my life was very bare and my heart very heavy. I had plenty of money; I wanted for nothing; I was tenderly cared for by my family, for, you know, the Parsis do not treat their widows after the customs of the Hindus; but nothing seemed to make me even one tiny bit happier. Then one day a white lady called at our home. She was very pleasant and kind. She showed us a book of a new religion which she wanted us to read and she offered to come and read it with us every day; but my mother did not care to hear about any other religion than our own. Then the lady showed us some beautiful embroidery which we did not know how to do. When my mother expressed a wish to learn the new work, the lady offered to teach her if she might also read from the Bible at every lesson. I, too, liked to keep my fingers busy and when my mother, who excelled at needlework, could not resist the temptation and consented to let Miss Miller come, for it was indeed she, I was glad.

Once a week she came and for an hour at a time taught us various kinds of stitches and read and explained the Bible to us. My mother, after a short time, became ill and could not attend the lessons, but as I seemed to enjoy them and my mind was somewhat diverted by them from my sorrow, she still continued to allow Miss Miller to come. So I, who had become very much interested in the Bible, much more so than in the sewing, used to let my embroidery lie untouched while sometimes we would talk for a couple of hours of this Christ religion. What a beautiful religion it seemed to me! What a comforting religion! I would have something to live for and something to work for if I were a Christian. I thought of my husband's death with less bitterness, for this religion taught that I would surely see him again if I did God's will. Finally one day, one year ago, Christ spoke to my heart. I believed. I knew that Christ not only had lived but that He still lives. I cried for joy, but Miss Miller thought it was with grief and started to console me. But when I looked up with a shining face, her face shone too.

"You have found Jesus!" she said.

I answered eagerly, "I have."

And right there in my own chamber where she had been coming since my mother's illness, we knelt and prayed.

When we arose, I said, "I want to be baptized and become a Christian."

"You are a Christian now, my dear," she said.

"But I want the world to know it," I affirmed.

"That is right and brave," she answered, "but you must count the cost first."

Then she sat down beside me and gently told me what I would have to bear if I publicly took the name of Christ. She said that there were not more than twenty-five Parsi Christians in the whole world. She said that probably I would be turned out of my home, that my relatives would count me as dead, that all my wealth would be taken from me and that I would not have one anna for myself or my child.

"Think of your child! Think of yourself! I cannot urge you to do it. You must decide for yourself."

I answered quickly, "I have thought of myself. I have thought of my child. She must be a Christian and be brought up as such. Miss Miller, I have decided for myself. Jesus will take care of us. I know it in my heart for He tells me so."

So I made my decision and she said no more, but I knew she was pleased by the smile that she gave me. I would not wait for one instant lest influences might be brought to bear which I could not resist and I might be prevented from declaring my desire and fulfilling it. I took Miss Miller's hand and we went at once to my mother's room. She was not dangerously ill. When she heard my determination to become a Christian, she sent for my father from his study. Together they listened as I told all again.

"Is that decision final, my daughter?" asked my father at last, a man always of few words.

"It is," I answered with a heart yearning towards them but firm.

"Then you must go from our home, from our family. You and yours can no longer be a part of us in any way. You will receive nothing from us for your support.--You are dead to us.--If you repent of this folly," he added, turning back from the door towards which he had started with bowed head, "communicate with me and half of my fortune will be yours. But if you persist in this strange conduct," his voice grew very stern, "in ten minutes you and yours must be gone from this house."

I tried to kiss my mother good-bye but her face was turned from me towards the wall.

I returned to my apartment, took my child, my belongings and a few relics of my husband and our happy life together and within ten minutes I had left my home, perhaps forever,--but I don't think so. I believe that some day God will send me back to them at their own request; for they will yet believe as I do, I feel assured.

Miss Miller took me to her own home and trained me. I have been a Bible woman for six months now and Christians in America pay my salary. By a scholarship they also help me support and educate my daughter in a Christian school.

Am I not sorry? Look at me! I used to ride always in the first-class carriage; my saris were of silk and my borders embroidered with gold; but there was sorrow in my heart. Now, I may sit on a hard bench, crowded by dirty Hindus and my clothes may be of the cheapest cotton, but I am happy, for Christ has put joy into my life and into the life to come. He has also given me something important to do for Him. The lives of most of our Indian women are so empty! In the first-class carriage I used to have few fellow travellers; now in the third I have many, sad, needy women to whom I can tell the great story of which my own story is only a dim reflection. And to some of these women in the last six months God has given me the joy of revealing His love through Jesus Christ.

Well, if here isn't our station! Hasn't the time flown!

I hope I haven't wearied you.

Thank you very much! Kind words stay in one's memory such a long time and come back to strengthen in lonely or hard hours. I am so glad that you enjoyed my story. Won't you take time to think a little about Jesus yourself? I don't understand how an American woman, with all God has given her, can say that she does not believe in Him and love Him and His Son!

There is my little girl and here is your husband! Good-bye!

Oh, you are going to get off here too! Will I come up to the hotel some time and see you? Indeed, I shall be delighted to! And will I bring my little girl? How happy she will be to come! You must excuse my excitement for I haven't seen her for two months, you know. There, she sees me! How well and happy she looks! Will I bring my Bible with me when I come? Yes, dear lady, most gladly will I. Here, dear, this way! Good-bye! Good-bye!

XI

Among the Clouds

The conversation had drifted by mysterious and unexplained associations of ideas from the unusual excellence of the sweets served at the end of dinner upon this line of steamers, to the most grewsome tales of adventure which the narrators themselves had experienced. Gladys, who by the most special of special permissions and the kind favour of the captain, because she was an only child, well behaved at table, and--because it was off season--had been permitted to take Sunday dinner with her parents, sat beside the captain in the gorgeous first cabin saloon with round eyes fixed upon the story-tellers.

There was present at dinner the usual shipboard mixture of society: at the captain's right, a man whose extensive business interests called him often into these waters; next, a gentleman and his wife, travelling for their united healths; third, a government official returning to India after a brief holiday; on the opposite side, two globe-trotters, an American lady from Southern India, Gladys' father, and finally Gladys herself. The chair between the little girl and her father was vacant, for Gladys' mother, who had been at dinner, feeling the slight roll of the boat, had retired early to her cabin, leaving the child to the father's care.

If her mother had been there Gladys would not have been permitted to listen to the stories which had been told and enjoy the delicious sensations of fear which she had experienced as she had heard the accounts of awful dangers and marvellous escapes. The merchant had obliged this little dinner company to spend five days with him without food on a desert island and, after a thrilling rescue, had made them watch him fall seventy feet from the masthead of a ship to become the ship-surgeon's pet patient with twenty bones to set. Gladys had felt herself wasting away with starvation as he had told of his sufferings and, when he had cheerfully reached his second story, she could hear her own bones grate as if broken asunder, as she moved her legs under the table.

Soon it came the turn of the lady from Southern India to tell a story.

"Well, I have had one thrilling experience which I don't mind telling you, if my courage will support me through the recital," she said.

Gladys listened with all her ears, for the lady from Southern India had become her best friend on shipboard. She did not want to miss a single word.

"You know that I have been a resident of Southern India for many years," the lady began. "I could tell many dreadful stories of pestilence and disaster in that region, but the most awful experience that I have ever had myself took place in Northern India, in Darjeeling. Of course you all know Darjeeling."

But in spite of her own assurance that they did, the lady did not seem to be able to resist, as no one who loves the Himalayas can, telling again of that city among the clouds, seven thousand feet above the sea, looking directly across the depths to where, when the sun permits, shine forth the snowy peaks of Kinchenjunga. The little city on the sheer mountainside is to the world only another proof of the audacity of man who dares to invade regions so exalted and, in the hope of drenching his lungs, parched by the heat of the Indian plains, with the cool air from the never-melting snows of the mountain peaks, dares to build his summer cottage on the overhanging rock and trust to Providence that it will not tumble headlong into the clouds below or, rained on from the clouds above, be carried down the mountainside and buried in unknown depths by the debris of an ever-possible landslip. Clinging to the edges of the crest of this mountain height or perched upon the very crest itself, the summer homes of the "sahibs" peer out through their enclosures of shrubbery and trees to the snow-capped heights where even their masters dare not venture, but from looking upon which these men gain courage to go down again to the plains to take up their heavy tasks, "the white man's burden."

In her ardour the lady from Southern India described even the ascent of the foot-hills to this resort among the mountains: the wide views appearing first on one side, then on the other, as the little train winds its way up the mountainside, sometimes making complete circles to reach the higher grades and at other times shunting backwards to save a long detour. The tea-gardens on the hillsides, the luxuriance of the vegetation in the wooded glens, the waterfalls, the odd little native villages along the road, descriptions of all these the table company listened to with pleasure, for they deserved attention, coming from the lips of one who was very familiar with the scenes of which she spoke and who loved them. Even Gladys, who was afraid of mountains, because "they look so big and black," wished she might have been there by the time the lady had reached the beginning of her story.