Chapter VII: Sukhiya's Scheme

THERE was not much rest for Sukhiya during the night of the storm; even after the worst violence had spent itself, the rain continued to stream through the roof. And when a dry place had been found for the butter and milk still left for sale, and another sheltered spot for her husband, who being an old man must be kept as dry as possible, there was none left for the mistress of the house, who had to be contented to do the best she could, and hope to be dry again some time.

Towards morning, the rain ceased and Sukhiya was roused early out of a deep sleep by someone knocking at the door.

No answer came to her inquiry, "Who is there?"

So she got up off the wet bedstead on which she had been lying, and went to the door.

"Is Hira here?" asked a voice, which she quickly recognised as that of one of the blind girl's cousins.

In a moment, Sukhiya was thoroughly awake, and the door quickly opened.

"What do you ask, Is Hira here?" she said, in a voice of some concern. "How could that be? Does she ever pass the night here? Whenever she comes, I always bring her back, and nowadays she seldom comes."

"Then how can we tell where she is?" remarked the boy in a voice which sounded as if he at any rate did not much care. "She is not in our house, and if she is not here, where can she be?"

A great dread seized the heart of Sukhiya; she knew that her little favourite had been becoming more and more unhappy in her uncle's house, and not long ago had said in a determined voice, "Some time I will run away."

Maybe this was what she had done. But where could she have gone, if she had not come to her, and where could she have been during the storm?

The ghi-seller was a shrewd woman, and as she stood at the door in the early morning, facing the boy who had come to tell her that the blind child was lost, she at once made up her mind on one point—if Hira had run away from her uncle's house, she should never go back there again, if she could help it. So she answered in a tone of indifference, "Tell your father that I have not seen the child for several days, for she has quite given up ever coming to my house." Then she asked, "Since when has she been missing?"

The boy answered, "She hasn't eaten anything since the morning, and no one has seen anything of her since just before the storm."

"Well, what can I do?" said Sukhiya again. "Those to whom she belongs are the right ones to look for her if she is lost, and they will know best why the child has run away."

Then the boy, finding no more to be gained, went back to give the answer to the question he had been sent to ask.

Although Sukhiya had appeared to be so indifferent, she was far from feeling so. And in spite of having implied that it was not her business to look for the lost child, she at once began to think how she could best do it.

She would have liked to have set off at once, but the cow must be milked, and as she did not wish Hira's uncle to know that she was making any efforts to find the child, she could not do better than make her inquiries as she went on her rounds.

So from house to house went Sukhiya with her basket on her head and a heavy burden on her heart, which grew heavier and heavier as the day wore on, and still there was no trace of the lost child. She longed to go to the uncle's house and ask whether she had returned, but then that might spoil her little scheme.

Little rest was found that night either. And the next morning, the poor woman began her day's work with a heavy heart, for with Hira, she seemed to have lost all her interest in life.

The first day she had kept to her own neighbourhood, not thinking it likely that the blind child could have strayed far away. The next day she went a greater distance, and so came at length to Mary Dayál's house.

The woman's sad, hopeless face reminded Mary at once of Anandi and the blind child, and she asked, "Do you know anything of the blind child you brought here one day? Is she safe and well?"

The simple question was too much for the sore heart of the anxious woman, and, bursting into tears, she answered, "She is lost, the poor helpless little one; there was no one to love and care for her, though I would have done it if I could. But she is gone, and how will I ever see her again?"

"I think I can tell you where she is," said Mary, glad to be able to comfort the sorrowful woman.

As Sukhiya listened to what Anandi had said, she felt certain it must be Hira who had been found on the doorstep. Was not the red sari she wore the very one she had given to her?

The children had gone to school, and Mary could not leave her home to show the way, but there was little fear that Sukhiya would not find the house which contained her lost treasure. So having received full directions, she set off to seek it.

Hira was still burning with fever, which had risen so high that she took little notice of anything or anyone near her, only sometimes muttering such words as "I don't know where I am; I must be lost. If Jesus Christ would come and give me eyes, but He won't. He must be dead."

Shushila, who dearly loved to tend anyone who was ill, sat by her side, putting wet cloths on her head, and speaking now and then in a soft, gentle voice, which seemed to soothe the restless child.

Sukhiya found the door open and walked in. Besides what she had heard from Mary Dayál of Shushila's goodness, her own eyes told her that however Hira had found her way to this spot, she had certainly found refuge in a peaceful, happy home, and if she could only stay there always, it would be well for her. So she quickly made up her mind to try and bring this about.

"Do you want any butter or milk to-day?" she asked, setting down her basket.

Anandi soon appeared to answer the call. And seeing the woman, asked at once, "Have you come about the blind child?"

"What blind child?" was the answer in a most indifferent tone.

Then Anandi told what she knew, and Sukhiya listened, but said nothing till the story was finished.

"There is a blind child I have seen about sometimes; if I were to see her, I should know whether it is the same."

So Sukhiya was taken to where Hira lay, just at that time in a heavy sleep. Shushila was sitting near, and as soon as the woman caught sight of her sweet, gentle face, she still more fully made up her mind that, even though these people were Christians, Hira could find no better home.

She tried to conceal her anxiety at the child's illness, and when Shushila called her out of the room and asked what she knew of the child and her relatives, she answered, "What can I tell more than that she has neither father nor mother, nor anyone else to care for her? For many a day she has been half starved, and now it has come to this."

"Then you think," said Shushila, "that I may keep her and that no one will want to take her away from me?"

"Who is there to take her away? Have not I said that she has neither father nor mother, nor anyone who cares whether she is alive or dead? Great will be your reward if you take this helpless little one and feed and clothe her."

Shushila was much relieved by the woman's words, but she thought it right to say, "If you should hear of anyone inquiring for her, you will tell them where she is, and that she is being well cared for."

"Who is there to ask?" was the reply. "Certainly I will tell if I should meet any such person. But surely you are needing some butter or milk, and you will find none better than mine."

Anandi was called to make a small purchase, and Sukhiya determined that it should not be the last, for how else would she be able to see the child in whose interests she had been working?

Although the woman felt glad for the child's sake, she felt sad for her own. What more would Hira care for her, poor ignorant creature, now she had a friend with a beautiful face and soft, sweet voice, to care for her? It was true that the blind eyes could see neither the beauty of the one nor the lack of it in herself, but something would surely tell her the difference. Anyway, she would be no longer needed, and Sukhiya felt as if she had lost yet another child.

However, there was still one more thing to be done before her work for Hira was complete. A few days later, she arrived at the blind child's old home, and having put down her basket on the ground began to cry and wail piteously.

The whole household gathered around and begged to know what was the matter.

It was a long time before Sukhiya's distress would allow her to speak, and then she sobbed out, "Alas! Alas! All my children have died, and now this helpless little one I loved as my own is gone too; it matters nothing to you, but my heart is made desolate."

"What do you mean?" was the general exclamation. "Have you heard any news of Hira? What has happened to her?"

Sukhiya shed a few more tears, and then, with a quivering voice, explained, "She got lost that night you turned her out in that heavy rain, and only a thin, worn sari to cover her. Was it any wonder that she should get fever and die?" And again the woman's cries and lamentations broke forth.

Then an angry voice asked, "Who says we turned her out? She went away herself; and it is you who are to blame that she was lost in the rain, for it was you who taught her to go wandering from house to house, which was most improper for a girl of her age. Now you can go and never come here again accusing innocent people of what you are to blame for yourself."

Sukhiya was only too thankful to find that she was not to be cross-examined on the story which she had made up. And taking up her basket quickly, departed. And for many days nothing was seen of the ghi-seller in Hira's old home.

A BLACK SHEEP.

BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.

ARTHUR NEAL was the black sheep of the school. The biggest among the little boys, there was no sort of possible mischief in which he did not entangle himself, no sort of naughtiness or laziness or don't-carishness in which he was not foremost. They had scolded him, kept him in, deprived him of extra pleasures, caned him; but nothing seemed to affect him. He had once overheard the head master call him incorrigible and a black sheep; he rather gloried in it, and his mother and father in India grieved over the bad accounts of their boy, and wrote lectures and good advice and pleadings, and Arthur only laughed. India was a long way off, and nobody loved him and he loved nobody.

But the term was over and holidays had come, and Arthur was to go to Scotland to his cousins' home, for the head master had positively refused to keep him for the holidays. Arthur was well pleased. Here was a new field for his mischievous energies! Wouldn't he lead Ivan and Archie a life? Wouldn't he teach them a thing or two?

He was very quiet that first day in Glasgow; he was taking in his surroundings. His aunt thought he had been belied; it had cost her much to invite this little ne'er-do-well to meet her boys, and yet she prayed that this uncared-for little soul might find a blessing. Was he to go on to rack and ruin for want of a helping hand?

Ivan and Archie watched him curiously, too, the first day. They were in a difficulty. In the summer, both of them had given themselves to Christ to be His soldiers and servants, and since then, they had read together a chapter from their little Bibles directly after tea. What should they do now? Should they put it off and read separately at another time, or should they read aloud as usual, and let their new cousin laugh if he liked? It was a hard struggle, this first taking up the reproach of their Master, but the two boys conquered. When the tea was cleared, they sat down in the glowing firelight, and Ivan drew out his little Bible.

"We always read together," he said a little brusquely, for it was a very big effort to him.

Arthur said nothing. He was too surprised, too flabbergasted, to make any resistance. Had he had a minute to think, he would have retired with a sneer. But already Ivan had begun, and he sat still.

It began with the story of the lost sheep, and the shepherd seeking over the mountains until he found it. It rushed into Arthur's mind that he was called a black sheep, and it seemed as if the story was all written for him.

He did not hear the other stories in the chapter; he was too intent on this one. He hardly noticed when his cousins rose and left him. He only moved his position nearer to the fire, and sat staring into it. He knew enough of Bible teaching to know the meaning of the shepherd. He had heard often enough of the love of Jesus, but he had never thought of Jesus loving "him," wanting to find "him," the black sheep of the school.

But still, if Jesus wanted to find him, how was it all done? How could he know he was found, he was such a naughty boy? How could he become a white sheep safe in the fold? He puzzled and puzzled over it for three days. And then, when he lay in his little bed on the third night, his auntie came to him and solved his problem for him.

She sat down beside him and laid her soft hand on his. And then in the dim light, she saw his eyes were full of tears.

"What is it, dear?" she said gently.

"I didn't know you loved me," Arthur answered.

"Didn't you, poor lonely boy?" she answered. "I love you and Jesus loves you."

Arthur sighed deeply. "I'm such a naughty boy, a black sheep," he said; "but the boys were reading about the shepherd looking for the sheep. Would He look for me?"

"'The Son of God, who loved me, and gave Himself for me,'" said auntie softly. "He loved you so that He gave His own life to find you."

"How shall I be found?" asked Arthur.

"If you were a little lost sheep lying on the dark mountain, and you heard the shepherd calling you, what would you do?"

"I would call to him, 'Here I am.'"

Auntie knelt down by the little bed, and, still holding Arthur's hand, she spoke to the Good Shepherd.

"Dear Lord Jesus," she said, "Arthur has heard you calling, and he says he is here. Take him and make him Thy lamb, and wash his sins in Thy precious blood."

"And thank you for loving me, auntie!"

NELLIE'S CARD.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"SIT down, just a little while, Sister!" coaxed Nellie. "You haven't sat down all the afternoon, for I've been watching you!"

Sister Ruth smiled.

"Well! Just a little while, Nellie," she said sitting down beside her. "Why did you want me to, particularly?"

"'Cause you look tired; and besides, I wanted you to talk to me."

"What a lot of Christmas cards!" said the nurse, glancing at the little table on which Nellie had arranged all her treasures in front of her.

"Yes," she said softly, "everybody, almost, that loves me has sent me one!"

"What a rich little girl!"

She smiled a happy little smile; and then as the nurse laid her hand gently on hers, she looked up with an earnest glance.

"I know you're sorry for me," she said. "I feel it every time you come near."

"Indeed I am."

"Do you know, when I first came here, Sister, I was not—I didn't feel as I do now."

"You were so very ill," asked Sister Ruth, "and in such pain?"

"No-o," said Nellie reflectively, "it wasn't only that."

"Well?" asked Sister Ruth. A weary craving in her own heart made her long, somehow, to know what made Nellie's face so peaceful.

"At first I couldn't 'bear' it," said the child slowly, "and then all seemed dark and miserable."

"Poor little Nellie!"

"Then, on Christmas Eve, somebody sent me this."

She put her little hand out towards a card which rested in the very centre of all the rest. "That changed everything."

The nurse bent forward where she pointed, and read—"'Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

Sister Ruth was startled; startled at the child's look of heavenly peace, as she went on—

"I thought at first, when my foot had to be taken off, that all the joy had gone out of my life; as if nothing was any good any more. I thought how it would be when I got home, to be limping about on crutches; how it would feel to be unlike everybody else for always!"

"And how could that card make any difference?" asked Sister Ruth incredulously, and the longing in her eyes grew greater.

This child had lost all that made life dear to her—deep down in her heart she knew that she too had done the same.

"It did!" said the child with a flash of light in her eyes. "The words were so plain, and I was so sad! When I thought of my foot, I knew how heavy laden I was—and so—"

"And so?" asked Sister Ruth.

"I just told Jesus I was glad to come if He'd have me! And after that, the black darkness rolled away, and I've felt quite different."

The nurse bent and kissed the little hand that lay near her, almost reverently, while she turned away to hide her tears.

"Does He cure all sorrows, do you think, Nellie?" she asked softly.

"I expect He does; if the people are heavy laden, and come. I'm sure He does—oh, yes, dear Sister! I know He does!"

A DECISION.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"WAIT for me at the stile, Mary: I'll be sure to come!" Charlie had said.

"How early you are going, Mary!" called her father a little complainingly after breakfast the next morning.

"Not earlier than usual, father."

"It don't take you an hour to get to town. What makes you start so soon?"

"I like going along by the hedges and picking the wild flowers," said Mary, while the slightest tinge of pink reddened her cheeks to a deeper shade.

"Oh, well!" said her father crossly. "I don't see the sense of it. You're always picking flowers, or sauntering along, or something—"

"Oh, I don't saunter," said Mary reproachfully. "I never saunter—" She took up her basket of eggs and went out abruptly, calling Fox sharply, settling her sun-bonnet on her head with a determined little shake that spoke volumes.

But when she got out into the quiet fields, better thoughts came, and all the irritation passed from her step. If father was unreasonable, she herself had not been blameless.

"Look here, Charlie," she said, directly he came up, "this mustn't go on any more. If I don't take care, I shall get to be an untruthful girl! Here, for the sake of meeting you, I've been and told father that I like to pick wild flowers, and that I started early for that! So I do, but—"

Charlie stood silent, and Fox, who had listened eagerly to the conversation, hung his tail.

"If we speak, he'll put an end to it," said Charlie slowly.

"Yes—at least, I think so—and yet, Charlie—"

The young fellow came closer to the stile, and he looked in her face. "I wouldn't be the one to ask you to do wrong," he said very gravely. "I've not been easy myself over it. Suppose we go back at once—"

"Now?" said Mary. She remembered her haughty departure and her father's black looks, and her heart almost failed her.

"If it's 'right,'" he said tenderly. It was that tenderness of Charlie's that had won her.

"I'll do it," she said, "and we shall be 'helped,' Charlie!"

And so they were.

Mary ran into the cottage and put her arms round her father's neck: "Oh, I'm so sorry I said that about the flowers!" she said, hiding her face. "Father, it was partly to meet Charlie. And Charlie has come back to ask you if we may."

A FAVOUR.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"KOTCHED!" exclaimed Roland, with a chuckle, stopping at the kitchen door.

"What?" asked Kathleen, looking up. "'Kotched' over what?"

"Why, you are reading a story book, while you are pretending to cook my dinner! I've kotched you!"

"Have you, indeed?" said his sister, springing up and chasing him. "I've a good mind to threaten that you shan't have a bit of my golden pudding!"

"Your 'what?'" asked Roland.

"Golden pudding. Look here, Rol, I want you to do me a favour—"

"I'm not workin'" said Roland, backing.

"Oh, yes, you are! No one can work like you when you've a mind."

"But you see I haven't a mind—"

He had reached the front door and managed to escape, and Kathleen slowly turned back to the kitchen with a more sober face.

Roland went down the road whistling, and somehow his whistling fell into a tune like this—

"I believe that girl's been at it pretty nearly all day! I wonder what she wanted of me? How pretty she looked in that apron, and what a nuisance it must be to have to see to things in the house when you want to be out and about! I wonder if Kathleen does ever want to be out and about? I declare I'll take her to the football match on Saturday; I never thought of that. I wonder what she did want of me? Not that I care! I can't be called upon to do odds and ends for her all the time. By-the-by, I wish I'd asked her to see to those buttons for me—what a nuisance I forgot! I wonder what she did want me to do? Nothing of importance, I dare say."

So Roland called in to see a friend, and forgot all about Kathleen and her wants.

Kathleen seemed to have forgotten all about them too, he thought, when he came in again. She was sitting very quietly at the table, and everything was prepared with the utmost nicety.

Roland did not feel easy; he still wondered what the favour had been that Kathleen had asked. Some "girls' tripe," he thought.

If he could have seen a letter in the pillar-box opposite, he would perhaps have ceased to wonder.

"Darling Nettie,—I have never missed sending you a present for your birthday before, but I simply could not get out to-day—nor yesterday—nor the day before. You know we are single-handed just now, and mother is upstairs ill, and I have to keep everything going. You will not think I have forgotten you? I meant to send you a bottle of scent; perhaps I shall be able next week."

That little note had not been written without tears of disappointment. And the only thing that made Kathleen able to meet Roland with a bright face was a line she read on her wall as she closed her letter—

"'My times are in 'Thy' hand!'"

And she went on bravely.

"If Thou Hadst Known!"

PERHAPS you ask, dear children, "Who is that standing there looking so sorrowful? And what is He doing?"

Well, I will tell you.

I have heard that as travellers approach the city of Jerusalem, it is hidden from them by the hills which surround it. But at one point, when you least expect it, the view of the city bursts upon you, and you see all at once that which you have been travelling many weary miles to catch a sight of.

Perhaps that is how heaven will seem to us when we die. We may be travellers towards it, and our feet may be tired with the rough way, and all at once, we shall open our eyes and find that the toilsome journey is over, and we are there!

Be that as it may, this picture shows us the Lord Jesus when the view of Jerusalem burst upon His view.

He had been travelling many long miles to reach it, and He well knew that there He was going to offer up His precious life as a ransom for all.

But to Jesus that view of the city was not all joy. St. Luke tells us that when He beheld the city, He wept over it.

Why did He weep? Ah, that is the question. Why did the Son of God, having been doing works of love and pity for three years, and now going up to Jerusalem to obtain eternal salvation for us, why should He weep?

Little children, Jesus cried because He knew that very few in that beautiful city would come to Him to be saved.

He cried because the people there would not believe in Him, or accept Him as their Saviour.

So when He wept, He said, "If thou hadst known, even thou . . . in this thy day, the things which belong to thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes."

I think that this story of the Lord Jesus weeping over Jerusalem should make our hearts very soft and tender.

We should think to ourselves, "Jesus is very sorry when we do not love Him, and come to Him to be saved from our sins. I would not like to make Jesus sorry, who suffered so much for me; so I will just tell Him that I love Him, and that will make Him glad."

And so it will, children. And the very thought of doing a little thing to make the Lord Jesus glad will make us happy too, and we shall be more cheerful over our lessons, and more bright in our play, than we should have been otherwise.

Jesus said to Peter, "Lovest thou Me?" Shall we not answer gladly, "Thou knowest all things; Thou 'knowest' that I love Thee"?

HIRA'S QUEST.