Chapter III: A Startling Question

FOR several days, Hira waited, not patiently, but most impatiently, for Sukhiya to come and tell her what she wanted to know.

She would have gone again to seek her, but her last expedition had cost her a good beating, which she did not care to have repeated. Besides, if she was not careful, she would be so watched that she would have no opportunity of going out by herself. So she waited, counting the days, and at last Sukhiya came. It seemed that day as if it would never be settled just how much butter was wanted, and then how much must be paid for it. But at last, Sukhiya stood up ready to put her basket on her head.

Now Hira's time was come; she groped her way to a small passage by the door through which her friend would have to pass, so as to be ready to stop her there, where there would be no one to listen to what was said. As soon as Sukhiya saw the child, she put down her basket on the ground, and sat down beside it, as if quite prepared to stay as long as she was wanted, for time was no matter of great consideration.

"Tell me, Sukhiya," whispered the child eagerly, "Where is Jesus Christ, and how can I find Him? And has He ever made any other blind girl see? Tell me quickly."

"Stay, stay, child! What a hurry you are in! You make my head swim with so many questions, and I still weak from the fever; listen quietly, and you shall hear all. I went to a babu's house yesterday, where I sometimes go to sell, and as they are Christians, I thought they would tell me what you want to know. They laughed when I said that a blind girl I knew wanted to go to Jesus Christ, to ask Him to give her new eyes. I did not see anything to laugh at, but they seemed to think I was not quite in my right senses. And then I got angry, and came away, so that is all I know."

"Oh, how unkind!" cried the child in a tone of bitter disappointment. "How cruel of them to laugh, and how silly of you to be angry and not to ask any more! But I 'will' find out; I will go myself and ask. I wonder they can laugh at a poor blind girl!"

"Very well," said the woman, glad to see a way of escape; "that will be a very good thing. I will take you some day, and you shall find out all you want to know."

"Let us go to-day. Why should we not go now?" cried the child impatiently. "Surely I have waited long enough."

Sukhiya considered a minute, and then, seeing no serious objection, she agreed, and so they started on their way—the woman with a basket on her head, followed by the small figure in a red sari.

It was not far to the Christian babu's house, and as the door was open, Sukhiya walked straight in. The house was not very different to those in the midst of which it stood, but still, there was quite enough to show that it was not inhabited by ordinary Hindus or Mahomedans.

Several tables and chairs, none too clean and in some cases broken, stood here and there, while the walls were decorated with various pictures and prints, in the midst of which was a text surrounded by Christmas cards.

The courtyard and verandah seemed quite empty and deserted, but as Sukhiya called out, "Is there anyone at home?" a woman holding a baby in her arms came out of the inner room. She very well matched her house, being dressed in a style which was partly English and partly Hindustani, not over clean or tidy. She looked weary and listless, as if life had not proved itself very attractive to her, and she had ceased to take much interest in it. She sat down on the first seat she came to, and Sukhiya, putting down her basket before her, sat down beside it, Hira, who was holding on to the end of her chaddar, doing likewise.

Sukhiya, who had little thought of her own business, but was thinking rather of the child beside her, and how to get her satisfied, came at once to the point, and told the object of her visit.

"This is the blind girl I told you of," she said, "who wants to know about Jesus Christ, and whether He can make her see as He has done other people. So, as you are a Christian and know all about these things, will you please tell her? For she won't be satisfied any way till she knows, and I cannot tell her."

Mary Dayál looked up in surprise, and a gleam of interest lighted up her otherwise dull face. She was not accustomed to being asked questions like this, and she hesitated a little before giving an answer. Then she said, "The little girl must be very ignorant not to know that Jesus Christ is not here now. It is hundreds of years ago since He gave sight to the blind."

"Is Jesus Christ dead?" interrupted Hira. "Then why does the English gentleman sing hymns about Him? What use is a dead person?"

"But Jesus Christ is 'not' dead," answered Mary. "He is alive in heaven, but not in this world, and He doesn't make blind people see any more. You had better go to the hospital and have your eyes looked at; something might be done for you there."

The child's eager face clouded over; she had so hoped that she would be able to find Jesus Christ, and that He would just touch her eyes and she would see. Now it was all of no use, for He was dead. How could it be true that He was alive? If He was not anywhere, He must be dead, and this woman was talking nonsense. She drew her red sari further over her face and said nothing more.

And the two women began to talk to each other about such things as milk and butter.

Presently Sukhiya took up her basket, and Hira stood up also, ready to follow her. Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her, and raising her sightless eyes to Mary's face, she asked earnestly, "Have you got ready to meet God?"

The woman started at this unexpected question, and turning to Sukhiya, asked, "Is this child in her right mind, that she asks such strange questions?"

Quite indignant at such a thing being said of her little favourite, Sukhiya answered quickly, "In her right mind! Of course she is, but while we spend all our time thinking of bread, and money, and such things, she, poor little one, sitting in the dark, thinks of God. It seems as if when the Almighty took away her eyes, He gave her a double share of understanding, for there are few of us as wise as she."

Then turning to the child, "Come, little one," she said, "there is nothing to be learnt here, that is certain." And the two went out.

But Hira, though she had gained nothing herself, left a message behind her. Mary Dayál sat on alone, for the baby had fallen asleep, and in the silence came back again the blind child's question: "Have you got ready to meet God?"

The questioner was only a little heathen girl, who knew nothing about the true God, and the one of whom she had asked was a Christian, who had been baptised and belonged to the Christian Church, and yet the unanswered question had made her feel uneasy, all the more so because it had come so unexpectedly.

If she had heard the words in church, as doubtless she often had done, they would have been soon forgotten, but it was quite different when this strange child, with her patient, eager face, and sightless eyes, stood before her and asked, as if she really wished to know, "Have you got ready to meet God?"

The question brought others. When and where would she have to meet God? What did it mean to be ready? And how could she get ready?

In the depths of her heart, she knew that she had no wish to meet God. She only knew Him from very far-off, and she had no desire to come nearer. She went to church when there was nothing to prevent, but very often there was, and when she was not too busy or too tired, she read a chapter in the Bible; if that would make her ready to meet God, then she was ready. But something seemed to whisper in her heart that God would require more than that. Then the baby woke, and soon the other children came in from school, and there was no more time for thinking.

NORA'S MESSAGE.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"NORA, ain't you ready?" asked a querulous voice from the bed.

The child addressed was putting on a pair of heavy boots, while by her side on a box lay a rather tattered hat, and a shawl.

Nora did not answer; she was a good-tempered little girl, and she took things as they came, generally.

"It's hard to lie here and know it will be hours before you bring home a bit of bread or tea," moaned the invalid.

"I'm bein' as quick as I can, mother," said the child, "but these laces is so broken; I was near havin' a new pair yesterday—"

"You sure wasn't going to spend a penny when a bit of string would do?" sharply suggested the invalid.

Nora laughed a little. "Well, no, I didn't think of spendin' a penny, no more ner you would, mother!" she answered. "Not on that, leastways."

How often she had stood by the boys with trays of buns, and felt as if she would give her whole basket of flowers 'almost' for one of those warm, spongy, sugary, shiny dainties!

"Then how?" asked her mother, raising herself on her elbow.

"I was crossin' over a wide place, one of them old fellers with laces was crossin' too, and one of 'em fell off the wire in the mud—"

"And you didn't?" inquired her mother.

"I could easy ha' had it—nothin' easier," pursued the child, with a nod, "but—"

"But what?" asked the invalid, laying herself wearily back on her pillow.

"But I thought of what teacher telled us—and I couldn't! So I picked it up and give it to him."

"What did she tell you?" asked the invalid a little curiously.

"She telled us that 'Jesus' noticed what we was doin', and I couldn't after that!"

She took up her basket and ran out, and the mother lay in her weariness and faintness, and pondered.

"Jesus notices what we're doing," she repeated again and again. "Then if He notices, He knows all about us!" she thought. "He sees my pain, and how hungry and miserable I am. I wonder if He cares?"

There was a little rap at the door. "May I come in?" said a gentle, bright voice. "I thought you would like to see a friend this morning; and I've brought you a piece of toast we had on the table and a cup of hot tea in a bottle. Feel how warm it is wrapped in my cloak! I brought it because Jesus loves you! Is not that a nice comforting thought?"

So Much the More!

SEE how loving Jesus looks! He never turned anyone away who wanted Him.

When people are tired, we sometimes hear them say, "Don't come and ask me; I'm too tired." But Jesus never did like that; He always was ready to help and bless.

Perhaps you little children say in your hearts, "Yes, but then that was so long ago, and Jesus is not on earth now. I wish He were, and that I were there in the Holy Land, and could tell Him just what troubles me."

And so you turn away with a sigh, and wish Jesus were here now.

But though you cannot see the Lord Jesus, He "is" near you all the time. It is true that He left this earth and went back to heaven. But because He is God, He is here, close to us all the time, and is ready to help you the moment you speak to Him in your heart.

You see this picture? You would like to hear about it, I know, because the Lord Jesus looks so kind, and the poor man seems so anxious to get to Him.

Jesus was close to the city of Jericho, and as He passed along, a number of people were with Him who had seen the wonderful things He did.

Just outside the city, a blind man sat near the road, begging of those who passed by. His ears were very quick, and he soon heard the trampling of feet and guessed something unusual was going on.

He eagerly asked what it meant, and when they told him that Jesus of Nazareth passeth by, he called out aloud, "Jesus, Thou son of David, have mercy on me!"

The people who went before did not like the interruption, and told him to be quiet. But the blind man had heard of Jesus and knew He could make him well, so he cried out louder than ever.

The dear Lord never refuses a cry of distress: He stood still, and commanded the blind man to be brought to Him.

So the people ran to the blind man and said to him, "Be of good cheer, rise; He calleth thee."

So the blind man was led to Jesus, and Jesus inquired what he wanted. And the blind man asked Him to do the most difficult thing in the world, next to raising the dead; he asked that his blind eyes might be made to see.

But nothing is difficult to the Lord Jesus. In a moment, Jesus had given him what he asked, and told him that his faith had saved him.

And then the blind man did what all of us should do who have been to Jesus and received a blessing or an answer to our prayers from Him—we should "follow Him in the way, glorifying God."

We should try to please Jesus in all our daily work and play. When we think how He has heard our prayer, or comforted us, or made us pleasant when we felt cross, or helped us to forgive somebody who had been unkind to us—then we should say in our hearts,—

"Dear Lord Jesus, thank You."

And so we should find our faces grow brighter and our lives happier, and we should be following Him in the way.

SMOOTHED OUT.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"WHERE is Margaret?" asked cook crossly.

"She's in the passage, kneeling by the window," said the housemaid.

"'What?'" asked the cook emphatically.

"Writing letters!" said Jenny.

The cook marched to the door with quick step, and stood looking at Margaret with wrath in her eyes.

"How often have I told you that I will not have you writing letters before your work is done!" she exclaimed.

Margaret turned round, and her face grew scarlet as she rose from her knees.

"No wonder you are ashamed!" exclaimed cook. "What with Jenny always wanting to go out, and you always wanting to be writing letters, and Martha neglecting her work like she does, I have enough of it. I shall tell mistress that I can't make anything of you, and that she had better get another girl!"

With which words, she went into the kitchen and slammed the door.

Margaret stood dumbfounded; then she looked down at her letter, and then angrily she crumpled the freshly written pages together, and stuffing them into her little blotter, she hurried back to the scullery, where a whole heap of washing-up awaited her.

Boiling with anger, she plunged the plates into the tub, and dashed away at her work in a desperate fashion. All the time, she was conscious of that crumpled letter in her blotting-case. And that, worst of all, it was mail day, and there would be no time to write another.

Burning tears scalded her cheeks and dropped into the tub, till she was forced to get out her handkerchief and wipe them away. Then she dashed on again, the thought of having lost the mail making her half beside herself.

Just at that moment, there came a sudden check; a cover of one of the best vegetable dishes flew into two pieces in her cloth.

Here was a disaster! Margaret hid her face in her hands.

Cook had almost given her her dismissal; she had broken one of the best dishes, and she had spoilt the letter which was to have gone to her soldier brother by that afternoon's post! She put down the pieces of the cover without any noise now. She wrung out her dish-cloth and emptied away the water, and then slowly and sorrowfully she took her blotter and went upstairs to her room.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" she sobbed, as she threw herself on her knees by her bed.

Oh that her own mother were alive, or that she could lay her head on her faithful brother's shoulder and tell him all her grief!

And if she did, what would he say? The thought quieted her. She ceased to cry so hopelessly, and her head sank on her arms.

"He would tell me to look to Jesus," she whispered to herself, "and he would say that He can straighten out the worst of life's tangles. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! But how can I ask Him after my passion? And then there's the mail—and cook—and the vegetable dish."

It did seem too many tangles to get straightened out. And yet—

Her head bowed lower and lower, and her heart went out to that loving Saviour who is near us when we call upon Him in truth.

After a minute or two she rose, and the first thing she saw was cook, standing in front of her with the broken dish in her hand and tears in her eyes.

"Oh, cook!" sobbed Margaret, "I was coming to tell you—"

"And I was coming to tell you," said cook gently, "that I'm sorry I spoke quite so sharp to you. I know you try to be a good girl, but I was vexed about the letter. We must make time in future for you not to be so drove over it. Cheer up, and I'll make it right with mistress about the dish!"

She stooped and gave Margaret a kiss—the first kiss she had ever given in that house.

"Where's your letter?" she asked kindly.

Margaret hesitated; then, still blinded by her tears, she drew it out of her case.

"I can't send it," she whispered; "I'm ashamed to let him see it—and I've never missed before!"

Cook sat down and took the case on her knee. She smoothed the crumpled edges and pressed the letter out with her fingers, and then she exclaimed—

"There's an iron hot on the stove; run down and iron it. There's just time!"

So Margaret flew down, and cook followed slowly.

"May I add just a line?" she asked humbly.

"All right!" said cook, who was bending over the fire.

And Margaret added—

"Oh, Jack, I've been so cross, and things did seem so hard, but Jesus
has helped me, and I'm going to trust Him, as you wanted me to."

Who can tell what joy that sentence gave to the young soldier fighting at the front?

After that day, things grew better for Margaret. It was surprising how different cook was, and how many little pleasures she seemed able to put in the busy kitchenmaid's life.

And Margaret on her part was different too. At first, she shyly tried to be ready to do willingly what was required of her. And by-and-by, a mutual understanding of love sprang up between her and the lonely cook.

Sometimes in the quiet night, cook would say to herself, "Margaret has no mother, and I have no child; I'll be a mother to her."

Margaret did not guess that for many a long day. But she often wondered, and thanked God in her heart many times a day, that in giving her His heavenly love, He had sent her cook's earthly love as well.

"WILL I?"

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

THE letter had come that morning, and Mary had glanced at it as she sat at breakfast among her brothers and sisters, and had then stuffed it in her pocket, reserving it for the first quiet moment she could get.

"What does he say?" asked her favourite brother, looking up quizzically in her face.

"What 'doesn't' he say?" she responded lightly.

The fact was her eyes had caught a sentence which changed the whole course of her life. Instead of the long engagement which she had thought inevitable, here was her Jack proposing to be married within three months.

"You must think it well over," he said, in almost his first sentence,
"and weigh all the things there are against it, as well as for it."

How good Jack was, she thought, and then she stuffed the letter in her pocket and tried to give her mind to helping the bacon and cutting the bread.

It seemed as if everybody wanted everything that morning. But at last, she found herself with her duties done, able to shut her door and sit down to think it well over, as Jack said.

But Mary did not sit there a moment. With the quiet came a habit, a holy habit, of using her solitude in talking to her Lord Jesus. She sank on her knees by her bed and whispered that she was ignorant what to do, uncertain what would be best, and asking Him to take "the government upon His shoulder," to be her Counsellor.

Then softly she arose and went back to her seat at the window and read Jack's letter over carefully.

"He wants it," she said thoughtfully, "but he would not press me to do it without well considering it. He has had a new place in the country offered him—a better position—and he says that it will be very lonely for him, and he asks me if I will be content to begin in a very small way. (Of course I will!) And he says that we cannot have the comforts and luxuries we may have had in our fathers' homes, but we can have happiness and each other, even if we do have to work a little harder."

She looked down at her pretty hands, in which she confessed to take some pride. "But that is nonsense," she thought quickly; "he says we shall have the upper half of a house, or perhaps a little one all to ourselves; and he promises to help me as much as he can, and not to shirk the hard things (dear Jack!) and he thinks there is every prospect in this new opening of improvement year by year."

"I know what I should like, if mother and father think it prudent," she said, "and they will help me to decide rightly."

So there was a long consultation that evening in the library, and Mary learned afresh what the tenderness of the parents' love is. Perhaps it helped her to understand a little more of the love and care of the great Heavenly Father.

The letter to Jack went off before post time and it was entirely to his satisfaction.

"I am not above work, you know, Jack," she said, "and I will make your money go as far as ever I can. We will go without what we cannot afford; and mother thinks we shall do very well, and be very happy; so there!"

A CHARGE.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

WHAT a long time it seemed! What a long fortnight to take care of all those children, with responsibility from morning to night!

Lettice waved the last good-bye to her brother and his wife, as they drove away from the door, and then turned round to survey the scene.

Roland and Ralph, her twin nephews, stood looking at her earnestly. Little Ivy nestled up against her with tears in her eyes, and Marjory—ah! That was the difficulty—what would her headstrong niece Marjory say and do?

"Come into the garden, auntie," called Ralph; "Roland and I are going to catch butterflies, and we want you to sit on the form and watch us."

"Yes, and I am going to pick flowers for you," said Ivy, winking away her tears, as she tried not to think of her parents gone away for all that time.

"Very well," said Lettice, "but what is Marjory going to do?"

"'I' don't need looking after, thank you," said Marjory disdainfully. "I have plenty to do, and can take care of myself. Father said I could—"

Aunt Lettice raised her eyes inquiringly. There was a gentle look in them in which the firmness was almost hidden.

"At least—" said Marjory, hesitating a little.

"At least?" echoed Aunt Lettice. Then she paused for an instant, while her heart sent up a swift prayer.

"Marjory," she said, "I want you to be my great help—will you?"

Marjory was silent. She stooped and tied a ribbon round her dog. She had meant to declare war to the knife with her auntie—but—

"Come along," said Lettice brightly, "we will try to have a very happy time. What a lovely day! Bring your work, and come and sit under those shady trees. We can watch the twins from there; and see, Ivy is already picking flowers. The fortnight will soon pass away."

When Lettice went to bed that night, as she passed Marjory's door a voice called to her—

"Good-night, auntie!"

Then, as she bent over Marjory's bed, she heard her whisper, "Thank you for being so patient; I 'will' try to help you!"

HIRA'S QUEST.