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 Inp1A’s CuristT1AN WoMANHOoOD 
 
Through 
 Teakwood Windows 
 
 CLOSE-UP VIEWS OF INDIA’S 
 WOMANHOOD 
 
 By 
 
 ETHEL CODY HIGGINBOTTOM 
 (Mrs. Sam Higginbotiom) 
 
 With Introduction by 
 JOHN TIMOTHY STONE, D.D. 
 Pasior, Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago, Ill. 
 
 New YorxK CHICAGO 
 Fleming H. Revell Company 
 
 LONDON AND EDINBURGH 
 
Copyright, mMcmxxvi, by 
 FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 
 
 New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
 Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. 
 London: 21 Paternoster Square 
 Edinburgh: 99 George Street 
 
This little book is affectionately dedicated to my 
 husband, SAM HIGGINBOTTOM. Having 
 followed him half-way around the world 
 to marry him, I have been follow- 
 ing him in everything ever 
 since; but he is worth 
 the pursuing. 
 
Rey tay 
 as Fe PAR 
 a Ta 
 
 ” 
 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 is “HOSE who know and have heard Ethel 
 Cody Higginbottom need no word of in- 
 troduction to this volume which charac- 
 terizes so naturally her life of sweet and simple 
 service and her work of self-denial and selfless 
 consecration. 
 
 Naturalness is one of the qualities which attract 
 the world to those who love and serve, to those who 
 speak and write. 
 
 In the pages which follow, and in their illustra- 
 tions which have been so vitally a part of her life 
 of love and service, one feels the impress of char- 
 acter, devotion and reality. 
 
 Some of us who have been privileged not only to 
 hear Sam Higginbottom and his wife as they have 
 spoken so modestly of their unique work in India, 
 but who have also been privileged to see them in 
 their own field and in their home as well, will wel- 
 come this volume not only gladly but gratefully. 
 
 There is nothing more needed today in mission- 
 ary literature than true pictures of life. The 
 theory of missions has its place, no doubt, and the 
 ideals and plans of missionary endeavour have in 
 them wisdom and inspiration; but actual windows 
 into the life of the missionary are needed if the 
 
 7 
 
8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 world is to have light and is to gain that deeper 
 inspiration which leads to consecration and sacri- 
 fice on the part of those at home. 
 
 For this volume, with its insight and wisdom, 
 no introduction is needed save that of one who 
 asks you to read and judge for yourself. 
 
 Peculiarly prepared for her duties as mission- 
 ary, mother and friend, and being one whose 
 nature like sunshine penetrates everywhere and 
 diffuses and scatters sunshine, this writer will 
 make her own place in the minds and hearts of 
 those who read, and will win new appreciation and 
 gratitude from all who have learned to honour and 
 love such lives of cheerful devotion and natural 
 sacrifice. 
 
 JoHN TimotHy STONE. 
 
 Fourth Presbyterian Church, Chicago. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 FTER twenty-one years of service in India 
 yay under the Presbyterian Board of Foreign 
 Missions, I have gathered into this little 
 volume many of the stories which I have used in 
 my public speaking during our latest furlough. 
 Often, after an address, people have asked 
 whether certain stories were in print. To these 
 stories I have added others, not told before now, 
 and also some which have been published in 
 periodicals. 
 
 Most of the Hindustani terms here used are 
 explained in the text. Doubtless “Purdah” already 
 is sufficiently well known as the curtain or screen 
 behind which the Hindu wife in the home—whom 
 in this book we greet, in the phrase, “Salaam, 
 Bibi,” with quite as much respect as she is ac- 
 customed to receive in her own land—spends her 
 wearisome and often tragic years, shut off from 
 much if not all of the interesting outside world. 
 As to the expression; “Teakwood Windows,” I 
 know that the windows known to most Hindu 
 wives are rather of carved stone than of the wood 
 mentioned. But I realize also that for many 
 Americans the word “teakwood” customarily calls 
 up a thought of India; and it happens, too, that 
 
 9 
 
10 PREFACE 
 
 the window through which peered Lakshmi herself 
 was actually of carved teak. For these reasons I 
 have let the phrase creep more than once into 
 what I have written. 
 
 The life of a missionary being filled with a great 
 variety of experiences, and of opportunities to 
 serve, I hope readers will not judge me harshly on 
 the ground that my stories and sketches are varied 
 in kind and style. I do not lay claim to literary 
 ability, but I do seek to persuade my readers to 
 know and to love India and the Indian people as 
 I have come to do. 
 
 With a view to a clearer understanding of the 
 personal background of the following stories, I 
 offer a few facts of autobiographical interest. 
 
 I was born in 1880, and brought up in Cleve- 
 land, Ohio. After High School I had a year at 
 Wells College, two in Kindergarten Training 
 School and finally a year in the National Kinder- 
 garten Training College, Chicago. 
 
 When I was a child, my father opened a mis- 
 sion in Cleveland which later became the Gospel 
 Church in which my father is still an ordained 
 elder. I have helped at open air services on street 
 corners, played the organ in Sunday School, taught 
 Sunday School, been active in Christian Endeav- 
 our work, sung in the choir, taken tracts and 
 invitations through the neighbourhood and into 
 saloons, and knelt and prayed with sinners at the 
 altar. Whatever of faith and courage I have had 
 
PREFACE 11 
 
 for my work in India I acquired in my Christian 
 home and the Gospel Church. 
 
 As I was completing my year of study in Chi- 
 cago and returning home, Sam Higginbottom, just 
 graduated from Princeton University, came to the 
 Gospel Church—to be, known and loved by its 
 people and to become their foreign missionary 
 under the Presbyterian Board. He was enter- 
 tained in my home. He went to India that sum- 
 mer, and a year later I went out, to become 
 his wife. 
 
 We were married in Bombay, October 28, 1904, 
 and at once we began to share in the work of the 
 Leper Asylum and the Christian Boys’ Boarding 
 School in Allahabad. We came home to the 
 United States in 1909 with two frail children, 
 Gertrude Cody and Sam Ashton. We lived for 
 two years in Columbus, Ohio, while my husband 
 was studying agriculture. There Elizabeth, our 
 third, and only “American,” child was born. 
 
 Upon our return to India, while the farm bunga- 
 low was being built and my husband was digging 
 the well, laying out the farm, and buying cattle and 
 farm equipment, I taught kindergarten in the 
 Wanamaker Girls’ School in Allahabad. This 
 work meant a drive of three miles with a slow 
 horse every morning, my children and the baby’s 
 ayah (nurse) accompanying me. 
 
 Then my husband fell ill of typhoid fever. 
 After nursing him through his illness, I took him 
 
12 PREFACE 
 
 to Kashmir to recuperate. Upon our return to 
 Allahabad we moved into the farm bungalow, 
 which was still under construction. We camped 
 out among the work people by day and among 
 jackals and wild-cats at night. Soon students 
 began to come. They slept under the trees usually 
 but, when it rained, on the veranda near us; we 
 always slept outside. As the only building on the 
 farm, this bungalow, neared completion one room 
 of the six went to our missionary colleague. One 
 became office, study, library and reading-room for 
 students and family. Classes were held on the 
 veranda and in the dining-room. The dairy, with 
 such equipment as we had, was in the dining-room. 
 I did some of the dairy work—even after it went 
 to a small building outside. Machinery was stored 
 in the veranda, the bath-room became a seed 
 store-room, one bed-room was used for guests and 
 one for the family. 
 
 The sick came to the back veranda, where I 
 handed out medicine; but the crowd, and the kind 
 of diseases which my medicines attracted, were 
 objectionable, and we were happy when friends 
 donated money for a dispensary—which is now 
 used by the mission doctor. I often visited pa- 
 tients in the villages about, and thus made many 
 friends. I have helped out at times by teaching 
 classes in the Agricultural Institute and the Kin- 
 dergarten of the Community School, and have done 
 some village evangelistic work. 
 
PREFACE 13 
 
 We have been given to hospitality, and fre- 
 quently have entertained angels unawares. At 
 times tea is served in the garden to India friends 
 who have come out from the city to see what we 
 do on the farm in order to get such wonderful 
 crops. Again, the tea party may be given in order 
 that the other missionaries may meet some Ameri- 
 can guest in our house. Sometimes the tea party, 
 with games, is given on the lawn for our students 
 and American faculty. Occasionally we have given 
 a big tea party when all our friends, Hindu and 
 Moslem, missionaries, officials and business men 
 gathered in our bungalow garden. 
 
 In response to an invitation to one such party 
 a wealthy high caste Hindu gentleman who had 
 been educated in England wrote: “I am glad to 
 accept your invitation for tea, next Thursday, 
 because I think your parties are so wonderful. 
 There is no other place in Allahabad where people 
 of every class can gather to sit, talk and eat to- 
 gether happily.” Not only did this Hindu gentle- 
 man come, but he rode in purdah (behind the 
 curtain) with his wife, that she might attend the 
 party. Having arrived, she sat behind a screen, in 
 a corner of the garden, with other ladies. Why 
 not, indeed, use our social inclinations and our 
 bungalow home to the glory of God? 
 
 Through these twenty-one years I have helped 
 in the Leper Asylum and have had in my care the 
 homes for children of lepers. My husband urged 
 
14 PREFACE 
 
 me to do what I could in the work; and while at 
 times I feared that I was being pressed into too 
 much, I am grateful as I look back, for without 
 the feeling that I was really needed I could not 
 have been content in India. 
 
 I am grateful for my six children. Besides all 
 that they have been to us, I know that as a mother 
 I have been able to approach the Indian women as 
 I otherwise could not have done. India has not 
 hurt the children; they are strong in body and 
 broad in interest. Our only sacrifice lies in our 
 Separation from them as each nears the High 
 School age. 
 
 I am very grateful that my Lord and Master 
 called me to work in this part of His vineyard, and 
 has let me use all that He has given me in His 
 service. 
 
 A Dea Ovi gH 
 Allahabad, India. 
 
 Note: The sketches illustrating Indian life were 
 drawn by Miss Grace I. Cody. 
 
1G 
 
 EVr 
 
 IV. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I 
 “SALAAM, BIBI” 
 
 BreHIND THE TEAKWOOD : 
 Purdah Prison—In SeerehecTicondan ay 
 the Crossroads—A Spirit of Evil. 
 
 Puutwa THE BELOVED . ; 
 The Gift of Mother Gane Haine Sita 
 Ram’’—Miss Saheb—The Beloved. 
 
 II 
 SHALL SHE LIVE? 
 
 On ty a Giri | 
 Riverdestined—“Fresh Tentile 4 Lescon 
 for the Padre—Mohan and Mango—‘‘My 
 Own Daughter.” 
 
 III 
 TAINTED 
 
 Moruers AND DauGuTers. . 
 Mother Love—Mother Flight Contrast 
 —Chandervatti. 
 
 Tue Miracues. 
 One Seo Thancsar ie Valiant—With- 
 out Blemish. 
 
 15 
 
 19 
 
 61 
 
 95 
 
 109 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Inp1a’s CHRISTIAN WoMANHOOD : ? E . Title 
 LAKSHMI,) CHILDUBRIDE RMT aar toon y mii nant Meant 
 LENTILS TO MARKET. : 2 ; ; : . 68 
 JANTRI AND SHANTI—MOTHERLESS . : 2 . 110 
 DHANESAR THE VALIANT  . i f i . oLaG 
 
 16 
 
I 
 
 “SALAAM, BIBI” 
 
i ee 
 
 ty EL 
 W hd Rl 
 
 * 
 
 RE tC on 
 
 : 
 
 VY Ges 
 APY We 
 wit 
 
 i 
 s 
 
 
 
I 
 
 BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 
 
 carved teakwood window down into the 
 
 street. Lakshmi’s husband had been away 
 at college several weeks, and Lakshmi was wish- 
 ing: “Oh, if only he could come home, or I could 
 go for a ride on that elephant!” 
 
 She watched the men sitting on the beast’s huge 
 back as it quickly passed her window, its big bell 
 tolling, telling people to get out of its way. “Why 
 must Indian girls live shut in?” 
 
 Purdah Prison. 
 
 Lakshmi thought of her cousin, Dhanbai. Re- 
 bellion sprang into her heart. Her cousin Dhan- 
 bai’s father was progressive. He believed in the 
 education of women. He even said he hoped the 
 time would come when the purdah system would 
 be abolished. With a little groan, Lakshmi cried 
 out: “Why can’t the purdah system be abolished? 
 Why can’t we Indian girls go out, the way white 
 women do?” 
 
 Just then a horse and carriage stopped below her 
 window, and a white lady was heard talking to the 
 brass merchant who had come from the shop across 
 
 19 
 
 i AKSHMI CHATERJI looked through “the 
 
20 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 the street in answer to the driver’s call. She 
 handed him a brass kettle, and some conversation 
 went on between them which Lakshmi could not 
 hear; but suddenly the lady raised her voice, say- 
 ing: “All right, I’ll call on Saturday for it. I’m 
 the Padre Memsahib who lives by the river.” It 
 was the wife of the missionary. 
 
 Lakshmi momentarily was bold. Maybe this 
 was the Padre Memsahib who had been teach- 
 ing Dhanbai to read. She lifted her voice, and 
 shouted: ‘““Memsahib!” The driver pulled in his 
 horse, and the Memsahib leaned out. 
 
 Lakshmi grew shy again, but the Memsahib had 
 heard the voice from behind the carved teakwood 
 window, and she called: “Salaam, bibi. Kya 
 hae?” (“Greetings madam. What is it?”) 
 
 Lakshmi’s courage came back, and the great 
 longing of her heart went out in her voice: “Oh, 
 Memsahib, please come and talk to me.” 
 
 Like a flash the lady was out of her carriage 
 and on the front veranda of Lakshmi’s father- 
 in-law’s house. The girl ran to the stairs, but 
 just as she started down she remembered that 
 she had been forbidden to go down those stairs 
 today. She burst into tears, as her father-in- 
 law opened the door at the foot. “Daughter, 
 there is a lady down here who says you have 
 called her,” he said. “But you can’t come through 
 this room in which your brother-in-law lies sick, 
 you know.” 
 
BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 21 
 
 There was anguish in Lakshmi’s voice. ‘Oh, 
 father, I want to read, to learn to read like 
 Dhanbai!” 
 
 Never before had he seen Lakshmi like this. 
 She always had been a proper Indian girl, shy 
 and retiring before her father-in-law. He re- 
 membered that Dhanbai’s father had told him 
 how much happier his own household had been 
 since the women folks had learned to read. But 
 he shook his head: “You can’t come down today. 
 Maybe she will come some day when my son is 
 well.” He turned away, though almost persuaded 
 by Lakshmi’s sobs. 
 
 Sunderbai was in her husband’s room below. 
 She heard it all; she, too, had wanted to learn 
 to read. Quickly she ran to her husband’s side. 
 She was well enough behaved to remember that 
 she must not speak to her husband until he ad- 
 dressed her, but the eagerness in her face spoke 
 volumes. 
 
 Her husband raised his head, hot with fever. 
 He read the eager face, then looked toward the 
 door which had just closed after his father, and 
 said to his wife: “Call her. Ill cover my face. 
 Tell my father I ordered it. You read, too.” He 
 fell back on his pillow, pulling the sheet over 
 his face. 
 
 Sunderbai’s voice shook with emotion. ‘“Lak- 
 shmi! Come quick!” 
 
 The old father had shown the inherent culture 
 
22 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 of a true Indian gentleman of high caste in ex- 
 plaining the situation to the missionary, but she 
 had seen through his polite, gentle manner and 
 words, his fear of the missionary lest she spoil the 
 girl’s faith in their Hindu gods. He feared to 
 let women folks learn, because his Vedas said: 
 “Women are no better than cows, and must not 
 learn.” He had, indeed, heard many Hindus ad- 
 vocate: ‘Let us educate ‘the women, if we wish to 
 make India take its place among the nations.” 
 But most of the Hindus who argued thus had been 
 educated in mission schools and colleges, and were 
 almost Christians. 
 
 The missionary was saying: “I’m very sorry 
 your son is so ill. Can I do anything for him? 
 If not, I’ll accept your kind invitation and call 
 some other day on your daughter-in-law.” 
 
 The door burst open, and the two girls stood 
 on the threshold of the men’s sitting-room, a 
 place they seldom entered. Lakshmi was smiling 
 through her tears, too eager to be shy. Sunderbai 
 stood severe and defiant. 
 
 “Daughters!” The old father’s voice was full 
 of anger. 
 
 He had addressed them, so Sunderbai dare 
 speak: “Father, your son commanded me to call 
 her. He covered his face while she passed. He 
 says to tell you to please come to him. His fever 
 is high.” 
 
 The father’s face softened; he was anxious 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LaksuHM1, Cuitp Bride 
 

 
BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 23 
 
 about his eldest son, who had suffered recently 
 from many days of malaria. The older man hur- 
 ried past the girls to his son’s bedside. 
 
 Sunderbai’s husband was breathing hard, strug- 
 gling with fever and excitement. “Father,” he 
 gasped, “I am very sick. I may die. I beg of 
 you, let the girls read.” He, too, was a mission 
 college graduate. 
 
 The two young women were left alone with the 
 missionary. 
 
 Though the father had not answered his son, he 
 summoned a servant, and ordered cold water. He 
 sponged the body of the young man, as the doctor 
 had ordered. Filled with terror at his son’s de- 
 pressing suggestion that he might not be long with 
 them, the father calmed his wrath. 
 
 Meanwhile, the missionary had been thinking 
 of the girls in another house who were eagerly 
 waiting for her to come and give them their les- 
 son. But one more look at those two eager faces, 
 and hearing their voices pleading, ‘““Memsahib, 
 please teach us to read English, so we can know 
 and read as our husbands do,” decided her. She 
 remembered the day she and her husband had 
 landed in India after his first furlough to America. 
 He knew Hindustani, while she did not. She re- 
 called how she had wailed in her heart: “Oh, he 
 knows so much more than I do!” She had worked 
 hard at the language, hoping to overtake him, and 
 she knew what these little wives felt. 
 
24 #THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 In Secret. 
 
 The lessons began that minute. But the family 
 was sworn to secrecy. 
 
 When Pervase, the second son, who was Lak- 
 shmi’s husband, came home for vacation he 
 talked constantly to her about the mission col- 
 lege and the wonderful American professor. He 
 told her about the Bible, often repeating: “If 
 only the teachings of Jesus could be carried out 
 in the lives of the people of India!” And then, 
 longingly, he would add: ‘‘And if only you could 
 go to mission school!” He wondered why she 
 shyly smiled. 
 
 Pervase had been at home only a week or two 
 when, one day, he came unexpectedly upon his 
 wife. She sat on a low stool before her carved 
 teakwood window. In her lap lay his English 
 Bible, open, where she had dropped it when he 
 had surprised her. With a great longing, he 
 cried: “Oh, Lakshmi!” 
 
 Never had he called her that before. It is con- 
 trary to Hindu custom for a man to call his wife 
 by her first name. Observing that she seemed to 
 be frightened, he laughed in embarrassment, then 
 said: “Lakshmi, I heard my dearly beloved pro- 
 fessor call his wife by her first name, so I’m 
 going to call you by yours. To tell the whole 
 truth, I wish I could eat also with you, as they 
 eat together; but I know father would never per- 
 mit that.” 
 
BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 25 
 
 Her eyes opened wide in surprise: “Do they eat 
 together? Is she not afraid she may send an evil 
 spirit into his food?” 
 
 At her innocence he laughed. “No, Lakshmi, 
 they are not afraid all the time. They are not 
 superstitious, as we are, with regard to evil spirits. 
 They trust in Jesus, who can command evil spirits, 
 and they obey Him. Oh, how I wish you could 
 read that book!” He nodded toward the Bible in 
 her lap. 
 
 She picked it up, looking hard at the page and 
 to his amazement read, slowly: “ ‘And Jesus said 
 unto them: “I am the bread of life. He that com- 
 eth to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth 
 on me shall never thirst.” ’ ” 
 
 “Lakshmi!” her husband cried. ‘Where did 
 you commit that verse to memory?” 
 
 “I did not memorize it. I am reading it.” 
 
 He had spoken in Hindustani, but she had an- 
 swered in English. He was now too astounded for 
 speech. Lakshmi read on: “ ‘All that the Father 
 giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh 
 to me I will in no wise cast out.’ ” 
 
 Tears of joy stood in his eyes when in triumph 
 she stopped reading. Then she told him about the 
 morning on which she had called to the missionary. 
 She told, too, of his brother’s pleading. Her hus- 
 band interrupted her to say: “Brother, too, is a 
 secret believer. There are many in India, Lak- 
 shmi. I want to tell you: I am secretly a Chris- 
 
26 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 tian! I dare not break my father’s heart by open 
 confession, but some day you and I will be Chris- 
 tians—will we not?” | 
 
 She nodded her head, saying softly: “I want it.” 
 They knelt together, while Pervase voiced his first 
 oral prayer. | 
 
 A few days later the father said to his older son: 
 “There is something queer about Pervase’s happi- 
 ness. Can you explain it?” — 
 
 Sorrowfully the elder son looked at his father in 
 silence. Then he answered simply: ‘‘Pervase has 
 enjoyed his year at college very much. Father, 
 we wish you, too, had been educated in a mission 
 college.” 
 
 Devotion at the Crossroads. 
 
 Sunderbai was a girl of extremely attractive per- 
 sonality. On numerous occasions, accompanied by 
 a Bible woman, I had gone to her home. Upon 
 one of these visits Sunderbai produced for us a 
 plate of sweets made by her own hand. 
 
 Eating Indian sweets is for me, as a rule, a 
 matter of politeness only, but it was not so when 
 it came to sweets of Sunderbai’s making. Not 
 only did I eat hers, I liked them; and so I 
 told her. 
 
 “Memsahib,” she replied respectfully, “it is be- 
 cause my husband himself is fond of them that I 
 make them. I would please him.” 
 
 To be sure, there were servants behind the 
 purdah who could have performed the task, but it 
 
BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 27 
 
 was her delight to please her husband with the 
 work of her own hands. 
 
 An apt learner was Sunderbai; daily the Bible 
 woman noted her excellent progress. My own 
 visits always left on me a pleasant impression of 
 the young wife’s intelligence and capability. 
 
 One day the Bible woman came to me distressed 
 and excited. ‘“‘Memsahib,” she exclaimed, ‘Sun- 
 derbai’s husband has cholera! Today I could not 
 see her.” 
 
 Having many plans made for the day, I myself 
 could not go then to Sunderbai, but I promised to 
 go to her the next day. Meanwhile, my heart went 
 out in prayer for her and for the sick husband to 
 whom she was deeply devoted. 
 
 That evening I was driving through the city. 
 Passing a certain crossroad, I saw a large crowd 
 gathered there. In the midst of the crowding people 
 drums were tum-tuming their weird music, accom- 
 panying women’s voices united in a strangely un- 
 canny refrain. I did not catch many of the words, 
 but absolute frenzy was the impression conveyed 
 to my mind; something unusual was going on. As 
 the crowd swayed into the street, I sounded my 
 motor horn to clear a path, but the alarm fell on 
 deaf ears. The people were absorbed. 
 
 Swinging the wheel around, I threw the car 
 lights upon the crowd. There, in its midst, stood 
 a young woman of delicate features and refined 
 appearance. In evident agony of spirit, she was 
 
28 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 wildly running her hands through her hair, and 
 literally pulling it from her head. Her sari of fine 
 muslin was torn in many places; the rent garment 
 clearly proclaimed the distraught condition of the 
 wearer. Both terrified and also beseeching was 
 her face. At times her hands were flung out 
 straight from her side, stiff to the finger tips. On 
 the ground at her feet lay a heap of flowers wet 
 with water, doubtless from the sacred Ganges. 
 Occasionally the woman’s body swayed in rhythm 
 to the beating of the insistent drums, but the eyes 
 responded not; though they looked directly ahead, 
 they were unseeing. 
 
 As I continued gazing on this spectacle of agony, 
 to my utter dismay I suddenly realized that the 
 victim was our own Sunderbai. Sunderbai, our 
 capable, intelligent Sunderbai—now no _ longer 
 capable and intelligent, but torn and crazed by 
 some soul catastrophe. Running the motor car to 
 one side, I stopped; indeed, I was too limp to 
 drive farther had I so desired, but I was deter- 
 mined to ascertain what tragic fate had so com- 
 pletely transformed poor Sunderbai, and to be 
 helpful to her if I could. 
 
 A Spirit of Evil. 
 
 It was only a moment until it became evident 
 that the mob actually was engaged in goading on 
 this fine young woman in her insane frenzy. Many 
 of the men and women were so intent on their 
 diabolical work that no interference with them was 
 
BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 29 
 
 possible, but a few on the outskirts of the crowd 
 were prevailed on to explain what was happening. 
 
 Sunderbai’s husband was near death. The mob 
 was hoping to save his life by what it was here 
 doing. It was trying to persuade an evil spirit— 
 now embodied, as the people said, in Sunderbai 
 herself—to take one of the roads leading away 
 from her home, and to seek another victim. 
 
 But how had an evil spirit come to enter Sun- 
 derbai? And what had its being in her body to 
 do with the life or death of her husband? I was 
 told, on further inquiry, that these people at the 
 crossroads already had succeeded in driving into 
 the body of Sunderbai the evil spirit which was 
 causing her husband’s illness, and that now they 
 were determined to drive it from herself, so that 
 she might return to her husband with no more fear 
 of danger to him from the spirit’s dreadful work. 
 
 In her terror lest death take her husband from 
 her, leaving her not only to grieve for him, but 
 also to endure all the distresses which are meted 
 out to a Hindu widow, Sunderbai had been made 
 to believe that by thus receiving the evil spirit into 
 herself she might save his life. It was thus that 
 she had been persuaded to go to the crossroads and 
 there voluntarily enter into an abandonment of 
 frenzy, by which to make the evil thing depart 
 from her and lose its way on one or other of the 
 branching highways. 
 
 Certainly nothing could be done, I realized, to 
 
30 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 divert the young wife from her act of devotion. 
 Moreover, those unseeing eyes of hers would not 
 recognize me should I attempt to interfere. In- 
 deed, what interference could prevail against that 
 madly shouting, jeering crowd? I could do 
 nothing. In despair I drove away. 
 
 That night I was haunted by what I had seen. 
 And I seemed also to hear the sad, sing-song wail 
 of an Indian widow in mourning. 
 
 Late the next afternoon the Bible woman had 
 another report to make. Once more she had called 
 at the home behind whose teakwood window dwelt 
 Sunderbai the afflicted. ‘“Sunderbai’s husband is 
 better,’ the woman announced. ‘But his mother 
 bade me go away and never return. She said that 
 very likely the gods had been displeased with Sun- 
 derbai for reading with me. She reminded me that 
 it is unbecoming for a Hindu girl to learn to read, 
 and asserted that because of the girl’s offense the 
 evil spirit had come to trouble both Sunderbai and 
 her husband.” | 
 
 Acting on advice of the Bible woman, I did not 
 try to see Sunderbai that day, as I had promised 
 to do. Instead I merely waited, in hope that the 
 way might soon open for us both to go to her 
 again as we had been doing. Sunderbai’s husband 
 having been a student in our mission college, it 
 was our hope that he had become a secret be- 
 liever; indeed, it was at his request that the Bible 
 woman had visited his wife. 
 
 
 
BEHIND THE TEAKWOOD 31 
 
 In a shop in the bazaar, some weeks later, I 
 next heard of Sunderbai. There I came upon her 
 husband himself. When I congratulated him on 
 his recovery to health, he stepped for a moment 
 close to me. ‘Memsahib,” he said quietly and 
 solemnly, ‘my wife has scarcely recovered her 
 reason since my severe illness. My family says 
 that in my delirium at that time I spoke words 
 which have made them afraid that I will become a 
 Christian. They watch us closely. But I have 
 seen a vision; please, Memsahib, do not abandon 
 hope.” 
 
 He hurried away, to rejoin the young dweller 
 behind the purdah who had abandoned herself to 
 the depths of insanity out of devotion to him. 
 
II 
 
 PHULWA THE BELOVED 
 
 P HE loo, the hot dry winds of May and 
 June, shook the great peepul tree in the 
 courtyard, then sighed and groaned and 
 
 wailed, in and about the village, as might an 
 
 American blizzard in January. Phulwa and her 
 
 father and mother, on their beds in the room most 
 
 shaded by the peepul tree, tried to sleep. For it 
 was noon, and everyone in India seeks to sleep 
 through the heat of the day. 
 
 Only a little while before, Brij Mohan, a neigh- 
 bour and a cousin, had dropped in. To the girl’s 
 father he had announced: ‘“Thy kinsfolk, the fam- 
 ily of Joshi, tonight are coming out from the city 
 to see thee. I had finished selling my watermelons 
 this morning, and was going to buy some cloth, 
 when I met Joshi, and he gave me this message 
 for thee.” 
 
 The Gift of Mother Ganges. 
 
 Although the terrible heat made Phulwa drowsy, 
 yet she could not sleep. She was thinking of Joshi. 
 Until five years ago the man had lived in the vil- 
 lage; then, having become a prosperous merchant, 
 he had decided to move nearer his bazaar stall in 
 
 32 
 
 oe 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 33 
 
 the city. The girl had gone to visit him once with 
 her father while they were in town shopping. She 
 recalled, too, the brick house of which Joshi was 
 proud, and the fancy glass chandeliers hung with 
 crystal prisms surrounding an electric light which 
 was the special pride of his wife, Pyari. The 
 couple had one son living; him—Ram Chander— 
 Phulwa remembered with terror. Once, when he 
 was visiting the village, he had made a big goat 
 chase her. 
 
 Babu Lal, Phulwa’s father, began to snore, but 
 she herself now was uneasily watching Sukde, her 
 mother. Sukde, also strangely sleepless, was toss- 
 ing about on her bed. Somehow, Sukde felt, as her 
 daughter knew, there was something ominous in 
 Joshi’s coming visit. 
 
 Early that morning Phulwa and her mother, each 
 taking an extra sari, had gone to the Ganges to 
 bathe. 
 
 “Phulwa,” the mother suddenly had gravely 
 bidden her, “give your offering to the priest re- 
 spectfully. Make your greetings to Mother 
 Ganges properly. This do that you may become 
 a good wife and mother, and in your next existence 
 be—a man.” 
 
 Obediently Phulwa had bowed very low to the 
 priest. He, seeing her happy face, had given her 
 a bunch of orange marigolds. 
 
 As now she thought of the flowers she looked 
 up at those which hung on the peepul tree. Mari- 
 
34 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 golds are sacred, and peepul trees are sacred; so 
 Phulwa knew, without being told, that the only 
 thing to do with a bunch of marigolds is to string 
 them into a garland and hang them on the peepul 
 tree. Fortunately, indeed, were they that the gods 
 had blessed them with a peepul tree in their own 
 courtyard. 
 
 The sun had been just beginning to rise as they 
 came back along the road to the village. Turning 
 around and walking backwards, Phulwa had ex- 
 claimed with glee: “O mother, see all the gold in 
 the sky!” 
 
 “Yes, yes, child,” her mother had replied, ‘“‘but 
 remember your manners. Do not turn your back 
 _ to this big peepul tree—or something may happen 
 to you!” 
 
 Phulwa accordingly had gone around it three 
 times, bowing low to it—though her mother went 
 but once—inwardly hoping that the tree would 
 forgive her former rudeness. 
 
 Now, lying on her bed at home, the girl was 
 wondering: “Is it the evil spirit from the tree that 
 is worrying mother, that she cannot sleep?” 
 
 With this thought in mind, she got up and 
 threw her jar of Ganges water which they had 
 brought home with them, on the flowers and on 
 the tree. ‘Then she made her bow to them, and 
 with an easy conscience was soon sound asleep. 
 
 Not so her mother. ‘Oh, they are coming to 
 take my sunshine, my beloved Phulwa,” she kept 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 35 
 
 repeating to herself. She knew that the time had 
 come when Joshi and Pyari would claim the be- 
 trothed wife of their son. Babu Lal’s father and 
 mother had made the engagement. By Indian law 
 and custom this was their right, the mother of the 
 bride having no opportunity to express her own 
 wish for her own child. Now both of Babu Lal’s 
 parents were dead, and his one concern was to 
 save and hide away a few more rupees after each 
 harvest had been reaped, in order to pay Phulwa’s 
 dowry. The last harvest had been good; and its 
 proceeds were carefully hidden away in a vessel 
 in the ground by the roots of the peepul tree. 
 
 Sukde had scarcely dozed off to sleep, at last, 
 before Babu Lal shook her. “Do not forget,” he 
 said to his wife, “that you must prepare some of 
 your best dishes to feed our coming guests.”’ 
 
 As if this were a rising signal, the family rose, 
 and Sukde began to prepare for her visitors, 
 Phulwa helping to roll the unleavened dough into 
 neat round puree cakes ready to fry. Babu Lal 
 went out to buy a large watermelon from their 
 neighbours, and afterward, with Narain’s help, 
 he lifted a fresh supply of water from the vil- 
 lage well. 
 
 Narain was the only son, the great pride of the 
 family; he had been in school in the morning. 
 Now he teasingly said to Phulwa: “So your 
 future mother-in-law is coming! You certainly 
 will have to hide your face. Ha! they will be 
 
36 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 taking you away from your beloved mother soon. 
 And then what will you do?” 
 
 Phulwa needed to take but one swift glance at 
 her mother’s face to know that Narain spoke the 
 truth. She burst into tears. But her father loved 
 her, even if she were only a girl. “Tut, tut! Why 
 cry?” he asked. ‘Am I not working day and night 
 to get a dowry big enough to buy you into such 
 a fine family? I have no patience with your 
 crying.” 
 
 Phulwa ran to her mother and threw her arms 
 around her. ‘Mother, must I leave you?” she 
 begged. 
 
 “Not yet, daughter, not yet. Do not cry; we 
 must hurry to prepare the meal.” 
 
 Work being the best remedy for sorrow, soon 
 both mother and daughter were cheerful again. 
 Hardly had they slipped on their best saris, made 
 of cheap cotton cloth of becoming colours, when 
 a neighbour ran in. ‘Here they are,” he pro- 
 claimed, and he ushered in not only Joshi, Pyari 
 and Ram Chander, but many neighbours also. 
 
 Did not the whole village know what this visit 
 meant? Certain men of the town—relatives and 
 caste brothers—were invited to eat with Joshi and 
 Babu Lal, while Pyari, Sukde and some of the 
 women withdrew to a room. 
 
 When the men had eaten, Sukde cleared away 
 the dishes, and the women ate while the men, 
 gathered in a circle, consulted with the village 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 37 
 
 priest. The priest informed them that he had ex- 
 amined the horoscope of both young people and 
 had found that certain stars were to be in certain 
 positions on a certain night; and, these stars being 
 the good stars of both children, that they should 
 be united at this indicated time. Not again for 
 two years, he added, would the horoscope read so 
 auspiciously. 
 
 The priest’s edict being final, Babu Lal sighed 
 deeply, as he thought of the burden of debt he was 
 incurring, but he agreed. The priest was paid his 
 fee and departed. When the women were told, 
 Sukde broke into sobs, and Phulwa also began 
 to weep. 
 
 In ten days more the wedding took place. Babu 
 Lal had mortgaged his prospective crops for three 
 years, and the money so obtained was spent on the 
 wedding. All the family savings were given as 
 dowry, together with a promissory note binding 
 the parents to pay a like sum before the end of 
 the next two years. All the men of the village had 
 agreed that it was quite fitting for Babu Lal to do 
 all this. Had he not one son, for whom a dowry 
 would be received? Did he not have a right to the 
 cultivation of a piece of ground? Did he not own 
 his house? In vain had Babu Lal protested that 
 such heavy payments made more of a burden than 
 he could bear—were not all Indian fathers of 
 daughters so burdened? On the other hand, Joshi 
 was the father of only one son, Ram Chander, and 
 
38 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 was making money fast; for Phulwa to marry into 
 such a family was worth much. 
 
 The wedding feasting continued for several 
 days. Hired girls danced, a band played, magi- 
 clans and tricksters performed, expensive perfume 
 was scattered upon the guests, fireworks were set 
 off, and finally the bride, weeping copiously, was 
 sent with her mother-in-law in a purdah-curtained 
 cart to the home of her father-in-law. 
 
 Little Phulwa, used to the freedom of her vil- 
 lage, could scarcely endure her new shut-in life. 
 She saw little of Ram Chander, her husband; he 
 was still in school and even his evenings he spent 
 studying. He was a promising student, and his 
 ambitious parents kept him at his books so con- 
 stantly that he had almost no time left for Phulwa, 
 his child wife. 
 
 Even before Phulwa had reached her new home 
 she had discovered that Pyari (unlike her name, 
 which means “beloved”) was a cross, irritable 
 woman. She had scolded Phulwa for stumbling 
 as she got out of the cart; then, because the child 
 pushed her sari back from her face in order the 
 better to see where she wsa going, she had curtly 
 asserted that the girl had no shame. 
 
 To the young bride had been given a little room 
 in the tower. In the tiny room there were, indeed, 
 two windows of carved stone, but each looked out 
 on dreary roofs. 
 
 Within reach of Phulwa were no other children 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 39 
 
 for company. Only once in a long while did she 
 have the relief of going to the Ganges, and then it 
 was always with carping, irritable Pyari. The 
 bride-child recalled her delightful morning walks 
 with her own beloved mother. Oh, how she longed 
 for home! 
 
 In time the girl’s appetite began to fail. Her 
 mother-in-law told her she was a sulky child, and 
 made her stay most of the time in her room, with 
 only carven stone windows as companions. Some- 
 times the child’s father came to see her, but he 
 was quick to let her know that it would cost quite 
 too much for her mother to hire a cart to come, 
 too. Always, also, Phulwa saw him only in the 
 presence of Pyari; and, being a very proper Hindu 
 girl, she never dreamed of voluntarily speaking to 
 anyone before her mother-in-law. 
 
 On one of the days which were marked by Babu 
 Lal’s coming, Pyari’s attention was distracted for 
 a moment. Instantly Phulwa whispered appeal- 
 ingly to her father: ‘‘Please, please take me home.” 
 
 The man could not withstand her plea. In the 
 presence of her mother-in-law, a little while later, 
 he suggested that he take Phulwa home to see her 
 mother. 
 
 “Take Phulwa home!” cried Pyari, holding up 
 her hands in horror. ‘Why, you would have to 
 pay two rupees for a cart! And yet you say you 
 cannot afford a cart to bring her mother here— 
 which is the proper place to see the girl. Ha, you 
 
40 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 pull a great mouth about paying your dowry, but 
 now you are proposing to act the spendthrift!” 
 
 He could make no headway against such a storm 
 of words. He went away. Phulwa began to cry, 
 whereupon Pyari beat her and sent her to her 
 room. | 
 “Ram, Sita Ram.” 
 
 That night there was no supper for Phulwa— 
 which was not such a great hardship, as the girl 
 could not have eaten. But she was terribly lonely. 
 Next morning she was not called to take her bath 
 as usual. By ten o’clock she had acquired an un- 
 endurable thirst; the heat was stifling. 
 
 Phulwa ventured down the stairs. She timor- 
 ously opened the door—only to meet her irate 
 mother-in-law there. The woman beat her, and 
 drove her back. 
 
 Somehow the child struggled up the stairs, but 
 against the door she fell, unconscious. 
 
 When Phulwa regained her senses welcome 
 water was being poured down her throat and on 
 her head. She heard the faithful old servant say: 
 “She is coming to—but you might have killed her.” 
 
 Her mother-in-law’s reply she never forgot. 
 “What if I had?” Then, in biting tones: “We 
 would have received still more dowry then—from 
 another wife. This is only a child from the jungle, 
 anyway.” 
 
 After that day the old servant brought Phulwa 
 water whenever she was kept prisoner in her room. 
 
 CO ee a a 7 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 41 
 
 Often, though, the child went two full days with- 
 out food. The girl grew thin. Her once happy 
 expression turned to one of hatred and resentment. 
 
 Weeks passed before the father came again, but 
 to her unspeakable joy her mother came, too. 
 Later, in face of an awful tirade from Pyari, 
 Phulwa went home with her parents. At once it 
 became evident to the girl that her mother was 
 not well, but it took her some days to find out 
 the reason. All the proceeds from the spring 
 crops had gone to pay the money-lender who had 
 advanced the money for the wedding. Only a 
 small amount of grain was doled out to them by 
 this man, who was also, as it happened, a grain 
 merchant. The unselfish mother, insisting she was 
 not hungry, always urged her father and brother 
 to eat the most of the food. Phulwa’s own appe- 
 tite now had come back; she wanted food as she 
 never before had wanted it. But she hated to feel 
 that she was eating what was meant for the others. 
 Consequently, when in two weeks Pyari came for 
 her, she willingly returned. 
 
 Another year passed, a year in which only once 
 did Phulwa see her mother and only a few times 
 her father, always at Joshi’s home. Seldom did 
 the young wife, indeed, see anyone except her 
 mother-in-law and the old servant. Joshi went 
 away early in the morning and returned late at 
 night; even when he was in the house, Pyari sent 
 Phulwa to her room. Ram Chander was now in 
 
42 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 college and, in order that he might study better, 
 he roomed in the college dormitory. After all, it 
 was cheaper for him to live at college than to 
 travel the four miles across the city from his home. 
 On his few visits home Ram Chander’s mother 
 claimed all his attention. She spoke to him so 
 often of his wife only as “that sulky child,” that 
 Ram Chander in time came to believe the term to 
 be deserved. 
 
 The wife’s eventful time came at last. While 
 Phulwa suffered, during many hours, the midwife 
 and Pyari sat by her. Suddenly the girl heard her 
 own baby cry. Her heart went up to her favourite 
 goddess: “O Sitaji! If it be nota son, let me die.” 
 
 Then she heard her mother-in-law whispering to 
 the midwife. “Do it, do it quickly!” she caught. 
 “You promised me you would, if it was a girl. Do 
 it quickly.” 
 
 A few minutes later Phulwa found herself alone 
 with the old family servant. It was such a relief 
 —such a restful relief to have Pyari gone and 
 that dirty, detestable midwife with her. Weakly 
 Phulwa whispered to the servant: “Show me my 
 child.” 
 
 The good-hearted woman hesitated a minute, 
 then frankly told the utter truth: “They have 
 taken it away; it is not living.” 
 
 Phulwa wept. Her life’s one hope was gone. 
 
 “There, there—do not cry, child,” comforted the 
 old servant. “It was only a girl,” 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 43 
 
 The only person who came near Phulwa during 
 the next ten days was the old servant. When, on 
 the tenth day, the purification ceremony took 
 place, Pyari poked fun at her. Her husband’s 
 mother mocked her because she, too, was not the 
 mother of a son. 
 
 A few weeks later Babu Lal unexpectedly ar- 
 rived. He had come to take Phulwa home. Her 
 mother was very ill. 
 
 On the way Phulwa was ready to shout for joy 
 at being out of the awful prison behind purdah 
 and stone window, and away from the despicable 
 mother-in-law. But her heart was heavy; her 
 mother was ill, possibly even dying. 
 
 Certainly the child was not prepared for what 
 she found. Her mother was wasted away; inces- 
 santly she was coughing. Never had Phulwa heard 
 of tuberculosis, the neighbours told the young wife 
 that her mother had wasting sickness—from which 
 no one ever recovered. 
 
 In a day or two her mother was gone. 
 
 The loss was the bitterness of hopeless death. 
 Without mother, life was not worth living; the 
 mother had been the one person who loved her. 
 As the wasted body was taken away, the men of 
 the family following it, Phulwa was wild in her 
 grief. She beat her head upon the ground; she 
 beat her breast; she cried aloud in agony. The 
 men as they passed by her took up a chant. 
 “Ram, Ram, Sita Ram—Ram, Ram, Sita Ram,” 
 
AA, THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 they sadly sang. They did not hear Phulwa’s wild 
 cry, “Don’t take my mother from me!” Their 
 chant Phulwa did not hear. 
 
 That day no food was cooked, nor the next day; 
 it was truly a house of mourning. No kind neigh- 
 bours brought food for the mourners; in India 
 exchanges of such kindness are not known. On 
 the third day Phulwa, still sitting rocking herself 
 to and fro, sobbing and mourning, heard her father 
 speak. “Phulwa, we are all hungry. Cook us 
 some food.” It was the first sane thought that 
 had come her way; she obeyed. 
 
 For a little while she was almost happy in her 
 cooking with the old familiar brass vessels; almost 
 happy, indeed, to be cooking at all, after those 
 unspeakable two years in her mother-in-law’s 
 home. As she worked now, Phulwa recalled how 
 often her own mother had said to her: “Phulwa, 
 you are a good cook.” Even in the midst of her 
 still flowing tears, she proudly tossed her head, 
 and laughed, as she had done then. 
 
 That woman only once or twice had let her 
 cook, and even then had refused to eat what 
 Phulwa had prepared, saying it was “awful stuff.” 
 
 Late in the afternoon the mother-in-law sud- 
 denly appeared. ‘Since there is now no woman in 
 your father’s house,” she said, “it is not proper for 
 you to remain here. You must come home with 
 me—at once.” 
 
 In apparent obedience, Phulwa withdrew, to 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED A5 
 
 bathe and change her clothes in preparation for 
 the return journey. But her mind was at work. 
 Whatever came, she was determined not to return 
 to that prison home. 
 
 She beckoned her father, and pleaded with him. 
 He appealed to Pyari. But the woman would not 
 listen. Babu Lal’s spirit had been broken; the 
 wife who always was good and always was thought- 
 ful of them all had gone. Now, while he wanted 
 Phulwa to stay, he felt compelled to acknowledge 
 that his daughter was no longer his. He had no 
 arguments to move the selfish Pyari. 
 
 There was no other way; Phulwa knew it. 
 While she was supposed to be getting ready, sud- 
 denly she slipped out of the house and wildly tore 
 across the fields. 
 
 Neighbours saw her going, and gave the alarm. 
 Soon a dozen men, including her own father and 
 brother, were after her. She saw that the men 
 were gaining on her. When she had got as far as 
 the railway tracks, she was at the point of desper- 
 ation. A train was coming. Running down be- 
 tween the tracks, the frantic girl threw herself in 
 front of the engine. 
 
 She was badly mangled but not dead. The men, 
 obeying the engineer, lifted her into the guard’s 
 van. Her father was allowed to go with her. 
 Miss Saheb. 
 
 The Scotch engineer went with the girl to the 
 mission hospital. He was quite upset by the oc- 
 
46 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 currence; moreover, he was afraid the men would 
 not take her to the doctor at the mission hospital 
 if not watched. 
 
 “I have heard a good deal about these girls 
 committing suicide, but I really never thought 
 any of them would jump in front of my train,” 
 he said at the hospital. ‘She looks pretty hope- 
 less, doesn’t she?” 
 
 They were lifting the unconscious form onto the 
 operating table. Dr. Moore began her examina- 
 tion. “Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid there is not 
 much hope. But it is what she wanted—she 
 wanted to die, poor little girl. Even so, it is not 
 so bad as it would have been in Calcutta. If she 
 had lived there, she would have poured kerosene 
 on her clothing, and set fire to it. That is the 
 way they do it there. These poor wives and 
 widows! Well, we will do our best. Please leave 
 your name and address in the office, and I’ll let 
 you know how she gets on.” 
 
 The engineer smiled gratefully, feeling Dr. 
 Moore’s sympathy; but he replied: “I'll call, 
 myself.” 
 
 Some days later Phulwa opened her eyes. She 
 saw Dr. Moore leaning over her, giving her some 
 medicine. She glanced around quickly, resting 
 her eyes again on the doctor, whose smile was 
 all she needed to show her that she was among 
 friends, 
 
 The girl suffered much, for many bones were 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 47 
 
 broken. The father had refused to leave the hos- 
 pital for several days, but at length had returned 
 to his home with his son, who had brought him 
 some food. 
 
 Day after day Phulwa listened quietly while the 
 hospital Bible woman talked to her. She won- 
 dered what it all meant when the American mis- 
 sionary nurse, Miss King, held prayers in the ward 
 in the mornings. She looked on somewhat won- 
 deringly when Miss King, with the help of the 
 Indian nurses, washed her bruised body. The 
 Indian nurses fed her, and she never even asked 
 whether they were of her own caste. The ques- 
 tion had not occurred to her for several days, and, 
 when it did, she thought, “‘What difference does it 
 make? My food is not polluted by them, even if 
 they are not of my caste.” 
 
 One day Miss King brought Pyari in, but the 
 look of anguish on Phulwa’s face told her more in 
 one swift glance than she had ever read in a human 
 expression before. Turning to the woman, she 
 said: ““Phulwa is very weak, so I cannot let you 
 stay to talk to her now. She is slowly getting 
 better, and after many months may be well.”’ She 
 took Pyari away. 
 
 When she came back to Phulwa, her patient 
 turned troubled eyes upon her. “Miss Saheb, am 
 I getting well?” she asked. ‘But why did you not 
 let me die? I don’t want to live; oh, I cannot go 
 back to her house!” 
 
48 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 Quietly, Miss King soothed the sobbing girl, as 
 ' she would have soothed a baby. She gently patted 
 her and talked in many sympathetic words. While 
 sate so, she rather thoughtlessly assured the girl: 
 
 “No, I will not send you back to her. I will keep 
 you with me.” 
 
 Relieved and contented, Phulwa cuddled down 
 and stopped crying. But Miss King, now awak- 
 ened to what she had done, was wondering just 
 how she would be able to force consent from the 
 girl’s family. 
 
 A few days later Miss King was at a missionary 
 home for dinner. Mr. Hart, one of the young 
 American professors in the mission college, was 
 present. ‘Miss King,” he said, “I hear that you 
 have the wife of one of my students in your hos- 
 pital. Being a good Hindu, he did not tell me her 
 name, but he says she tried to commit suicide after 
 the death of her mother.” 
 
 Miss King had heard something of Phulwa’s 
 history by this time. “The death of her mother, 
 indeed!” she replied. “It was his own wretched 
 mother’s treatment of her that made her attempt 
 suicide. I promised her the other day that she 
 should not go back to her mother-in-law, and she 
 has been happy ever since. She is only a child 
 —and a sweet child too—but what of her hus- 
 band? Why did he let his mother treat her in 
 that way?” 
 
 “Of course, he is only a youngster,” rejoined 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 49 
 
 Mr. Hart, “though a very bright chap. He takes 
 great interest in Bible class, and often comes to 
 talk to me in my room. He is a very likable fel- 
 low. I'll talk to him about his wife, though these 
 men are very reticent about speaking of their 
 wives. I find that practically all the non-Christian 
 men in my first-year class are married. This fel- 
 low did not come to class for several days after his 
 wife got hurt, and he seemed quite upset.” 
 
 Not long afterward Mr. Hart called on Miss 
 King in the hospital. During the conversation he 
 announced: “I say, Miss King, I had a long talk 
 with Ram Chander last night about his wife. He 
 says that, as he has been living at the college and 
 only occasionally goes home, he did not see much 
 of his wife, and that she had never complained. 
 His mother, to be sure, had complained some of 
 his wife, but he did not know that the girl was 
 unhappy. He says he realizes, though, that this 
 Indian family system does not give a young wife 
 a chance; since there have been so many suicides 
 in Calcutta, by burning themselves up, the Hindu 
 press is saying much on the evil of girls’ fathers 
 having to pay the dowry. The Hindus are begin- 
 ning to see that such a custom gives the family of 
 sons all the advantages, with no reason whatever 
 for treating the girl fair. He said, ‘Sir, it is one 
 of the evils of Hinduism, and while much is being 
 said, the custom is not being changed. It is only 
 you Christians, sir, who have taught us that there 
 
50 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 are better ways. Christianity—the principles of 
 Jesus Christ—is all that can save India.’ His 
 mother tells him that his wife will be deformed, 
 and that her caste has been broken by her living 
 in a Christian hospital, and that she advises him 
 to forget this wife and marry again. Hindus know 
 no divorce, you remember; once a wife, always a 
 wife, this is the rule—yes, and a slave in her hus- 
 band’s home if he dies. If the wife is intolerably 
 unhappy she runs away or kills herself. She can 
 claim nothing from her husband.” 
 
 Miss King could not restrain an angry ejacula- 
 tion, but Mr. Hart reassuringly continued: “Ves, 
 it makes me angry, too. But he wishes me to ask 
 you to tell his wife that he will see to it that here- 
 after she is treated right.” 
 
 The engineer, calling again, rejoiced to learn 
 that Phulwa was improving. To Miss King he 
 said: “Nurse, I saw that little girl coming between 
 the tracks, and then I saw the men on the side 
 waving their arms, but just as I realized there 
 was danger she sprang before the engine. How 
 could the kiddie have had nerve to do it? She 
 must have been hard driven. Well, I am glad she 
 did not die, and I hope I don’t have another thing 
 like that happen. You know, it makes me nervous. 
 I hope you will get her to become a Christian—and 
 don’t let her go back, to be abused!” 
 
 When Phulwa’s father once more appeared, 
 he said, “Miss Saheb, you people are kind to 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 51 
 
 me. You have been very kind to my poor little 
 daughter. The people of my village have pressed 
 me so hard to pay up my debts that I have now 
 sold my house and my cultivator’s rights and paid 
 my creditors. Please, then, Miss Saheb, can’t you 
 please give me some work, to earn just a little 
 bread? That is all I want—and a chance to stay 
 near to you kind people.” 
 
 He was given the job of night watchman. Every 
 morning thereafter he sat on the veranda near the 
 ward door to listen to the Bible woman and nurse 
 as they told of Jesus and His love. One day Miss 
 King heard him sobbing on the veranda. Going to 
 him, she heard him cry: “Oh, I’m a sinner! I 
 want this Jesus to save me.” Within a few days 
 his bright happy face was telling everyone he was 
 a Christian. 
 
 The Beloved. 
 
 As soon as Phulwa had been able to think a 
 little, the Bible woman began to teach her to read. 
 Soon the child developed such a desire for learning 
 to read that everyone who came near her was 
 pressed to tell her a letter or a word. She was 
 reading the second reader before she was able to 
 be up. This victory gave her wonderful self- 
 confidence. Then began Miss King to wonder how 
 she could get the girl into school. 
 
 One day, when Phulwa had been put out in a 
 chair on the veranda, Mr. Hart again came to call 
 on Miss King and the doctor. But this time with 
 
52 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 him was Ram Chander. Miss King took the latter 
 to the veranda, where Phulwa was enjoying the 
 garden. 
 
 It was one of the lovely days which regularly 
 come in mid-winter in India. No one can imagine 
 bluer skies, more cheering sunshine or balmier air. 
 The garden was at its best. The chrysanthemums 
 were nearly all gone, only a few in pots being left 
 on the veranda, but spread out in front of Phulwa 
 was a gorgeous array of pansies, nasturtiums, 
 candytuft, cosmos, hollyhocks and many other 
 lovely flowers. Phulwa sat as if in a fairyland. 
 Sometimes while she had been in bed the doctor 
 had laid a flower, generally a rose, on the pillow 
 beside her, and she had studied and loved it, talked 
 to it and read its thoughts until it had faded. 
 Other times there had been a vase of flowers by 
 her side, and this she liked best; the flowers did 
 not wilt before next morning, when the nurse took 
 them out and brought others. 
 
 While Phulwa sat there, drinking in the loveli- 
 ness with an expression which embodied both con- 
 tentment and animated joy, she heard Dr. Moore’s 
 footsteps coming down the veranda. She turned 
 her happy face toward the doctor who had brought 
 all this to pass for her. She had not heard Ram 
 Chander’s bare feet; according to the Indian cus- 
 tom upon entering a home, he had slipped off his 
 shoes on the veranda steps. Ram Chander caught 
 one glimpse of that lovely face and gasped. But 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 53 
 
 at seeing him, the happiness fled and fear crept 
 into his young wife’s eyes. 
 
 “Phulwa.” the doctor announced, “I will leave 
 your husband here a while to talk with you.” 
 
 Phulwa, having pulled her sari over her face, 
 true to Hindu custom, was now shyly looking into 
 her lap. As the doctor’s footsteps were heard en- 
 tering the drawing-room Ram Chander, unlike 
 most Indians, went straight to the point: “I am 
 glad, very glad, that you are getting well. I did 
 not know you were so unhappy—why did you not 
 speak ?”’ 
 
 She stole a timid glance up into his face, as she 
 asked: “Why should I worry you? You were in 
 school, and powerless to help. But that is past; 
 let us not remember it. Yet please do not ask me 
 to return to your home. I am learning to read 
 here, and the Miss Saheb says she will send me to 
 school when I am well.” 
 
 “Ves, she has talked to me about it. And my 
 professor—the finest man I ever knew—has talked 
 to me. I wili speak to my father, and see if I can 
 persuade him to pay your fees in a school. These 
 wonderful ladies have done so much for you, we 
 must not let them care for the matter of sending 
 you to school also. My father has money, and I 
 am his only son.” 
 
 This time there was a slight smile in Phulwa’s 
 glance as she responded: “Oh, I did not think you 
 would be so kind. But your mother will never 
 
54 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 agree.”’ She spoke hesitatingly, but quickly, as 
 she knew Dr. Moore would soon come back, and 
 she wanted to make things plain. 
 
 Ram Chander’s reply was not what she expected. 
 “No, she will not. But if I can persuade my 
 father, he will insist on it. Anyway, she is really 
 sorry for the past.” 
 
 For a minute there was silence, then Phulwa 
 inquired: “Do you like your college?” 
 
 Ram Chander pulled up a nearby chair and 
 seating himself, told her about the mission college. 
 “It is wonderful there. The professors know us 
 all, and are so kind that I wish I could stay there 
 forever. This is my second year, and I soon take 
 my government intermediate examinations. To- 
 day, as I came here with Professor Hart, he said 
 he was counting on my being a credit to the col- 
 lege in the examinations.” He hesitated a minute 
 at Phulwa’s pleased smile, and added: “Mr. Hart 
 said he was praying for me.” 
 
 She gave a cry of joy. “Oh, that is what Miss 
 King said about me! She said she was praying 
 that I might get well. And is it not wonderful that 
 God answers their prayers? They are not afraid 
 of God, as we are. They say God is good.” 
 
 Ram Chander was pleased, but before he could 
 reply the doctor came and took him away, saying, 
 “I hope you will come soon and see Phulwa 
 again.” : 
 
 He did come soon; he came several times, and 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 55 
 
 Phulwa began to look forward to his coming. She 
 was now limping around with the help of a cane 
 but improving daily; so she was soon to go to 
 school. Ram Chander had long ago brought the 
 first payment from his father, who had agreed to 
 pay the school fees, though for one year only. He 
 thought it absolutely foolish that a girl should go 
 to school. Yet this wonderful son deserved to be 
 humoured. The mother was ill; she had not 
 seemed to comprehend what they meant. In fact, 
 his mother was very ill and getting worse every 
 day. They had tried to bring her to the hospital, 
 but she would not come. 
 
 “Oh,” cried Phulwa, when she and her boy hus- 
 band were speaking of his mother, “let us get the 
 doctor to go to her.” Hurrying down the veranda, 
 she soon returned to say: “The doctor will go with 
 us.” Doctor Moore appeared in her phaeton, and 
 asked Phulwa and Ram Chander to ride with her. 
 
 Ram Chander could not restrain an exclamation 
 when Phulwa arose to go. He even called his wife 
 by her name, which he had never done before, 
 being a well trained Hindu: “Oh, Phulwa, are you 
 really coming?” 
 
 She laughed gently as she replied simply: “Of 
 course.” 
 
 Dr. Moore discovered that the mother had a bad 
 case of malaria and anemia. ‘Tell me what to 
 do,” whispered Phulwa, “and I’ll stay a few days, 
 and be nurse.” 
 
56 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 The doctor, in surprise, exclaimed aloud, but 
 quietly explained to her about the medicines and 
 the care necessary. Then, looking at Ram Chan- 
 der and speaking in a louder voice, she added: 
 “Some one must sponge her carefully once every 
 day, and again if the fever goes high; she must 
 have good milk to drink every two hours and this 
 medicine, one powder each morning, noon and 
 night.” 
 
 Ram Chander took the medicine from the doc- 
 tor’s hand and put it on a shelf, while the doctor 
 leaned over the sick woman saying: “You do as 
 your son says, and I think you will get well. I 
 have given your medicine to him.” 
 
 Pyari looked at her son. “Maybe her medicine 
 will help,” she granted grudgingly. “The hakim’s 
 medicine hasn’t made me quite well yet. Your 
 father has paid the priest to do lots of worship, 
 and to bring me Ganges water.” 
 
 Ram Chander looked very much ashamed and, 
 bending over his mother, said, “Never mind, 
 mother; the doctor has good medicine.” The 
 doctor smiled sympathetically at Ram Chander 
 as he looked up. His face expressed relief ; he 
 was thinking: “She understands our ignorant 
 women.” 
 
 While the doctor was passing out Phulwa seized 
 the door, mischievously blocking Ram Chander, 
 who had followed, and then called: “Good night, 
 doctor, thank you”—and shut the door. 
 
PHULWA THE BELOVED 57 
 
 Ram Chander gasped: “‘What, what? Phulwa, 
 what?” 
 
 “T’m the nurse,” laughingly she replied. “I 
 shall stay until she is better.” 
 
 Her husband seized her by the shoulders. 
 “Phulwa, you are wonderful; you are as forgiving 
 as a follower of Christ.”’ In a moment he added: 
 “Phulwa, let me tell you now what I have wanted 
 to tell you for several days: You are the loveliest 
 woman I ever knew. Stay, please stay forever. 
 No one ever shall be cruel to you again.” 
 
 Phulwa laughed and ran away from him, but 
 she stayed. 
 
 The Bible woman goes to her every day, to read 
 with her; and her father-in-law pays for the les- 
 sons. Ram Chander rides a bicycle to college in 
 the morning and back in the evening, just so that 
 he may see that Phulwa is always kindly treated. 
 
 But he need not fear; everyone, even her 
 mother-in-law, loves Phulwa. 
 
a) j - 
 ADDY rns 
 M4 Wp St), 
 ty ye f 4 
 
 
 
II 
 
 SHALL SHE LIVE? 
 
X 
 #1) 
 
 vA 
 
 ly 
 ; 
 
 
 
Il 
 
 ONLY A GIRL 
 T IS a girl.” The fatal words fell from the 
 | lips of a low-caste woman who had come to 
 the doorway of the mud house, in order to 
 announce the arrival of a daughter. The young 
 husband heard and shuddered. His father heard 
 and, rising hurriedly, began to curse the day, the 
 young mother, her mother and then his fifteen- 
 year-old son, Mohan. He became so angry that 
 the boy was frightened and ran to the jungle; and 
 there for two hours he wandered. 
 River-destined. 
 
 At first Mohan was angry at his father, then he 
 was sorry for himself. After a while he remem- 
 bered the face of his girl wife, as it had looked 
 when she sat in the courtyard of their home that 
 morning. All the forenoon she had crouched there, 
 shivering and groaning with fear and pain, and he 
 had been filled with pity for her. But now, in his 
 hurry to escape from his father, he had not even 
 waited to hear how she was faring. She was only 
 thirteen, this merry little wife of his for two years. 
 Often had they played tag through the house and 
 courtyard. When he had caught her she had 
 
 61 
 
62 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 laughed, and had given his hand an affectionate 
 squeeze. | 
 
 He hurried home, hoping nothing had gone 
 wrong with her. He remembered how each cry 
 and groan coming from the room that afternoon 
 had sent a stab to his heart. He remembered, too, 
 how his father had shouted: “Hey, you there, 
 mother of Mohan! Make that brat keep still, or 
 I will come and teach her how to be quiet.” 
 
 For an hour after that, there had been no cries, 
 then had come the fatal announcement and his 
 father’s rage. 
 
 When he came near the house on his return, he 
 heard his father’s irate voice. As he entered the 
 courtyard, he saw the angry man kick a bundle 
 on the floor in the corner room. The sun was 
 setting, and, coming into the gloom, until he heard 
 her cry out Mohan had not realized that that 
 bundle was his own wife. Fearless now, he ran 
 in front of his father with an angry outcry. 
 
 “All right, then,” said the father. “I tell you, 
 Mohan, you get rid of that girl offspring of 
 yours.” 
 
 Mohan turned to his mother. She put the palms 
 of her hands together pleadingly, while she said: 
 “Yes, Mohan, do your father’s bidding. He will 
 never tolerate a girl baby here. Take her to the 
 river, and throw her in.” 
 
 Stooping down over the bundle of rags which 
 covered the girl wife, she pulled the baby from the 
 
ONLY A GIRL 63 
 
 small mother’s arms. Mohan heard one heart- 
 broken, pleading sob from his wife, then silence. 
 
 “Take it, son, take it,” the mother begged. “I 
 know that it is unclean for you to touch, but we 
 can’t keep it until the purification on the tenth day, 
 or the neighbours would know it did not die at 
 birth, and they might report us. You know, the 
 Collector is getting on the hunt for killers of girl 
 babies.” 
 
 An impatient shout from his father made Mohan 
 jump, then he let his mother drop the sleeping 
 baby into his arms. 
 
 Unseen, Mohan crept away from the village. 
 The smoking fires and the rich spicy, buttery 
 odours spoke of delicious Indian suppers being 
 cooked or eaten; no one was out to see him go. 
 After walking for about ten minutes, he looked 
 down at the cunning, fat, red face, and his heart 
 smote him. A little red hand reached out, and 
 then the whole little body stretched and shivered. 
 He held it tight, while he turned and looked back. 
 His father was following; he hastened on. He 
 took the road leading toward the river Ganges, 
 and again hastily glanced back. His father was 
 still following. 
 
 “Anyway,” thought Mohan, “better for him to 
 follow me than to stay there torturing the poor 
 little mother.” 
 
 On the boy walked, until he caught sight of the 
 mist above the Ganges. Once more he looked back 
 
64 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 —to see his father yet following. As he let him- 
 self down the steep bank of the river the jolting 
 of his body disturbed the warm, soft bundle in his 
 arms, and the baby began to cry. He held it tight, 
 but it still cried, and he hurried on. When he 
 reached the edge of the water he turned and looked 
 back. His father was no longer in sight. 
 
 With this realization, Mohan quickened his pace. 
 He hastened on until he reached a place where the 
 overhanging bank hid him from the view of any 
 one on the road. Now the fast gathering darkness 
 was a protection. 
 
 The babe had cuddled down against him and 
 gone to sleep; her crying would not attract notice. 
 Keeping some distance from the beaten paths and 
 the main road, he walked on into. the night. 
 Finally, he was in sight of the Collector’s bunga- 
 low. There, behind the friendly hedge, he waited. 
 In time he heard the watchman, loudly coughing 
 a warning to possible thieves, approach him. Still 
 he waited, trembling lest the babe suddenly cry 
 and attract the man’s attention—too soon. 
 
 When, at last, the watchman was safely on the 
 other side of the bungalow, Mohan quickly slipped 
 through the gate and, putting the baby under a 
 bush, ran away as fast as he could. Now the 
 baby was crying loudly; the sound added speed 
 to his flight. 
 
 The hour was late, and he was very weary when 
 he staggered up to the village. In the doorway of 
 
ONLY A GIRL 65 
 
 his home sat his parents. His father began to 
 chide him for not returning earlier. 
 
 ‘All right, father,” returned the boy. “But if 
 we get caught in this miserable business, I will tell 
 them that it was you who did it.” 
 
 With an angry ejaculation, the father got up, 
 went inside and lay down upon his bed, in a room 
 at the far corner of the courtyard. 
 
 ‘Never mind, son,” the mother said soothingly, 
 “there is food for you here; and I will give the 
 girl some when you have finished.” 
 
 Mohan had nearly finished his late meal when 
 his mother carried in the food to the room where 
 his wife lay on the mud floor. He could hear his 
 mother plead with her to eat. Later he heard her 
 say: “All right, I'll get the water.” 
 
 He heard the sounds she made as she went to 
 the other end of the courtyard and fumbled among 
 the nearly empty, sun-baked, earthen vessels, in 
 order to fill a small brass jar with water. Under 
 cover of the darkness, once more his ally, he 
 stepped to the door of his wife’s room. 
 
 Stealing near, he whispered: “Don’t fret, little 
 girl. She is not dead, but safe. Keep quiet, 
 but eat.” 
 
 He slid back into the dark courtyard and, lying 
 down on his bed, knew from the quiet mutter of 
 voices that his mother thought it was due to her 
 persuasions that the girl had eaten. 
 
 Next day, when Mohan went over into the 
 
66 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 bazaar to buy two pounds of potatoes, he heard 
 all about a baby who had been found by the Col- 
 lector’s watchman. He listened patiently while 
 the gossipers told how the watchman had gone 
 to the Collector’s butler. The butler had whis- 
 pered the news to the Collector as he passed him 
 the fish. The Collector announced the discovery 
 to all those at the table, and went out. Mrs. 
 Collector continued doing her duty as hostess until 
 the Collector came back, followed by a low-caste 
 woman carrying the baby. It had taken some 
 time to find a low-caste woman. Who else would 
 pick up an unknown baby before its purification? 
 
 With a somewhat worried air, the Collector 
 looked at his wife and asked: “What shall we do 
 with it? It’s hungry.” 
 
 “Goodness, how do I know? It is so long since 
 Lester was a baby, I haven’t an idea on formulas 
 for infant diet.” 
 
 Then a guest ventured to suggest the missionary, 
 and the Collector responded: ‘‘Fine.” 
 
 Listening to the recital, Mohan, a little too 
 eagerly, exclaimed: “Oh, so it is with the mission- 
 ary, is it?” 
 
 But no one seemed to notice Mohan’s interest, 
 and soon he slipped away. 
 
 Many people came and went at the missionary’s 
 home that day. All were eager to learn what a 
 white woman would do with a dark baby. Mrs. 
 Missionary was very patient and, a hundred times 
 
ONLY A GIRL 67 
 
 or more that day, lifted the net from the baby 
 basket in the front veranda to let the inquisitive 
 crowd look at the cunning baby face and two 
 chubby fists—all that were visible among the pil- 
 lows. Some one remarked: “No wonder it cries— 
 too many clothes!” 
 
 Mohan himself stepped to the veranda in the 
 crowd. He smiled as he saw the white dress and 
 pink and white blanket over the baby. “The girl 
 will be happy to know about that,” he remarked 
 to himself. 
 
 But not until next day did Mohan have a chance 
 to tell his wife about her baby. While his mother 
 waited at the well for her chance to draw water, 
 and gossiped with her neighbours, Mohan slipped 
 into the courtyard of their house and found the 
 girl wife sitting there in the sun. 
 
 “She looked just as sweet as could be,” Mohan 
 finished, ‘‘with her two chubby fists under her chin 
 and that pretty pink thing over her. I will take 
 you to see her some day.”” The happy smile which 
 she gave him was compensation enough; he crept 
 back into the field before his mother went in with 
 her first two jars of water. 
 
 Two months passed before Mohan could de- 
 mand that the girl go with him to carry a basket 
 of lentils to the market in the village bazaar. He 
 explained: “I have a basket for her as well as one 
 for myself,” 
 
 The mother felt sorry for the sad little thing 
 
68 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 and knew that the diversion would be ues for 
 her; she gave her consent. 
 
 She watched Mohan lift the basket on to the 
 girl’s head, then helped him get his own head- 
 basket safely balanced, and stood gazing after 
 them as they swung off down the narrow path to 
 the main road. The latter was a great highway, 
 macadam paved by the government, and was 
 bordered on either side by lovely old mango trees 
 which met high overhead. Just now the trees, in 
 bloom, gave an impression of a red glow above 
 them, and the fragrance was mild but sweet. The 
 air was so cool and pleasant in their shade that 
 the girl walked lightly in spite of her load. 
 
 When they were safely out of sight of the vil- 
 lage they halted, while Mohan helped to lift the 
 girl’s basket to the high curb of the well built by 
 the government by the roadside. Ordinarily he 
 would not have stopped so soon to rest, but his 
 mother had said: “The girl won’t be able to carry 
 a basket very far.” 
 
 Pulling the cloth covering from the top of the 
 basket, he slyly slipped a quantity of dry grass 
 from her basket, which was only half full of lentils, 
 into the end of his turban, and tied it in. He 
 would not like her to know that he was “babying” 
 her by making her load light; and certainly it 
 never would do to let his mother know. That was 
 the reason he had lifted the basket to her head at 
 first, instead of letting his mother place it there. 
 

 
 
 
 Se ee, 
 
 LENTILS TO Market 
 
a ’ - 
 bs ’ ey tae 
 bi : el 
 ba Lod A 
 if ‘ » f ay a 
 ¢ Ay oi 
 bs yA’ | r i 
 
 
 
 
 ns Ys " ' 0 
 Aen LOD os ta ae Yee 
 i a r Fey Pi i oe ma ane 
 
 ait us al Rape te ie fy hit 
 it oF 2 eee ed : Ny A 
 i le a 
 
ONLY A GIRL 69 
 
 The girl was sitting on the ground, laughing at 
 the playful antics of two baby monkeys jumping 
 in the tree above her. Mohan left her there while 
 he let down his brass drinking jar into the well 
 and drew water. Like all Indian travellers, he had 
 not forgotten his own rope and jar. He drank, 
 and presented the jar to the girl. After putting 
 the palms of her hands together, and lifting them 
 to her forehead in a salaam, a gracious ‘‘thank 
 you,” she accepted it. She drank all she could, 
 then poured some water on the rings on her toes, 
 which had become hot and uncomfortable through 
 her walking in the dust. She handed the jar back 
 to Mohan and began to polish and adjust the 
 rings, with the idea of making them comfortable 
 as well as of bringing out their beauty. He 
 slipped off his shoes and washed his feet, letting 
 them dry and cool in the air before putting his 
 shoes on again. Soon, however, their head loads 
 were replaced and they resumed their way toward 
 the village. 
 
 Fresh Lentils. 
 
 After a long walk they came to the Mission 
 compound. They noticed first its gateposts and 
 the macadam driveway. Next they saw the low 
 white, vine-clad bungalow surrounded by shrubs 
 and flower-beds. The open doors gave a cordial 
 and inviting atmosphere. Only the mali carrying 
 his watering-can was in sight, and he seemed not 
 to notice them as Mohan and the girl came up the 
 
70 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 driveway in the graceful swinging run which 
 Indian people assume when they carry loads on 
 their heads. They went along the side of the 
 bungalow to the back, where there was a long, 
 low, brick building of eight small rooms, each with 
 a high wall enclosing a little courtyard at the front. 
 Each courtyard and room formed a home for a 
 servant and his family. Mohan thought: ‘Not 
 much of a house, but better than a village mud- 
 house; and this arrangement allows the servants 
 to stay near their work.” 
 
 They lifted their baskets down in front of ue 
 servants’ houses and sat down by them. The 
 cook’s wife came up, to ask them what they had. 
 When they told her the baskets contained fresh 
 lentils she began to bargain with them. At her 
 first offer, “eight seers for the rupee,” Mohan 
 simply shook his head. 
 
 “Seven and a half for the rupee,” pursued the 
 woman. 
 
 “Why should I grow it, much less bring it here, 
 for that price?” scoffed Mohan. 
 
 “Oh, well, then surely if I take five whole seers, 
 you should let me have it for seven for the rupee,” 
 again ventured the woman. 
 
 “Five seers!” queried Mohan. ‘Why, five will 
 be gone in two weeks. How many in your 
 family?” 
 
 “Two living sons and a baby girl,” replied the 
 woman. “Wait until I get her—she is crying.” 
 
ONLY A GIRL 71 
 
 Hurrying into the house, she returned with a tiny 
 baby girl. 
 
 The girl wife, without rising, crept close to the 
 other woman and looked at the baby. 
 
 “Oh, yes,” Mohan tried to speak calmly. “And 
 how is that baby the lady missionary got from the 
 Collector?” 
 
 “She gave it to the Hindustani Padre Memsahib 
 (the Indian pastor’s wife) who lives over in that 
 house,” pointing to a small building standing on 
 one side of the compound. “She has no children 
 of her own, though longing and praying to her God 
 for a child. She told the missionary lady that she 
 loved that baby as if it were her own. She feeds it 
 goat’s milk out of a bottle, with a rubber thing to 
 suck out of. Who ever heard of such a thing? 
 But the missionary lady says white babies are 
 often brought up like that, even when they have 
 mothers. 
 
 “But come now, are you not going to let me have 
 those lentils seven for the rupee? I will take ten 
 seers if you will.” 
 
 “T don’t grow lentils for so little,” retorted the 
 boy, rising to go. 
 
 “Tet’s see it—is it nice, clean seed, or full of 
 dust and straw?” 
 
 Mohan stooped down, unfastened the cloth over 
 his basket and showed her: ‘‘Of course, it is clean. 
 I don’t carry soil on my head, do I?” 
 
 The woman dipped her hand into the seed and 
 
 EEE Ss 
 
72 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 sifted it through her fingers, remarking: “Yes, 
 fairly clean. Well, this is my last offer then—six 
 seers for the rupee.”” Both she and Mohan knew 
 that this was the price in the bazaar for last year’s 
 lentils, not this year’s. 
 
 “All right; bring your scales,’ commanded 
 Mohan. “But you really should pay more, because 
 this is new seed, and you don’t have to carry it 
 from the bazaar.” 
 
 The ten seers of lentils were sold from the 
 girl wife’s basket, so making it twenty pounds 
 lighter. 
 
 Other servants and their families gathered and, 
 learning that a good bargain had been made, took 
 ten seers from Mohan’s basket. The two then 
 walked to the Padre Memsahib’s and stopped out- 
 side of her door. Mohan called: ‘Fresh lentils 
 for sale!” 
 
 “How will you sell them?” inquired the Padre 
 Memsahib, opening the door. 
 
 ‘Just the same as I have just sold them over 
 there to the servants, six seers for the rupee; and 
 they are new and clean.” 
 
 Mohan helped remove the girl’s basket from her 
 head and commanded her to show the fine quality 
 of their seed. 
 
 Having examined the seed, the Padre Memsahib 
 said: “Lift the basket into the courtyard, and I 
 will take ten seers. Have you scales?” 
 
 “No, but I will run and bring the™servants’ 
 
ONLY A GIRL 73 
 
 scales, if you have none,” replied Mohan; as the 
 Padre Memsahib nodded, he ran to get them. 
 
 The two who were left heard a baby fretting in 
 a basket in the corner, and the Padre Memsahib 
 went into her kitchen to get the baby’s milk. The 
 baby continuing to cry hard, the girl wife went to 
 the kitchen door and asked invitingly: 
 
 “May I hold the baby a minute?” 
 
 The foster mother agreed. When Mohan re- 
 turned, he found his wife holding her own baby. 
 
 She lifted her eyes to Mohan; her face was 
 radiant. 
 
 “Can you hold this while the baby drinks?” 
 asked the Padre Memsahib, holding out a bottle 
 with a black top. 
 
 The girl looked perplexed, but she took the bot- 
 tle in her hand. The Padre Memsahib fixed it in 
 the baby’s mouth, and settled the baby into the 
 girl’s arms more comfortably. Maternal love 
 shone from the girl’s face all the while until the 
 bottle was empty and the baby once more began 
 to fret. 
 
 The Padre Memsahib and Mohan were measur- 
 ing the lentils, but at the sound of the baby’s voice 
 the foster mother looked over, and the girl, for- 
 getting her husband’s presence and the fact that 
 she ought not to speak to another in front of him, 
 exclaimed: ‘“That was such a tiny, tiny bit of milk. 
 Have you no more?” 
 
 The Padre Memsahib patiently explained: “The 
 
74 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 baby’s stomach is such a tiny, tiny thing that to 
 put more milk into it would make it ache, and the 
 baby would cry hard. Now it is just fussy because 
 the milk was good and she is sorry it is gone.” 
 
 The girl said no more, partly because she re- 
 membered her place as a Hindu wife and partly 
 because she saw that the Padre Memsahib was a 
 clever woman. When the sale of lentils was com- 
 pleted they started on their way, the girl’s basket 
 and heart much lighter. 
 
 A half-hour later the remaining lentils had been 
 sold to a grain merchant in the bazaar, and they 
 were free to wander up the narrow street, looking 
 at the wonderful display in the shops, the gir] fol- 
 lowing her husband, as every proper Hindu wife 
 should. The shop fronts had been removed so that 
 one could see all their contents lying on the floor 
 or on boxes or on shelves at the back. In one 
 shop brass pots and pans shone in the sunlight. 
 In the next was cloth, so displayed as to show the 
 variety of colours; a few pieces hung in front 
 where interested customers could feel the quality. 
 
 Then came the shop of the oil-seller, with its 
 kerosene, castor, mustard, linseed, cocoanut, sweet 
 oil, clarified butter (ghee) and several kinds known 
 and used only in India. Here Mohan produced 
 two bottles. In one bottle he bought cocoanut oil 
 for his mother’s hair (hoping the girl, also, would 
 get some of it), and in the other some mustard 
 oil in which their curry would be cooked. Only 
 
ONLY A GIRL 75 
 
 on rare occasions could they afford to have their 
 curry cooked in ghee. 
 
 Next door to the oil man a grain merchant dis- 
 played rice of several kinds, chana (a coarse field 
 bean), lentils of three kinds, wheat unground, 
 coarse ground, and fine ground, and several other 
 grains. . 
 
 In a shop farther on there were spices of every 
 variety, almonds, raisins, peanuts and other nuts. 
 Here two women were discussing the question 
 whether poppy seed in pillau made it more tasty 
 than coriander seed and, having decided that it 
 was a matter of taste, one asked the other whether 
 she put yellow saffron root in both kinds of lentil 
 stew, or only in one. The girl listened eagerly, as 
 if she had not often heard the same things talked 
 over on the well curb, mornings, while she waited 
 her turn to draw water and fill the jars. 
 
 Mohan gave to the spice seller the list and 
 quantities of spices which his mother had ordered. 
 As the man was weighing and wrapping each small 
 parcel in old newspaper, the sound of women’s 
 voices singing came to them. They were the 
 women of a wedding party, carrying on their heads 
 jars of grain and bundles of clothing—the dowry 
 which some well-to-do farmer was giving to the 
 husband of his daughter. The singing was sweet 
 and rhythmic as it came to them from across the 
 fields and between the houses, but as it drew 
 nearer it turned coarse and jarring. Yet to the 
 
76 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 girl it was intensely thrilling. She thought: 
 “Some small girl, somewhere, knows that all this 
 ceremony, extending over several days, is in her 
 honour. An honour, indeed, is it to a girl, when 
 some boy’s parents choose her to be the mother 
 of his son. There must be a son for any father’s 
 salvation—pity the girl who does not sometime 
 bear a son!” And Mohan’s young wife shivered. 
 
 When the shopping was done Mohan turned 
 toward home, followed by the girl. 
 
 During the next year Mohan twice found op- 
 portunity to take the girl wife to see her baby. 
 Before the year was over she at last had the joy 
 of becoming the happy and proud mother of a son. 
 Two years later another son arrived. Three years 
 after that, to be sure, the midwife again an- 
 nounced the arrival of a daughter, but this time, 
 though. Mohan’s father grumbled a good deal, he 
 let her keep her baby girl. For already there were 
 two sons, and the dowry from one of them would 
 pay for the dowry for the girl. Besides, Mohan 
 was now stronger and bigger than his father, and 
 would probably not take his command so peace- 
 ably again. 
 
 The first baby girl had now grown to be twelve 
 years old, and by her adopted parents was called 
 Lillavatti. She had always been simply dressed in 
 gingham dresses, but they were English dresses, 
 not the customary sari. She had been taught to 
 read and write, and there was talk in the com- 
 
ONLY A GIRL 77 
 
 munity to the effect that she was to be sent off 
 to school. 
 
 Lillavatti’s foster father had baptized a good 
 many low-caste people of the neighbourhood. The 
 Christians nowadays walked proudly erect, held 
 meetings in their homes, and openly sang hymns; 
 the whole village heard them. In fact, many of 
 the villagers sent their boys to school. What was 
 more, during a recent epidemic of smallpox not one 
 low-caste person had taken the disease, and many 
 higher caste persons were now declaring it to be 
 due to their hymn singing: They sat there late 
 into the night singing songs of praise to their God, 
 and in consequence they kept the evil spirits away 
 from them. The high-caste people did not want 
 to worship that God, but they felt that the low- 
 caste people ought somehow to be deprived of this 
 peculiar protection. What could be done about it? 
 A Lesson for the Padre. 
 
 One evening Mohan and his father sat in the 
 courtyard smoking their hooka. The mother, a 
 little behind them, occasionally added something 
 to the conversation. The wife was some distance 
 away, in the shadow of the buildings. She could 
 plainly see the others, who sat in the bright light 
 of a gorgeous, almost tropical moon. It was early 
 in April; the day had been stifling. Now that the 
 hot wind had quieted down, and the sun’s intense 
 heat had been turned off, it seemed all joy to sit 
 quietly in that wonderful moonlight. The bub- 
 
78 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 bling of water in the cocoanut shell cooler of the 
 pipe, with the low murmur of voices, added to 
 the evening’s peace. The distant yowl of the 
 jackals—coming nearer and nearer until the ani- 
 mals were in the village, in search of refuse—did 
 not jar the restfulness of those syaeter tt ttl to the 
 sound from infancy. 
 
 Some one in a nearby courtyard clapped his 
 hands and hooted at the jackals. An owl in a 
 nearby peepul tree, with her quiet “too-woo, too- 
 woo,” started some flying foxes and bats into activ- 
 ity, but the whir of their wings as they swooped 
 in and out among the village roofs, now high in the 
 trees and now low into the courtyards, disturbed 
 no one. Muskrats ran squeaking through the 
 rooms into the courtyard from one room to an- 
 other, but no attention was paid to them. A wolf 
 in the fields beyond emitted its blood-curdling 
 yell. Mohan’s wife looked over at her children 
 sleeping on their rough rope beds, and was grateful 
 for the high walls that shut in their cozy courtyard. 
 
 Suddenly the sounds of a tom-tom and cymbal, 
 and of several voices in tune, broke on the night 
 air. At this distance, Mohan and his wife thought 
 it beautiful; Mohan would have said so, had he not 
 known his father’s prejudices. The latter listened 
 with the others for a few minutes; then, feeling the 
 spell of it coming over him, cried out: 
 
 “Why does not Satan ruin those people? They 
 should not be allowed to control all of us in this 
 
ONLY A GIRL 79 
 
 village. They should remember that they are of 
 the untouchable caste, and not even make them- 
 selves heard. Satan take that old villain, the 
 Padre! It was he who taught them these songs 
 that charm even the evil spirits. That old villain 
 never offered to teach us higher caste people those 
 songs, and now look at the havoc that the evil 
 spirits, driven from those low-down dogs, have 
 done to the other people of this village! See what 
 a fine, straight man Ram Pershad is—and yet the 
 spirit of smallpox got him yesterday.” 
 
 “Yes, Ram Pershad is very sick and much 
 afflicted,” interrupted Mohan. “I went there to- 
 day, and told his brother Ram Lal about making 
 the offering of milk to the spirit, the way you did, 
 when smallpox visited me. At the same time our 
 neighbour, Bechai, was there, and explained that 
 waving the palm-leaves back and forth was more 
 pleasing to the goddess than waving them up and 
 down. His mother had the house beautifully clean, 
 so I hope the goddess will be pleased with her visit, 
 and be gentle with Ram Pershad.”’ 
 
 The father made no reply for a while. He 
 pulled steadily on his pipe, making the water 
 bubble vociferously. 
 
 “That Padre must be punished,” at length the 
 man went on. ‘He will make too many changes 
 in our customs if he does not get that girl married. 
 Why, I hear he is even going to send her away to 
 school. Ha! You know well enough that that is 
 
80 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 your girl!” In consternation, Mohan held his 
 breath, but he made no denial. 
 
 “You go there tomorrow, and tell them to let 
 that girl get married—do you hear?” 
 
 “Why, father,”’ Mohan had somewhat collected 
 himself. “That is no girl of mine.” He knew 
 adoption papers had been taken out, so he was 
 telling the truth. ‘Did you not follow me to the 
 Ganges when I went there, at your command, to 
 throw my girl in? Would that I dared claim to 
 be as clever as the father of that girl, who left her 
 on the Collector’s compound.” 
 
 The father was not deceived, but he kept quiet, 
 for the singing had now ceased. 
 
 “The Christians are probably now praying,” 
 thought Mohan, “as I have seen them do over on 
 the mission compound.” 
 
 The oxen began to tread out the last floor, full 
 of wheat and straw, at daybreak the next morning. 
 Mohan followed the animals in their weary round, 
 talking to them as he urged them on. 
 
 “T will take a load of the chaff. on my head to 
 sell in the bazaar, and bring back ghee,’ suddenly 
 announced Mohan’s father, coming out of the 
 house with a large basket in his hand. He stooped 
 down, as he placed the basket in front of a pile of 
 chaff, spread a dirty grey sheet in it, and proceeded 
 to fill it with the chaff. This done, Mohan halted 
 the oxen while he helped to lift the basket on his 
 
ONLY A GIRL 81 
 
 father’s head. The old man swung off with much 
 agility for a man of his age; and, since he had been 
 saying for two years now that he could not stand 
 head-load carrying, Mohan was puzzled. 
 
 Just then his mother, followed by his wife, came 
 out of the house, carrying the water jars. Mohan 
 ran to the door and bade his wife step back inside. 
 
 “What made father so suddenly decide to go to 
 town?” he asked, excitedly. 
 
 “He was holding some conversation with your 
 mother,” the wife replied, ‘‘which I did not hear. 
 Then he took his bamboo and pulled a sheet down 
 that had been drying on the edge of the roof. I 
 heard him muttering to himself, ‘I will teach that 
 Padre a lesson.’ ” 
 
 “Hurry after mother, and fill your jars as 
 quickly as possible,” bade Mohan. Then he went 
 on into the house, pulled down another sheet from 
 the roof, wound it around his head, making a large 
 turban to protect him from the sun. He returned 
 to his oxen and started them on their endless path, 
 round and round. 
 
 He watched the women at the well each time 
 that he came around, hoping his wife’s turn to 
 draw her water would soon arrive. At last he saw 
 her step up on the well curb, tie her black iron 
 kettle-shaped bucket to the rope and let it slip 
 down into the well, from over the big pulley—a 
 wheel which turned on a thin bamboo, fastened at 
 either end into a brick pillar on the sides of the 
 
82 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 well. She walked backward a couple of steps from 
 the well’s mouth, pulled up and down on the rope 
 until the bucket had turned over and was full, then 
 with long, rhythmic, swinging pulls brought the 
 bucket up. Now she strode forward; resting one 
 hand on the bamboo pole, she leaned over the well, 
 seized the bucket, pulled it to the empty water 
 jars and filled two of them. The mother-in-law 
 carried away the full jars while the girl filled the 
 others. She was perfectly fearless in all her move- 
 ments, even with her bare feet on the wet slippery 
 well curb, though she knew only too well of several 
 women who had slipped and fallen in as they drew 
 their water. Once the bamboo pole itself had 
 given way under a woman’s weight. 
 
 When all the jars were full and had been carried 
 off, the wife again filled the bucket, untied the rope 
 and carried it, full, back to the house. Much 
 water was required for the family these hot days. 
 
 While Mohan and the oxen rested, his eldest 
 son, Sundar, was turning over the straw on the 
 threshing-floor. When she came up, as Mohan 
 saw, his wife cast a proud and loving glance at 
 the eleven-year-old, manly boy who was doing 
 his best. 
 
 By ten o’clock, the oxen being tired and hot, 
 Mohan led them to the well, drew water for them 
 and put them in one end of the courtyard of his 
 own home. He then went to the little brick plat- 
 form in the courtyard, laid aside his turban and, 
 
ONLY A GIRL 83 
 
 picking up a small brass jar, stooped and dipped 
 it into a water-jar, to fill it. Then he poured the 
 water from it on his head and shoulders. He had 
 not removed his loin-cloth; when it became well 
 wet, and he was as clean as he could be with clear 
 water and no soap, he loosened one end of the 
 cloth, wrung it and proceeded to wipe off some of 
 the water. His mother brought a dry loin-cloth, 
 which he took, wrapped it around his waist over 
 the wet one and, having tied it, loosened the wet 
 one and dropped it to the ground. He then pro- 
 ceeded to drape the four and a half yards of the 
 dry garment about the middle part of his body. 
 In such a way as this both Indian men and women 
 contrive to take daily baths in public without 
 shocking anyone. 
 
 ‘“Mother, is the food ready?” he called. “I want 
 to go.” 
 
 The mother looked toward his wife, who was 
 stooping over the fire busily stirring the yellow 
 lentil soup. By the fire was a pile of dark brown, 
 round and thick, flat and heavy biscuits, each eight 
 inches in diameter. With anxiety in her own heart, 
 the wife had seen that her husband, too, was 
 anxious, and so had hastened the cooking, pre- 
 paring the meal nearly an hour sooner than usual. 
 
 Mohan and his sons ate their food. He ex- 
 plained to his mother that he felt concerned about 
 his father, out in such heat and carrying a head- 
 load when he was not used to it. He thought that 
 
84: THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 he himself had better take a load to town and look 
 him up. 
 
 She agreed this was wise, and helped him to fill 
 his basket and put it on his head. 
 
 Mohan and Mango. 
 
 Mohan reached the mission bungalow just as 
 the missionary drove in from the railway station. 
 
 “Buy some chaff for your cow, sir?” called 
 Mohan, as the missionary got out of his trap. 
 
 “What do you want for it, and how much have 
 you?” 
 
 An agreement was reached and the sale made. 
 After Mohan had carried the basket into the cow- 
 shed and emptied it, he returned to the veranda of 
 the bungalow for his money. Hardly had the mis- 
 sionary paid Mohan and arranged for him to bring 
 more at the same price, than there were wild shouts 
 on the road. In an instant the Padre came into 
 the compound, running ahead of a mob of men and 
 boys who were hurling stones at him. 
 
 Mohan caught the whole situation at once. 
 Springing off the veranda, he ran back to the 
 Padre’s house and, without stopping to call, he 
 rushed in, closing the door and bolting it. He 
 had already seen the Padre’s wife and adopted 
 daughter sitting in the veranda. As quickly 
 “as he could, he made them understand that a 
 mob was coming, and that they must lock them- 
 selves in. 
 
 The Padre’s wife could not believe him. She 
 
ONLY A GIRL 85 
 
 was so slow to move that the shouts and stones of 
 the mob were already coming into their courtyard 
 before the three rushed to a recently rebuilt corner 
 room having a flat concrete roof. Once inside, he 
 closed the door. Mohan knew that it would be 
 sure death for him to be caught there, and he could 
 do no more alone; so, springing to the low tiled 
 roof which a mango tree overhung, he climbed 
 into the branches and was soon hidden from 
 sight, high up among the leaves. 
 
 Here he watched the crowd crash down the door 
 leading to the courtyard and rush in, looking 
 hither and thither, overturning the food in the 
 kitchen, breaking the few china dishes the Padre 
 rejoiced in, looting the store-room, and battering 
 hard on the door to the room in which the woman 
 and girl were hiding. 
 
 Their blows crashed menacingly on the portal. 
 Indeed, at last they succeeded in breaking in the 
 door. He could hear the women scream. But at 
 that instant six mounted police galloped up, fol- 
 lowed by the Collector. 
 
 The police jumped off of their horses and ran 
 into the courtyard, knocking at men and boys 
 with their clubs as they went, until they reached 
 the women. With a wild growl, the crowd now 
 rushed at the policemen with their long bamboo 
 sticks. Then all the police en masse charged the 
 crowd. But the angered mob stood its ground and 
 howled. 
 
86 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 In the crisis the Collector shouted above the up- 
 roar: “If you men do not fall back, I will give the 
 order to shoot.” 
 
 Just then four more police arrived. Leaping 
 out of their cart, they joined the Collector. To- 
 gether they tried to work their way through the 
 crowd in the courtyard to the other policemen. 
 They had partly succeeded when the crowd, with 
 one frenzied onset, rushed the other police and 
 the door. The women screamed as the police fell 
 back, and the mob pressed in. 
 
 The peril was more than even the quiet, self- 
 possessed little Englishman could stand. “Fire!” 
 he shouted. He and two policemen fired into the 
 air, but the other two fired straight. Men fell. 
 
 Some of the policemen who were being pressed 
 heard the shots though they had not heard the 
 order. Pulling out their pistols, they too fired. 
 The mob, caught on two sides, broke and fied, 
 leaving four men dead. One policeman was un- 
 conscious, another was badly hurt, and three 
 others were bruised or bleeding. 
 
 Mohan, coming down from the tree, discovered 
 that one of the men lying on the ground was his 
 father. But he had forgotten his own danger. 
 Instantly he was seized by two policemen, who 
 were handling him roughly when Lillavatti 
 rushed up. 
 
 “Do not hurt him!” she cried. “He is a 
 servant.” 
 
 scien 4. yne reel 
 
ONLY A GIRL 87 
 
 Before she could explain more, the police re- 
 leased him, and at once he seized the head and 
 shoulders of his dead father and dragged him out 
 of the courtyard and away. He got a low-caste 
 man to help him carry his father’s body home. 
 
 Later Mohan learned how it happened that help 
 had come so promptly. Having unharnessed the 
 missionary’s horse, the sais was leading him up 
 and down, to cool him off gently before giving the 
 hot animal a drink, when the mob had suddenly 
 appeared. Leading the horse behind the servants’ 
 houses, the sais sprang on its back and rode as fast 
 as he could to the Collector’s bungalow. 
 
 When the mob had withdrawn, the Collector 
 and two policemen took the Padre Memsahib and 
 Lillavatti to the missionary bungalow, where they 
 found the Padre, bruised and exhausted from the 
 stones and from the fastest run that he ever 
 had made. 
 
 “I had just finished teaching that small group 
 of boys which I have regularly up in the low-caste 
 quarters of the town,” he explained, “when a group 
 of men came up to me and began telling me that 
 I was ruining all the low-caste people around. 
 After a bit they veered round to ask: ‘When will 
 you get that girl you have in your home married?’ 
 adding: ‘You can’t keep a big girl like that un- 
 married, or you will soon make all the women 
 folks think that that is the proper way to treat 
 girls.’ I tried to argue with them, but suddenly 
 
88 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 one impudent fellow struck me, then they all 
 started at me. In their rush they lost track of 
 me, and I slipped out of my coat that they were 
 holding, dodged under and got into an alley, and 
 started away; but they were soon after me, 
 throwing stones at me, and I had to run for 
 my life.” 
 
 “Well, you see,” broke in the Collector, ‘at this 
 time of year when the threshing is nearly done, the 
 people have little to think about, the heat excites 
 them, and riots begin. I was not greatly surprised 
 when that servant rode up and banged on my door. 
 The watchman, excited, gave the order to the 
 policemen on the compound and ordered my own 
 horse, and we were soon here. Good that we were, 
 or things might have been more serious. As it is, 
 four rioters are dead and possibly one policeman, 
 besides several hurt. All this will cause the 
 government to investigate. But meanwhile, get 
 this man, with his wife and daughter, off on the 
 first train; and don’t bring them back without 
 permission.” 
 
 “My Own Daughter.” 
 
 Six years later Lillavatti, having finished school, 
 came with her mother to visit the missionary. A 
 tentative engagement had been made between the 
 young assistant doctor who was then working in 
 the mission hospital and Lillavatti, pending their 
 having an opportunity to get acquainted. 
 
 The young man in question, Dr. Masih Charan, 
 
ONLY A GIRL 89 
 
 had been educated in the mission college in Alla- 
 habad, then graduated in medicine at Lucknow, 
 from the Government Medical School. While he 
 had not had enough experience to make him de- 
 pendable in a medical way, he had a winning smile 
 and an attractive personality. Besides, he was 
 larger physically than most Indians—a character- 
 istic which, in addition to his other qualities, gave 
 his people unusual confidence in him. 
 
 When the time came that the doctor felt that 
 he was succeeding, and when he was earning a 
 good salary, he went to the missionary lady for her 
 help in choosing a wife. Mrs. Missionary had had 
 such an appeal made to her on former occasions. 
 She knew the young doctor’s parents had had little 
 education or experience among educated people 
 and so, unlike Hindu parents, were not confident 
 that they could choose the right wife for their 
 wonderful son. Yet the Hindu custom of having 
 an elder person choose one’s helpmate persists 
 among the Christians. So Dr. Masih Charan was 
 glad that the missionary lady was willing to help. 
 She had immediately remembered sweet, clever 
 Lillavatti. Unlike Hindus, the parties to a Chris- 
 tian marriage meet, and get somewhat acquainted, 
 before the final decision. But both Lillavatti and 
 Masih Charan confided to Mrs. Missionary after 
 the very first meeting that they were not only 
 satisfied but pleased with her arrangement for 
 them. 
 
90 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 During the six years thousands of low-caste 
 people and a few from among the higher castes 
 had been baptized. There was now a good church 
 on the mission compound. Here also were a dis- 
 pensary building and some small buildings—a 
 ward for patients, quarters for nurses and the 
 home of the assistant doctor. There was, too, a 
 new bungalow, in which lived the American mis- 
 sionary doctor and his wife. 
 
 The day appointed for the wedding came bright 
 and clear, as are most days in India. The mis- 
 sionary and some Indian ladies very prettily deco- 
 rated the church with potted plants, crotons, palms 
 and ferns and festoons of the feathery white and 
 pink flowering bridal wreath vine. Not only were 
 all the seats filled, but on the floor sat many of 
 the poorer people. 
 
 A missionary wife played the wedding march on 
 the organ. as Lillavatti and Dr. Masih Charan 
 walked up the aisle together and stood before the 
 missionary and before the bride’s own adopted 
 father, who had come from his district to assist 
 at the wedding. 
 
 When, as man and wife, they returned up the 
 aisle, Lillavatti recognized Mohan standing near 
 the door. By him stood his wife, tears in her eyes. 
 
 “There is the man who warned us of the mob 
 that awful day,” whispered Lillavatti to her new 
 husband. ‘Let me speak to him and his lovely 
 wife.” 
 
ONLY A GIRL 91 
 
 “Why, that is Mohan, whom I saw once in the 
 hospital when his small daughter Mohani was a 
 patient there for a time,” exclaimed Dr. Masih 
 Charan. 
 
 Lillavatti had hold of the arm of the little 
 woman who, unknown to Lillavatti, was her own 
 mother, and was leading her with them out of the 
 church door, while the doctor beckoned to Mohan 
 to follow. 
 
 Once outside, Lillavatti seized a hand of each, 
 exclaiming: “I am going to live here at the hos- 
 pital. Please do come to see me in a few days.” 
 
 The bride and groom stepped into a carriage 
 and were driven off. Mohan and his wife walked 
 away. 
 
 From behind him Mohan heard a sob. Half 
 turning, by a low mutter he gave his wife permis- 
 sion to speak. 
 
 “Oh, she is my own daughter!” cried the woman. 
 “Would that my other daughter, Mohani, could 
 have become like that. Would that she need not 
 be married for awhile longer. She is not ready 
 for marriage yet; she has new ideas, after those 
 months in the hospital, that the Jesus religion is 
 best; it treats women right.” 
 
 “Surely their Jesus must indeed be the true 
 God,” assented Mohan thoughtfully. ‘At any 
 rate, tomorrow I talk to the Padre.” 
 

 
Til 
 
 TAINTED 
 
rt 
 Aree 
 is) 
 
 ie iy 
 
 
 
IV 
 MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 
 
 HULMONI came to the asylum in her leper 
 Pp mother’s arms. Several weeks elapsed be- 
 fore I suggested that she go to the home 
 for untainted children. At the very thought the 
 poor mother was terrified. 
 Mother Love. 
 
 “Memsahib! Not yet!” the mother of Phul- 
 moni pleaded. “She is just a baby.” 
 
 “But, bibi” (such is the honour title for “wife’”’), 
 “vou would not like that lovely baby to become a 
 leper, such as you are, would you?” 
 
 “Memsahib, the will of God,” and she bowed in 
 fatalistic submission. 
 
 “Why, bibi,” I expostulated, “it cannot be the 
 will of God that this baby should be kept in the 
 presence of great peril. If we truly love our 
 babies, we will put them in a safe place, even 
 though that be far away from us.” 
 
 She said nothing, but I waited. 
 
 “Memsahib,” at last. ‘Let me keep her one 
 more week!” 
 
 At the end of the week I went to her again. 
 “Now, bibi, Phulmoni is going to the home to 
 
 95 
 
96 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 which all the other leper women have sent their 
 babies.” 
 
 Frightened, she fell back, exclaiming: “O Mem- 
 sahib! That week isn’t up already!” 
 
 When I had assured her that the time had in- 
 deed come, again she stood silent, and again I 
 waited. 
 
 ‘“Memsahib, just three days more,” came the 
 plea. Again I consented. At the end of three 
 days, once more she was astonished to learn that 
 the time of respite was gone. 
 
 “Oh, one day more, Memsahib!”’ 
 
 At the end of one day I went toward the 
 mother, arms outstretched to take the child. 
 Earnestly, pleadingly, she looked into my eyes. 
 Though I smiled, I firmly took hold of the 
 child. 
 
 With one heart-broken cry, she pushed Phul- 
 moni into my arms, then ran swiftly away, so that 
 she might not hear her baby cry. 
 
 That was long ago. Today Phulmoni is a big 
 girl Very sweet and attractive she is. Her 
 mother looks at her with pride when she comes 
 to the service at the Leper Asylum church on 
 Sunday. 
 
 Mother Flight. 
 
 Sukde was only six months old when she, too, 
 in her mother’s arms, came to the asylum. She 
 was a plump and really attractive baby. But 
 before she was two years old she began to lose 
 
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 97 
 
 weight. The mother meanwhile had become a 
 Christian. 
 
 When I asked her to give up Sukde she re- 
 sponded: “Yes, Memsahib. I know I must give 
 her up. But I would like to have her baptized, 
 and be baptized myself, before I hand her over 
 to you.” 
 
 The next Sunday the double baptism was held. 
 After the service the mother handed her child to 
 me, big tears in her own eyes. 
 
 The following Sunday, during the service, I 
 heard a sob. Sukde was holding out her arms 
 pleadingly to her mother, who sat far down in the 
 congregation, among all the other women; Sukde 
 was seated near me, among the other children, in 
 the front of the church. 
 
 Taking the baby into my arms, I held her in 
 my lap, letting her play quietly and with interest 
 with some flowers which I had with me. 
 
 At the close of the service the mother came near. 
 ‘How has the child been?” she inquired. — 
 
 I told her that during the week the little girl 
 had fretted a little, but had not lost much appetite, 
 nor had she cried, until that moment today when 
 she saw her mother. 
 
 Placing the child on the floor, I led her out of 
 the church; she marched in line with the other 
 children. Another little girl, who also had re- 
 cently been taken from her mother, began to 
 cry, so I took her hand. When she refused to 
 
98 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 come to me, I let go of Sukde’s hand—only for 
 an instant—in order to take the other child into 
 my arms. 
 
 Some one screamed. ‘‘Memsahib, Memsahib! 
 Catch my child, save my child!” I heard. Baby 
 Sukde was running after her mother, down the 
 path at the side of the church building. 
 
 Poor leper woman though she was, having only 
 stumps of flesh and bone for feet, the mother fled 
 determinedly away from her own child. Only 
 when I had caught the flying Sukde, and had saved 
 her from pollution, did the loving leper mother 
 come to a relieved and panting halt. 
 
 No longer is Sukde’s mother with us. Her dis- 
 ease had its way with her, and now she is among 
 that “crowd of witnesses” which compasses us 
 about. Surely there she is, with full reason, 
 greatly proud of the Sukde of today, a wholesome 
 and lovely Christian young woman. 
 
 Contrast. 
 
 When we opened the first home for untainted 
 children, almost twenty years ago, both boys and 
 girls were received into it. Among them were 
 Bidesi and Bhudni. Bidesi has been ambitious, 
 hard-working and dependable. He now has full 
 charge of the store-room for the engineering de- 
 partment in the Agricultural Institute, and the 
 store-room is almost a model of systematic 
 neatness. 
 
 Bhudni was an unusually bright child and, as 
 
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 99 
 
 she grew older, became a sweet and pretty girl. 
 She helped me in the dispensary for two years 
 or so—in the mornings, before school hours. 
 Later I sent her to a hospital to obtain a nurse’s 
 training. 
 
 She had been home for a month’s vacation, at 
 the end of her second year, when she came to me 
 one day, and announced: ‘‘Memsahib, I don’t want 
 to go back for my third year.” 
 
 Protesting, I told her of how much essential 
 help in her third year she would miss if she did 
 not return. She would not be able to give the 
 help in the villages that was needed without that 
 third year’s training, I warned her. 
 
 “But I am engaged to marry,” she shyly ad- 
 mitted. “And I do know lots about nursing 
 even now.” 
 
 I called Bidesi, whom she was to marry. We 
 three talked the subject over, and in the end she 
 was persuaded to go back. 
 
 During the year I visited her at Delhi. At the 
 time of my call she had just finished bandaging a 
 woman who was afflicted with an abscess, and at 
 this moment she had in her arms a dirty baby, to 
 whom she was about to give a bath. 
 
 “Bhudni,” I asked, ‘‘are you not glad now that 
 you came back?” 
 
 “Ves, indeed,” she answered, in high spirits. 
 “T love my work!” 
 
 Early in the morning of the day after Bhudni’s 
 
100 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 return, at the end of her third year, she was at 
 my bungalow. 
 
 After our greetings she exclaimed: “Look, Mem- 
 sahib! See my diploma.” 
 
 I was as proud as she. She was the first one 
 of my girls to receive a nurse’s diploma, and I 
 told her so. 
 
 We began to talk about our plans for work in 
 the villages for the women. After a few moments, 
 hanging her head in true Indian bashfulness, she 
 asked: ‘““Memsahib, when can we be married?” 
 
 “Ves, Bhudni,” I assented. “You may be mar- 
 ried as soon as you like. But,” I added, with some 
 fearfulness, “you will do this work in the villages 
 after you are married?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, Memsahib. But I do want to be 
 married soon,” she insisted. 
 
 “When, Bhudni?” 
 
 Again hanging her head, she said: “Well, Bidesi 
 is waiting, just around the corner!” 
 
 From the veranda I called Bidesi from “just 
 around the corner.” 
 
 He, too, was abashed; but, unlike most Indians, 
 he went right to the point: “Memsahib, we want 
 to be married.” 
 
 “Oh, I know you do, Bidesi,” I replied. “But 
 when shall it be?” 
 
 With alacrity, “Tomorrow,” he answered. 
 
 Bhudni looked up quickly. “Oh, I told you not 
 to say that, Bidesi!” she chided. 
 
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 101 
 
 “Well, then, day after tomorrow,” he conceded. 
 
 Bhudni answered never a word, but hung her 
 head, smiling. 
 
 “Tf that is what you want, we will have the 
 wedding on the day after tomorrow,” at length 
 was the decision. “Yet I am afraid that most 
 of the trousseau will have to be prepared after- 
 ward.” Both, smiling, shyly nodded their heads in 
 agreement. 
 
 Two other missionary wives helped in the sew- 
 ing preparations and dressed the bride, while I 
 prepared to take her to the church. 
 
 _ When, finally, I saw Bhudni dressed in a soft 
 white sari edged with silver braid, draped very 
 gracefully, with some orange blossoms gathered 
 on the mission farm, on her head above the sazi, 
 and a beautiful bunch of white chrysanthemums in 
 her hands, I felt that I had never seen a prettier 
 bride. 
 
 She rode with me in the carriage to the asylum. 
 At the door of the church Bidesi met the bride. 
 They marched up the aisle together, while I dashed 
 around to the side door, and slipped into my usual 
 seat at the front. 
 
 But Bhudni’s mother, I saw with concern, was 
 not there, on the floor, among the other leper 
 women. I knew that she was blind. Had every 
 one forgotten to tell her? I whispered to the 
 pastor a request that he wait a minute, then sent 
 a man to call her. 
 
102 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 “Bhudni’s mother refuses to come to the wed- 
 ding,” was the messenger’s surprising report on his 
 return. ‘She does not like the man Bhudni is 
 marrying.” 
 
 They had been engaged three years, and Bhudni 
 was satisfied. We went on with the wedding. 
 
 After the service I suggested to Bhudni, “‘Let us 
 go see your mother.” She agreed, and we walked 
 across the asylum to her mother’s room in the 
 women’s quarters. 
 
 Never before, in a long experience of people and 
 life, had I beheld such a startling contrast between 
 a mother and her daughter. The older woman sat 
 on her asylum bed, blind, dirty, filled with leprous 
 sores. ‘The daughter stood before her, a lovely 
 girl bride. 
 
 After the three of us had spoken a few words 
 together and the bride and I had retired, I turned 
 impulsively to the girl. “Oh, Bhudni!” I cried. 
 “What if your mother had not brought you to us 
 nineteen years ago! Yes, and what if God had 
 not given us a home in which to care for you!” 
 
 Reverently, Bhudni bowed her head. “Yes, 
 Memsahib. Every day do I thank God for that 
 home away from my leprous mother and for the 
 years which He let me spend there.” 
 Chandervatit. ; 
 
 Psychologists tell us, these days, that criminal 
 tendencies are inherited. They point to long lists 
 of criminals descended from one criminal couple. 
 
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 103 
 
 But they reckon without Christ. Chandervatti was 
 the child of a criminal, but she belonged to the 
 Indian fold of the Good Shepherd. 
 
 Chandervatti came to us with her father, Rev. 
 R. R. Pitumber, who, after fifteen years as a 
 preacher to his own people in the villages of 
 Northern India, entered the leper asylum at Alla- 
 habad. That was many years ago. The mis- 
 sionary in charge of Pitumber’s district had been 
 accustomed to dispense much helpful medicine to 
 the people of the region, but how could he have 
 considered the swellings on the face of this valu- 
 able worker, or suspected that the swollen hands 
 and feet, also, indicated leprosy? ‘Then, however, 
 Pitumber’s beautiful little wife began to be af- 
 flicted, and the dread secret was out. Willingly 
 they travelled fifty miles to the nearest medical 
 missionary, who ordered them into the leper 
 asylum. 
 
 Chandervatti’s mother was a pretty woman, with 
 big black eyes and long curling eyelashes. Her 
 hair was soft, thick and wavy; her nose was 
 straight and delicate in line, and her red, sweet 
 mouth was set off by her olive skin. But her 
 mouth had a trace of the sensuous. 
 
 There were then two children. The older one, 
 a boy, had not been with us long until we found 
 that he, too, displayed a spot of leprosy. The 
 other, Chandervatti, was then three years old—an 
 exact duplicate of her mother in looks and dis- 
 
104 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 position, except for the sweet baby expression and 
 her dainty soft skin. When she was spoken to, 
 the same winsome, joyous smile would spread 
 over her face that her mother unconsciously wore 
 —until, as she remembered their sorrow, the 
 mother quickly changed hers to a smile of sadness. 
 A baby boy was born not many months after they 
 came to the asylum. 
 
 The two older children went to the home for 
 untainted children. But when the son’s disease 
 was discovered he went back to the asylum and 
 to his parents. Surely it was a mercy when, a few 
 months later, he fell a prey to pneumonia and 
 died; at that time there was no treatment for lep- 
 rosy. Yet the mother was heart-broken; pathet- 
 ically she mourned for her firstborn. 
 
 Chandervatti soon proved a problem. Mis- 
 chievously she would do very naughty things, 
 smiling sweetly all the time. She was cruel to 
 other children, but would assure them: ‘That did 
 not hurt.”” Whenever I had any dealings with her 
 I used all my kindergarten training and experi- 
 ence, as well as my motherhood experiences, to 
 solve the problem she presented. 
 
 When she had grown to be fifteen years old she 
 had become a lovely and attractive girl. One day 
 I told her that she might help me in the dispen- 
 sary, together with my daughter and Bhudni. She 
 was delighted, and soon proved to have ability as 
 a nurse. She was devoted to my daughter; daily, 
 
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 105 
 
 after all the patients had left, Chandervatti and 
 Gertrude would walk or sit, playing or sewing and 
 talking. 
 
 On one occasion, when I was at the asylum, Mr. 
 Pitumber called me aside. ‘Memsahib,” he ap- 
 pealed to me, “when I am gone, do not let my wife 
 have Chandervatti; my wife has become a bad 
 woman. 
 
 A question or two from me brought the tears to 
 his eyes. ‘While I still live,” he said, brokenly, 
 “T can somewhat control her, but what will she do 
 after I am gone? I do not want her to have any 
 authority over Chandervatti.” 
 
 Even before he died, however, but while he was 
 feeble and helpless, the wife ran away. She went 
 in company with another man, who also was a 
 leper. We heard of her in the Calcutta bazaar 
 later; she was now both a beggar and a thief. 
 
 When we came home on a furlough, wishing to 
 have Chandervatti where she could learn to be an 
 efficient nurse—and also where her mother would 
 not be likely to find her—TI sent the girl to a mis- 
 sion hospital, there to receive a nurse’s training. 
 After our return to India, one day a letter came 
 from the American missionary nurse in whose care 
 I had left Chandervatti. The message included 
 these words: 
 
 “T am sorry to have to tell you that Chander- 
 vatti is very ill. She has a tubercular bone. It 
 was operated on a short time ago, but it does not 
 
106 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 heal; I fear she is growing worse. I should like 
 to keep her here and do all I can for her, but ever 
 since she knew you were coming she has patiently 
 waited to ‘go home’ to Allahabad.- She has been 
 wonderfully fine in her work, and even after she 
 herself was sick, many times she has sung to, 
 prayed for or talked to women more ill than she.” 
 
 Chandervatti came home. So sweet and patient 
 was she that no one minded the extra care which 
 her illness made necessary. 
 
 One day a man came to the gate of the court- 
 yard of the home selling glass bangles, such as the 
 Indian women love to wear. Chandervatti, lying 
 in the veranda, asked to be allowed to see his 
 stock. She bought several bangles and _ slipped 
 them on her arms and admired them, talking about 
 their lovely colours. But after a few moments she 
 remarked: “Oh, dear; they are not pretty on such 
 thin arms as mine are now. I will buy more when 
 I am well.” Then she gave them all away to the 
 other girls. 
 
 As if a happy thought had occurred to her, after 
 a while she asked to have her trunk brought and 
 its contents taken out. All her possessions she 
 distributed to the girls. 
 
 When they protested, she remarked cheerfully: 
 “Oh, I shall get some nice new clothes, even pret- 
 tier than those—when I am well.” 
 
 That evening, when the pastor (the husband of 
 the matron) came in, Chandervatti called him and 
 
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS 107 
 
 said: ‘Padre, when you have prayers today, please 
 read this passage” (pointing to a favourite) ‘and 
 sing my favourite song’ (naming it) “and let 
 me pray.” 
 
 She smiled, and was so cheerful generally, that 
 the Padre was not alarmed. After supper, when 
 the girls had gathered for prayers, the exercises 
 were conducted as she had requested. Her prayer, 
 though simple, was so sweet and Christlike in 
 spirit that all the girls were deeply impressed. 
 
 “Good night,” was said to all the girls, and they 
 went upstairs to their open-air sleeping room, and 
 prepared for bed. 
 
 Bhudni stopped by Ghanderenct at the later S 
 request, and the pastor sat near in the courtyard. 
 The sick girl closed her eyes, as if going to sleep. 
 Suddenly, as the girls and Bhudni reported it 
 later, a very bright light appeared over the corner 
 of the courtyard, moved swiftly to Chandervatti’s 
 bed, and then was gone. Upstairs the girls, almost 
 in one voice, said: “It lightened.” But it was a 
 beautiful starry night; not a cloud was to be seen. 
 
 The pastor, having seen the light, stepped to 
 Chandervatti’s bed. She had gone to her Father 
 in Heaven. 
 
 They sent for me. When I came—it was at 
 once—I found all the girls downstairs, and in the 
 courtyard. They greeted me with the an- 
 nouncement: ‘OQ Memsahib, the angels came for 
 Chandervatti!” 
 
108 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 All loved Chandervatti, yet no one cried; the 
 angels had taken her; the children had seen the 
 angels’ light. 
 
 Can one question it? Chandervatti, daughter 
 of a leper father, daughter of a leper mother who 
 was also a beggar and a_ thief—Chandervatti 
 nevertheless had been taken by the angels. For, | 
 in some way or other, ‘‘He shall gather the lambs 
 into His arms, and carry them in His bosom.” 
 
V 
 
 THE MIRACLES 
 
 VEN the hot, dusty road seemed to be 
 fainting from lack of water as three 
 
 people—a man, followed by two small 
 girls—walked wearily along. ‘There, that is a 
 foreign looking building. That must be the mis- 
 sion leper asylum at last,” Kampta muttered, 
 more to himself than to his companions. The 
 girls stopped and stared. 
 One Shot. 
 
 ‘What place is this?” called Kampta to a man 
 loafing on the steps of the building. There was 
 something written on the building, but Kampta 
 could not read well enough to make it out. 
 
 “This is the hospital of the leper asylum,” re- 
 plied the man. Pointing in among the trees, gar- 
 dens and shrubbery, he continued: “And these are 
 the asylum barracks.” 
 
 ‘Sure enough,” ejaculated Kampta as he slowly 
 approached the man. “I do see several foreign 
 buildings—there and there.” By “foreign” he 
 meant simply that the structures were made of 
 good brick and mortar, as compared with the mud 
 of Indian village huts. 
 
 109 
 
110 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 The man on the steps got up, at the same time 
 carefully inspecting Kampta. ‘You yourself are 
 a leper,” he remarked. bee 
 
 Sitting down on the steps, Kampta tacitly but 
 eloquently replied. He held up an_ ulcerous, 
 bleeding foot. 
 
 “Will you stay here?” asked the hospital or- 
 derly, turning and addressing the girls. 
 
 Frightened, they crept behind their father. For 
 them he replied: “They are my children; they 
 have no mother. Shanti here is eleven years old, 
 and should already be married. Jantri is nine, 
 and should be married soon. But with hands like 
 mine, how could I earn enough money to prepare 
 for two weddings in the family?” 
 
 “Very well,” the orderly stated. ““The Memsa- 
 hib will take good care of them. Come around 
 here, and I’ll bandage‘up your feet. They will 
 soon heal. Few of us keep any ulcers here.” He 
 led the way to a place beside the hospital where 
 such sores are washed and dressed—on a little 
 platform which all day is disinfected by the trop- 
 ical sunshine. 
 
 Kampta limped along, the girls following. 
 
 “Vou are not a leper; are you?” he rather af- 
 firmed than inquired. 
 
 The orderly laughed. He was pleased that he 
 had so far recovered that another leper did not 
 notice his defects. 
 
 “Well, I suppose I’m not much of one now; I 
 
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THE MIRACLES 111 
 
 have been taking treatment for two years. But I 
 never was so bad as you are,’ admitted the 
 orderly. 
 
 Thus it was that when I went to the asylum 
 next day I found the two little girls awaiting me. 
 The assistant doctor and I went over them care- 
 fully, and were happy to find no signs of the dis- 
 ease. The two, never before having seen a 
 woman with a white face, were frightened when I 
 bade them get up in the carriage by my side. Not 
 only did my ghastly face frighten them; they 
 cried, of course, at leaving their father. But they 
 obeyed. On the ride to the leper home Shanti 
 was very gently attentive to little Jantri, who re- 
 sponded with affection. 
 
 At the home they were given baths, and their 
 hair was washed and combed; then they were 
 dressed in some pretty bright red gingham dresses, 
 sent out by a missionary society in the United 
 States. How pleased they were to see each other 
 looking sweeter and cleaner than they had ever 
 before been in all their lives! 
 
 Shanti and Jantri entered willingly into the life 
 of the school and tried hard to learn. On Sundays 
 all the children go to the leper asylum church, 
 where they sit either on benches or on the edge of 
 the platform, at the front of the church, so that 
 their afflicted parents, though necessarily sepa- 
 rated from them, may feast their eyes on them 
 during the service. On the first Sunday Shanti 
 
112 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 sang with the girls the hymn which they had been 
 learning all the week, while Jantri, looking up 
 wistfully into her sister’s face, joined in when she 
 could. The father, on the floor of the church 
 among the other leper men, smiled contentedly as 
 he watched his daughters. 
 
 ‘It is customary, at the close of the service, when 
 the remainder of the congregation has gone out, 
 for the parents to arrange themselves around the 
 walls of the room, while the children draw near | 
 and speak with them a few minutes. Kampta 
 was so embarrassed when he found himself con- 
 fronted by two such nice looking, well-dressed 
 girls that he actually could find nothing to say 
 to them. | 
 
 Early in December, when Dr. Forman and I 
 were inspecting all the girls in the home, looking 
 for physical deficiencies, the doctor suddenly 
 pointed out a spot on Shanti’s cheek. Immedi- 
 ately, however, he allayed my fears by saying: “It 
 looks more like an oriental skin disease than lep- 
 rosy.” But two weeks later, when I told him that 
 Shanti’s spot had not responded to the usual treat- 
 ment for skin trouble, he directed me: “Put your 
 hand over her eyes.” 
 
 While I blindfolded her he stuck a needle into 
 the spot. Shanti did not even quiver; she had not 
 felt it. It was a spot of anesthetic leprosy. 
 
 Poor Shanti was heartbroken by the news. 
 “Not like my father!” she cried. 
 
THE MIRACLES 113 
 
 “No, Shanti; not like your father yet. We 
 hope you never will be so bad as he is. See, you 
 are to have some medicine to make you better. 
 But you must go and stay with your father at the 
 asylum, you know, until you are better.” 
 
 At these words her grief could not be controlled. 
 
 “Oh, if only,” she sobbed, “if only I could stay 
 here until after the ‘Big Day!’” (as the children 
 call Christmas). “The other girls tell me they get 
 dolls—and I never had a doll!” 
 
 She cheered up a little when I promised her 
 that she should have not only a doll but a new 
 dress and other gifts, besides a fine Christmas 
 dinner with her father, and also fruit and candy. 
 
 The most precious doll in my possession for 
 giving to the children that Christmas was one 
 which had been dressed and sent to me by my own 
 daughter in far-away America. This doll was given 
 to Shanti. As she took it in her arms, cuddling it 
 to herself while she looked maternally down upon 
 it, her face was a beautiful picture. Looking up 
 for a second, she asked: “Oh, is this mine? May 
 I keep her for always?” 
 
 “Yes, Shanti; at any rate, for as long as you 
 take good care of her.” 
 
 ‘She is the very loveliest doll in all the world!” 
 asserted Shanti, hugging her yet the tighter. 
 
 On this, her first Christmas day, Shanti seemed 
 to forget all her troubles in the joy of her presents 
 and of the good Christmas dinner which was 
 
114 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 served to all inmates of the leper asylum. And 
 yet the little girl found time to do kindly service 
 for others, too. I saw her. bringing water for a 
 poor leper woman who had no fingers, and so could 
 not carry her own water-jar. She also made up her 
 father’s bed, and cleaned his room. And doubtless 
 did many other kind deeds, which I did not see. 
 
 Besides Shanti, at this time-there were thirteen 
 other leper children in the asylum. It seemed a 
 good occasion for opening a home of their own 
 for them, in which they could have regular and 
 better food and observe regular hours in other 
 ways. In the care of a matron there, they would 
 have their bedding and clothes kept separate from 
 their parents’, and thus would not run risk of 
 further infection. 
 
 In the asylum we had a fine Indian woman, 
 Mrs. Wilfred, who had been educated in a mission 
 school, had married an earnest Christian preacher 
 and had three children of her own, all before it was 
 found that her husband was a leper. When they 
 came to the asylum he had said to me: ‘““Memsahib, 
 I feel so terribly bad that I am a leper and now can 
 never take any care of my children. Memsahib, 
 please take my wife and children away, so that 
 none of them will become a leper like me.” 
 
 Mrs. Wilfred accordingly had gone to the home 
 for untainted girls of leper parents, where for two 
 weeks she was very helpful in the teaching. One 
 day, however, without stopping to call or knock 
 
THE MIRACLES 115 
 
 at our bungalow door, she ran in and through the 
 house until she found me. 
 
 Throwing herself at my feet, she cried out: 
 “Oh, Memsahib, I cannot stand it longer away 
 from my husband! I am so lonely. Please let 
 me go back to him—he is sick, and needs me. 
 Besides,” she sobbed, “did not I promise before 
 God: when I married him that I would stay with 
 him in sickness and in health, for better or for 
 worse?” 
 
 I knew what. I would have done in such cir- 
 cumstances as hers; I could not answer her. 
 She went back to the asylum and her husband. 
 Later Albert, the eldest boy, was found to have 
 a spot of leprosy, and he, too, returned to the 
 asylum. 
 
 To Mrs. Wilfred I now spoke of my dream for 
 a home for leper children. Inquiring whether she 
 would be willing to become the matron of the pro- 
 posed home, I asked her: “Do you not want to 
 keep Albert away from his father?” 
 
 “May I think it over, and give you my answer 
 tomorrow?” she responded. 
 
 Next day she came to me, saying: “Memsahib, 
 my husband wants me to become matron of that 
 home. But may I cook my husband’s food when 
 I cook the children’s, and take it to him every day 
 and see that he is all right? As long as he keeps 
 fairly well I will stay with the children. Memsa- 
 hib,” she went on, “if he should get very sick you 
 
116 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 will have to make other arrangements for the 
 children. But unless he gets worse, I promise you 
 now not to touch him.” 
 
 Thus arrangements were completed. The home 
 was opened, though with only a small equipment 
 of beds, bedding and brass dishes, for these were 
 all that we could gather together. 
 
 On the second day after the opening I was called 
 in to quiet a disturbance. The parents of the 
 children had collected around the home; they 
 were demanding that their children be returned 
 to them. 
 
 ‘We ourselves suffer so much from the treat- 
 ment for leprosy that we are not willing our chil- 
 dren should be treated,” they said. “Why, some 
 of us even have not been able to keep on with the 
 treatment.” 
 
 An agreement was reached that no child should 
 receive a single injection of the curative etheleaster 
 of Chalmoorgra oil until both parents and child 
 were willing. 
 
 Dhanesar the Valiant. 
 
 Thus three months went by, the children con- 
 tinuing untreated. But one day a young man 
 arose in the church service, and said: “I am very 
 grateful to God and to all of you who have been 
 so kind to me. But now, since I am cured of 
 leprosy, unless you have some position to offer 
 me, I will go away. I have learned to read while 
 here, and have also learned something about the 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 DHANESAR THE VALIANT 
 

 
THE MIRACLES 117 
 
 engine and pump on the well. I can work, and I 
 ought to find employment. 
 
 This, the spectacular announcement of the first 
 cure in our asylum, offered an unexpected oppor- 
 tunity to get the parents and children to agree to 
 the treatment of the boys and girls. I warned 
 the parents, while the children listened, that they 
 were deliberately letting their children grow worse. 
 The treatment, I told them, once it should be 
 begun, would consequently have to be continued 
 still longer. The parents sat unmoved. But 
 before I had finished my speech Dhanesar, a fine 
 manly chap of fourteen, rose quickly to his feet. 
 
 “Please, Memsahib,” he appealed, “may I take 
 the injection? I have no father to object.” 
 
 “Good for you!” I exclaimed in triumph. 
 
 Then Albert, the matron’s son, stood Upeniy 
 also, would like to take the treatment,” he eagerly 
 stated. Then Shanti. “May I too?” she shyly 
 queried. One by one (now numbering seventeen), 
 the children agreed to take the treatments. And 
 not one parent protested. 
 
 On the Tuesday the treatments began. The 
 children, not yet knowing of what the treatment 
 consisted, stood quietly in line. The doctor, ap- 
 proaching them one by one, put the hypodermic 
 needle into their arms. Poor children, they looked 
 surprised when it hurt. Yet somehow they con- 
 trived not to cry. 
 
 When the second Tuesday came I went to the 
 
118 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 home, in order to go to the hospital with the chil- 
 dren. Though they are very fond of their gardens, 
 I found none working there. Nor were they doing 
 lessons, nor yet their house work. These boys and 
 girls were not even on the playgrounds. I called, 
 but no one answered. | 
 
 Looking into the dormitory, I found the chil- 
 dren all there. They were crouching between the 
 beds, or hiding in the corners and the shadows. 
 
 ‘What is this?” I demanded. ‘Where is the 
 line of children, ready to march up to the hospital 
 with me?” 
 
 For a minute there was no reply. Then Dhan- 
 esar stood up. 
 
 “Memsahib,” he demanded in turn, “did you not 
 know that that needle was going to hurt us?” 
 
 “Yes, Dhanesar, I knew,” I had to acknowledge. 
 “But it is necessary for you to endure that little 
 hurt, if you are hoping to get over being lepers.” 
 
 “But did you not know,” he insisted, “that we 
 would get headache and fever after it? Why, we 
 were miserable all the next day!”’ 
 
 “But, Dhanesar, there will be less fever and less 
 headache each week, as time goes on and as you 
 get better.” 
 
 There was silence. I waited; they waited. 
 
 Suddenly a little figure dashed toward the door. 
 Standing there, straight and stalwart, he called 
 aloud: “I am standing in line!” 
 
 It was Dhanesar the valiant. 
 
THE MIRACLES 119 
 
 Almost at once Albert ran up and stood beside 
 him, shouting: “I, too, am in line.” 
 
 Then Shanti, and Amoos, then all the others— 
 and the line was.complete. Soon they all were 
 marching swiftly to the hospital. 
 
 One day I caught sight of Amoos, while he 
 waited his turn for the treatment, shivering with 
 a nervous chill. But Amoos neither whimpered 
 nor cried. 
 
 After the children had been receiving the treat- 
 ment for an entire year the distinguished physician 
 who was the specialist in leprosy in the School of 
 Tropical Diseases at Calcutta came to visit the 
 asylum. He went carefully over each child, with 
 Dr. Forman, then he announced to me: “Five of 
 the children are now free from leprosy. They can 
 be sent to the homes for untainted children.” 
 
 Dhanesar and Albert were among this first five. 
 Shanti’s spot, while much improved, was still there. 
 
 About this time, to our distress, little Jantri was 
 taken ill with what proved to be a tubercular spine. 
 Together, the doctor and I decided that she should 
 be placed with Shanti, in the home for leper chil- 
 dren. Kampta, the father, was much disturbed 
 when I told him of Jantri’s condition. He had 
 shown so much interest in the Bible class that I 
 once asked him whether he did not wish to be- 
 come a Christian. “I was born a Brahmin, and a 
 Brahmin I will die!” he had replied, proudly draw- 
 ing himself up to his full height. It was easy to 
 
120 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 remember that the Brahmins are the highest caste 
 of Hindus, and that all the people of the other 
 castes look up to them and obey them. 
 
 In spite of good milk, eggs, butter, fresh fruit 
 and cod-liver oil, Jantri grew worse. We did all 
 that we could for her with a good bed, clean bed- 
 ding, pretty night clothing and many toys. But 
 she suffered much. One day I found her entirely 
 paralysed from her waist down. Not even one 
 toe could she move. | 
 
 Weeks went by; she did not improve. 
 
 “Memsahib, what are you doing for Jantri?”’ 
 asked Kampta, one Sunday as I came out of 
 church. 
 
 “Why, Kampta, have you not seen all that we 
 have been doing?” 
 
 “Ves, Memsahib.” He hesitated, then went on: 
 “But your Jesus said to pray for the sick.” 
 
 “Ves, of course, Kampta,” I replied, ‘‘and I do 
 pray for Jantri every day.” 
 
 “T know that you must be doing so, Memsahib, 
 because you love her,” Kampta agreed. “But your 
 Bible says also to put hands on the sick and pray. 
 Will you not come right now and pray with her?” 
 
 As I went, I wished my faith were stronger. 
 And yet when Dr. Forman had told me, only a 
 few days before, that I had better prepare to lose 
 Jantri, I had felt like replying: “I cannot be- 
 lieve you.” 
 
 “Come with us,’ Kampta called to the pastor. 
 
THE MIRACLES 121 
 
 “The Memsahib is going to pray with Jantri.” He 
 called a few other Christians, also, and I sent for 
 my husband. 
 
 - It was a delightful little prayer meeting. We 
 repeated it the next Sunday, but on the third Sun- 
 day we gathered to give thanks. Jantri was bet- 
 ter; she gained from that time on. 
 
 Once Dr. Forman asked me: “Have you been 
 noticing that Kampta is getting in the habit of 
 standing near the home, and calling over to Jantri, 
 who is lying on her bed in the veranda: ‘Get up 
 and walk, Jantri.’ He keeps her walking, in order 
 to show her off, until she gets quite tired. Please 
 see to it that she is allowed up only at certain 
 times, and for only a few minutes at a time, until 
 her little legs are quite strong and sturdy.” 
 
 Some weeks passed by. When I went to the 
 home one Sunday morning I found Jantri standing 
 in line with the other children, ready to march to 
 church. I protested. 
 
 “But, Memsahib, look at my legs,” she cried. 
 “They are fat and strong now, just as strong as 
 the others. I have not been to church for so many 
 months—please let me go!” 
 
 “Tt is quite a walk to church, Jantri,” F ex- 
 plained. ‘Then the service lasts about an hour 
 and a half, and there is yet the walk back. It is 
 too much exertion for you yet. Try walking grad- 
 ually this week; then next week you may go, if 
 all goes well.” 
 
122 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 Reluctantly, Jantri went back to her bed. 
 
 In the church that morning the minister was 
 preaching. All was still except for the sound of 
 his persuasive voice. Suddenly at the side door 
 an unexpected sight appeared. There was Kampta, 
 carrying small Jantri in his arms. He entered the 
 church, walked over to the pastor and put Jantri 
 on her feet by the minister’s side. Then, raising 
 both hands to heaven, he shouted aloud: “Give 
 God the praise!” 
 
 The pastor abandoned his sermon. He prayed, 
 giving God the praise. 
 
 When he had finished the prayer of gratitude 
 for the child’s recovery, Kampta turned to him 
 and said: 
 
 “Now, baptize us all,” beckoning to Shanti to 
 join him and Jantri. ‘We want to be Christians. 
 I have found out that Jesus is the true God; our 
 Hindu gods can do nothing for us such as Jesus 
 can do.” 
 
 “OQ God, let me run like the other children!” 
 had been Jantri’s prayer when she and we prayed 
 together. 
 
 When we were about to leave Allahabad a 
 few months ago on our way to America, and I 
 went to the home to say good-bye, Jantri ran 
 across the yard with the other children to 
 meet me. 
 
 “God must have saved me for some good pur- 
 pose; I would like to learn to be a Bible woman,” 
 
THE MIRACLES 123 
 
 Jantri said. She is studying hard at her lessons 
 every day. 
 
 Shanti, too, is getting on well in lessons. Her 
 leprous spot has almost completely disappeared. 
 
 Kampta, they write me, is trying to persuade all 
 his non-Christian friends to believe on Jesus. The 
 last time I saw him, indeed, he had a group of 
 non-Christian acquaintances about him. He was 
 asking, “Why do you believe in idols? They can 
 not do anything for you. Worship Jesus, and you 
 will be as happy as I am.” 
 
 Without Blemish. 
 
 Dr. Forman one day came to the bungalow. 
 Gravely he announced: ‘Mrs. Higginbottom, one 
 of your boys, Dhanesar, whom Dr. Muir ordered 
 sent to the home for untainted boys as cured, has 
 leprosy still. His spot has appeared again.” 
 
 Allowing me only time to express my sorrow, he 
 went on: “Will you go talk it over with him, and 
 get him back to the home for the leper children? 
 He should resume his treatments as soon as 
 possible.” 
 
 I found Dhanesar very disconsolate, so I went 
 right to the point: “Show me the spot, Dhanesar.” 
 
 He bent down, drew his trousers up over his 
 knee and pointed out the spot. Then he lifted his 
 face to mine; his eyes were running over with 
 tears. 
 
 I did not say another word for a while. The 
 dear little fellow who had been so brave in leading 
 
124 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 all the other children through that year of treat- 
 ment now bore the aspect of defeat. 
 
 “Never mind, Dhanesar.” I patted his shoulder 
 as at last I spoke. ‘We will go back to the other 
 home, and get some more treatments; and soon 
 you will be really and fully well.” 
 
 “But maybe it will not go away entirely, after 
 all, Memsahib. And, oh, I don’t like to be a 
 leper!’”? Dhanesar sobbed. 
 
 “Dhanesar, let us pray. Surely God will hear 
 our prayer, and you will be cured.” 
 
 With that, the boy stopped his tears. He got 
 up in the carriage with me. While we drove over 
 to the asylum he was soon talking cheerfully. 
 
 This was in August; that month, in my letters 
 home, I wrote of Dhanesar. At Christmas time 
 a small package came from the United States 
 marked: “For Dhanesar, in care of Mrs. Higgin- 
 bottom, Leper Asylum.” 
 
 On Christmas morning, when the children were 
 receiving their gifts, I held up the little parcel in 
 front of Dhanesar. 
 
 “Dhanesar?”’ he queried as he read. 
 
 “Ts that not your name?” 
 
 “Yes, but am I that Dhanesar?” 
 
 I nodded affirmatively and bade him open it. 
 
 Inside was a boy scout knife containing a be- 
 wildering assortment of small tools. There were 
 also other gifts for him. 
 
 When I left for home and our family Christmas 
 
THE MIRACLES 125 
 
 dinner, Dhanesar seemed perfectly happy and 
 busy; he was running a little train around on its 
 own tracks. 
 
 On the Sunday morning at church Dhanesar 
 smiled at me. But later I was astounded to have 
 word from Mrs. Wilfred that he could not be 
 found. 
 
 “No, there was no punishment, Memsahib,” re- 
 ported Mrs. Wilfred. “He is such a dear little 
 father to all the children, you know. When the 
 boys quarrel he separates them and settles their 
 disputes. If the girls fall down or hurt themselves, 
 he comforts them; and if there is anything that I 
 need done—bringing water, or coal, or vegetables 
 from the garden—he is quick to help, and is always 
 so cheerful. I do not know how we can get along 
 without him. I cannot think why he should run 
 away.” 
 
 Dhanesar’s poor little leper mother I found sit- 
 ting on her bed, crying. On seeing me, she lifted 
 her fingerless stumps of hands beseechingly: “Oh, 
 Memsahib, can you not do something to get my son 
 back? Why should I live if I cannot see my son? 
 No, he does not know my village; he was only a 
 baby in my arms when they drove me out, because 
 of my leprosy, and I have never been back. I 
 cannot think where he has gone, nor why he has 
 gone. Please do something to get him back!” 
 
 What could I do? ‘In this great land of 
 India,” at length I began, “there is no knowing 
 
126 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 where he can be. Shall we ask God to send 
 him back?” 
 
 I knelt and prayed, and left the mother smiling 
 hopefully. 
 
 He came back in a couple of weeks. ‘“Memsa- 
 hib,” he told me, “those boys over at the home 
 for untainted boys—they asked you for shoes for 
 Christmas, and so I, too, asked for shoes. But on 
 Sunday, when those boys came into church, they 
 stamped across the front of the church in their new 
 shoes, and sat down on the benches up in front, in 
 their shoes. And I was a little leper boy, and I 
 had to sit on the floor in front of the big lepers, 
 where everybody could see me. And I did not 
 have shoes. And I was ashamed, and I could not 
 stand it any longer. So I ran away. But, Mem- 
 sahib, I did not mean to complain! I had a won- 
 derful Christmas. You see, it was only about the 
 shoes, Memsahib.” 
 
 “Oh, Dhanesar! I did not know you felt that 
 way about shoes. Just as soon as I get a little 
 money which I can spend just as I want to, you 
 shall have shoes.” 
 
 Some weeks later I got a note enclosing a small 
 gift from a friend which read: “You know where 
 this money is most needed. I am sending it to you 
 to use for Jesus’ sake in His work.” 
 
 I bought shoes for Dhanesar. 
 
 Allahabad was hot and dusty the day before we 
 left for America. I had worked at packing all 
 
THE MIRACLES 127 
 
 day, and was still overwhelmed with what I had 
 left undone, when friends began to come to say 
 good-bye. 
 
 The girls from the home came: “‘Memsahib, we 
 have learned a song to sing for you,” and they 
 sang: 
 
 “The wind and the waves shall obey His will— 
 ‘Peace, be still.” 
 
 Then they explained: ‘“‘Memsahib, we shall pray 
 all the time for you that God will take care of 
 your ship and the ocean, and take you home 
 safely, and bring you back safely. Memsahib, 
 you will come back soon, won’t you?” 
 
 I suggested that they ask God to give us soon 
 what we needed for the agricultural work, so that 
 we could indeed go back quickly. 
 
 One of the girls put in: “Why, Memsahib, 
 everything belongs to God; He can give it to you. 
 And then you will come right back, won’t you?” 
 
 The boys sang: “God will take care of you.” 
 
 When we said good-bye the girls began to cry: 
 “What shall we do without our mother?” When 
 they went up the road they were yet softly sob- 
 bing. With tears of my own on my face, I went 
 on packing. 
 
 One of my children came into the house. 
 “Mamma, I forget the little boy’s name,” she an- 
 nounced, ‘“‘but he is standing ’way out in the field. 
 
128 THROUGH TEAKWOOD WINDOWS 
 
 He is crying, and says: ‘Please ask your mother to 
 come out and speak to me.’ ” 
 
 Dhanesar, the little leper lad, stood without the 
 camp, crying. I called to him to come. 
 
 “Are you forgetting, Memsahib,” he began, 
 “that Iam a—” 
 
 He stopped, but began again: ‘“Memsahib, are 
 you remembering that I come from the leper 
 asylum?” 
 
 “Surely, Dhanesar. But come on up; I know 
 that you are all right—it is safe for you to comé.” 
 
 When he got to the veranda I took his hand. 
 ‘‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Dhanesar?” 
 
 Bending down, he uncovered his knee, then said: 
 “Look, Memsahib! The spot is gone. It has 
 been gone a long time. I am not a leper now; 
 really, Iam not. Oh, please, Memsahib, don’t go 
 off to America leaving me in the leper asylum! 
 Maybe the person to take charge while you are 
 gone will not know that I am all right now, and 
 maybe he will leave me there still’ a long time— 
 and, oh, Memsahib, I don’t like to be a leper.” 
 
 In the morning, on the way to the railway sta- 
 tion as we stopped at the asylum to say good-bye 
 to the lepers, I ran for a moment into the home. 
 There, among the other children, stood Dhanesar, 
 looking at me with eagerness. 
 
 Then it fell to me to be the voice of good tidings. 
 “Tt is all right, Dhanesar,” quickly I told him. 
 “The doctor says you may go to the home for un- 
 
THE MIRACLES 129 
 
 tainted boys now. He meant to tell me before, 
 but forgot. But now, Dhanesar, you may go.” 
 
 The boy ran to me and seized my hand in a 
 quick little shake, then said only: “Thank you! 
 Good-bye, Memsahib!”” Running to the veranda, 
 he picked up a bright red bandana handkerchief 
 in which—with abounding faith—he had tied up 
 his scout knife and a few other precious posses- 
 sions, ready to go to the home. 
 
 In this bundle, I saw, were also his shoes. He 
 would not put them on now, and soil them; was 
 there not yet before him a walk of a mile and a 
 half to the home? No, he would keep them bright 
 and shiny until, just before reaching his journey’s 
 end, then he would slip them on. 
 
 And then—oh, then he would stamp across the 
 veranda of the home with all the noise that he 
 liked to make. He would show “those boys” that 
 he, too, had shoes—and that he was not a leper. 
 
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