A WREATH OF INDIAN STORIES.

A WREATH
OF
INDIAN STORIES.

By
A. L. O. E.,
HONORARY MISSIONARY AT AMRITSAR,
Author of “The Young Pilgrim,” “Rescued from Egypt,” &c., &c.

LONDON:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

Preface.

The following stories have been written by A. L. O. E. since her arrival in India, for the use of native readers. It is deemed most desirable by those who thoroughly know the people, that their minds should be trained in the first principles of morality, as well as of religion, by means of amusing fictions, as they are particularly fond of stories. A. L. O. E. desires, therefore, to devote her pen to the service of the land of her adoption, as there are, comparatively speaking, hardly any writers who enjoy the advantage of having the peculiar habits and failings of Hindus, Mohammedans, Sikhs, and native converts, perpetually brought before their notice, as is, or should be, the case with a member of a missionary band.

If her little “Indian Stories” be acceptable in her dear native land, she will be thankful; but the object which she chiefly aims at is to write in a way to amuse, and through amusement to instruct, the people of the country of her adoption.

As stories placed in the hands of Oriental readers would be comparatively useless unless written in an Oriental style, and describing scenes and customs familiar to natives, A. L. O. E. has tried to adopt such a style, and depict such scenes. When she reviewed her work, with the mental question, “What would be thought of this in England?” she felt how fanciful and affected her writings might appear to European readers, and almost gave up all idea of sending them home. And yet, as quaint and often grotesque ornaments brought from the East are not despised in Britain because they are unlike our own manufactures, but are sometimes even prized for their very quaintness, it is possible that a few of A. L. O. E.’s Oriental stories may not be unacceptable in her native land. They may even serve to awaken a little interest in a vast country like India, where a Native Church is struggling against surrounding evil influences,—a Church as yet small compared with the myriads of its opponents, yet gaining strength year by year. That infant Church needs tender care and indulgence from those who have been brought up in a land bathed in the light of Christianity,—a land where children are taught almost from the cradle the value of honesty and truth, and where little is known of the fearful difficulties and trials which beset converts to the pure faith of the gospel.

Contents.

A WREATH OF INDIAN STORIES.

I.
The Radiant Robe.

Fagir, the government clerk, sat in his house, when the work of the day was over. He had partaken of his evening meal; he had smoked his hookah;[1] his bodily frame was at ease, but his mind was working with many thoughts. His wife was beside him—Kasiti, the gentle and obedient. Kasiti had long ago embraced the gospel and become a Christian in heart, but many months had passed before her husband had suffered her to be baptized. He had chidden her, and she had not answered again; he had been harsh, and she had been loving. Kasiti[2] had made her faith appear beautiful by her life, and her patience had at length won the victory. Fagir had not only consented to his wife’s baptism, but he had read her Bible; he had searched its pages diligently, comparing the Old Testament with the New. And now Fagir’s intellect was convinced of the truth of Christianity; light dawned upon his soul, but it was as light without warmth. Fagir believed in Christ as the Messiah, but refused still to receive Him as a Sacrifice for sin.

“Such a sacrifice is not needed; at least, for those who walk uprightly and in the fear of God,” said Fagir to Kasiti, who was seated at his feet, with a Bible on her knees. “It would be mockery for such as I am to repeat what the Christians are taught to say—‘God be merciful to me, a sinner.’ I, at least, am no sinner, but a just and upright man, even judged by the laws contained in that Bible. I can hold my head erect before God and man; for I serve God with fasting and prayer, and man have I never wronged, but have bestowed large alms on the poor.”

It was not for Kasiti to reply; she read to herself in silence; but the thought of her heart was, “Had not Christ died for sinners, there would have been no heaven for me.”

The evening was hot; the motion of the gently-moving punkah[3] disposed Fagir to sleep. His eyes gradually closed, and slumber stole over him where he sat, reclining on soft cushions. And as the weary man slept he dreamed, and his dream was as vivid as the realities of daily life could be.

Behold in his dream a beautiful angel appeared unto Fagir. A crown of light was on the head of the messenger of Heaven; glory was as a mantle around him, and when he shook his silvery wings a shower of stars seemed to fall upon earth. Fagir trembled at the sight of the pure and holy being who floated in the air before him without touching the ground with his shining feet.

“O Fagir, thou art bidden to the banquet of Paradise!” said the angel; and his voice was as music at night. “Receive this white robe, in which, if it retain its whiteness, thou mayst be meet to appear in the presence of the great King. But beware of sin; for every sin shall be as a stain on thy robe. Keep it white for but one day, and all the joys of Paradise shall be thine eternal reward.”

As the angel spake, he cast round the form of Fagir a radiant robe, white as the snow on the mountains. Then the angel touched the broad border of the robe, and on the border appeared in letters of gold, Fear God, and keep his commandments (Eccles. xii. 13). Fagir gazed in wonder on the inscription; but even as he gazed it faded away. He turned to look on the angel, but behold! the bright messenger had vanished. Nothing remained but the pure white robe, which Fagir still wore in his dream.

Then the soul of Fagir was filled with hope and triumph. “I have kept the commandments from my youth!” he exclaimed; “and shall I break them now, when my reward is so near at hand? Only one day of trial, and then I shall be walking in my radiant robe in the garden of celestial beauty, and have for companions such beings as the bright angel who left heaven to bear a message to me, the upright and the pious.”

Then there came a change in the dream of Fagir: he deemed that he had risen, as was his wont, at sunrise, to go forth to the business of the day. His thoughts were not now on Paradise, nor on the message borne by the holy one; but still he wore the mysterious robe which the angel had thrown around him.

And on what were the thoughts of Fagir intent as he took his early meal before starting for the cutcherry, in which, as a government official, he worked day after day? It might have been supposed that one so pious would have reflected on holy things, when the first rays of the morning sun bade him thank God for sleep and protection during the hours of darkness. But no; the thoughts of Fagir were all on his worldly gains. He had for years set his heart on buying a piece of land which belonged to a neighbour of the name of Pir Bakhsh, feeling certain that he could derive much profit from its possession; but Pir Bakhsh had always refused to sell the ground. But Fagir thought in his dream that Pir Bakhsh had suddenly died in the night; his heir was only a child, and Fagir rejoiced in the hope that the land would now be sold, as the estate was encumbered with debt.

“The piece of ground is worth four hundred rupees[4] at least,” Fagir said to himself, “and I shall manage now to buy it for two hundred rupees. I shall then contrive to make the Magistrate Sahib purchase it for a garden, as it lies so close to his bungalow;[5] and a goodly sum he shall pay! I am a less sharp fellow than I take myself to be, if, before the year is over, my two hundred rupees have not swelled into seven hundred rupees at the least.”

Fagir laughed to himself at the double profit which he would make, first as purchaser, then as seller. But his mirth suddenly ceased when his glance chanced to fall on his mysterious robe.

“I thought that this garment was whiter than milk!” he exclaimed; “whence comes, then, this dull gray tint upon it?” The answer to his question came in an inscription which for a moment, and only a moment, appeared on the border,—The love of money is the root of all evil (1 Tim. vi. 10).

Fagir felt pained and surprised; he had often heard the Christian padre[6] say that the religion of the Lord Jesus reached even to the thoughts and desires of the heart, but he had never till this time clearly perceived that covetousness is sin in itself, even if it lead to no open violation of the laws of God or of man. As if hoping by prayer to restore his robe to its former whiteness, Fagir now prostrated himself on his carpet, and repeated a long form of prayer. His lips moved, and a murmuring sound of prayer was heard; but even while he seemed to offer supplication and praise, the mind of Fagir was still fixed on the coveted field: he was thinking how he should persuade the orphan’s relatives that the ground was of little value, and how he should make the Sahib[7] regard it as worth at least seven hundred rupees. Every time that Fagir repeated the name of God—and very often did he utter the holy word in his prayer—there fell, as it were, an ink-drop upon the garment given by the angel. Suddenly Fagir perceived this, and started up from his knees.

“Can I sin even in the act of prayer?” Fagir exclaimed in dismay.

Then for an instant appeared on the border of the robe the words uttered by the Almighty Himself, amidst thunder and lightning, on Sinai,—Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain (Ex. xx. 7).

“I will think no more on this robe,” said Fagir, with bitterness; “if my thoughts be tainted with imperfection, my acts at least are blameless. It is enough if a man live righteously; he is not master of his own heart.” Here was at least an admission, and that from one of the proudest of men, that the heart has a root of bitterness in it that even the most righteous of mortals have no power in themselves to root up.

And now in the dream of Fagir it came to pass that, as he was about to quit his dwelling, a messenger arrived with a chit from Delhi. Fagir opened and read it, and then, turning towards his wife, he thus spake:—

“Kasiti, this note brings good tidings. Hosein, the head of my family, is coming from Delhi, and will abide for ten days in this city. We must receive him with great honour, for Hosein is a wealthy and distinguished man, much esteemed in the place where he dwells. There must be plentiful feasting here during the days of his sojourn; I will throw my doors wide open, and invite hundreds of persons from far and near to meet my kinsman.”

Kasiti mildly made reply,—“Oh! my lord, your salary is but one hundred and fifty rupees; whence, then, will you spread the table for hundreds of guests?”

“I will borrow what I need,” said Fagir.

“Oh! my lord,” said the gentle Kasiti, “the padre hath said in my hearing, that debt is as a chain, with which no servant of God should ever be bound.”

“A woman’s best eloquence is silence!” exclaimed Fagir with impatience. “Bring me the pen and ink; I at once will write to the money-lender for two hundred and fifty rupees; he will send the sum without delay, for he knows that I am in government employ.”

As Fagir stretched forth his hand for the pen, his glance fell on the border of his stained garment, and he read the words on it,—Owe no man anything, but to love one another (Rom. xiii. 8).

It seemed as if Kasiti also had read the inscription, for she ventured again to speak. “Were it not well to welcome my lord’s kinsman with due honour,” she said, “but with less of expense and show? We have enough to enable us to show him hospitality, not for ten days only, but for thrice ten, if your guest be content to live as we live.”

“If Hosein should be content with so mean a reception, I should not be content!” exclaimed Fagir, his voice rising in wrath. “What! shall he who is the head of ten villages come for the first time under my roof, and find me living like a beggar? Wouldst thou have me to be dishonoured in his eyes, O thou ignorant and foolish woman? No! Hosein shall return to Delhi and report to all his neighbours that wealth and honour, much gold and many friends, are the portion of his relative Fagir!”

It was then as if a dust-storm had swept over the robe of Fagir: it darkened even as he spake; and black on the edge of the garment he beheld the inscription,—Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall (Prov. xvi. 18).

Vexed with himself, and all the more so because he saw tears in the eyes of Kasiti, Fagir quitted his dwelling to go, as usual, to his work at the cutcherry. The words of his wife, though slighted, rested on Fagir’s memory still: “Debt is a chain with which no servant of God should ever be bound.” It was a thing forbidden in the Bible! Fagir knew that there was no necessity for him to incur debt; it was pride alone, and thirst for the praise of men, which made him submit to be bound like a slave with the chain of debt.

“I shall soon cast it from me,” said Fagir to himself, as he went on his way. “If I manage skilfully, perhaps I may get that piece of land for even less than two hundred rupees, for the friends of that child know no more of business than I do of weaving shawls. But I must make my bargain quickly, or Mahmud, the man who ever crosses my path like a snake, will be purchasing the land himself; I know that he has for some time had his eye upon it. He is a grasping, unscrupulous fellow, and his presence to me is as the simoom to the traveller in the desert. But lo! do I not behold him coming towards me!”

Yes, it was Mahmud himself whom Fagir beheld approaching him in his dream.

“Salám!”[8] cried Mahmud; and Fagir respectfully returned the greeting, wishing the man whom he disliked health and all prosperity. The stain of deceit and hypocrisy was on the garment worn by Fagir.

“Have you heard of the sudden death of Pir Bakhsh?” asked Mahmud, detaining Fagir, who was about to pass on.

“I have heard of it,” was the reply.

“I saw Pir Bakhsh but yesterday,” Mahmud went on; “my good fortune led me to his house then, for had I gone to-day I should have found him a corpse. The poor fellow’s last act before his death was to sell me that bit of land which lies close to the Magistrate Sahib’s garden.”

The eyes of Mahmud glittered with satisfaction as he spake; there was triumph in them, and in the smile on his lips, which seemed to the enraged Fagir to say, “I have forestalled thee and overreached thee. I know that thy heart hath been set on that piece of ground; it is now mine, and thou never shalt have it, nor so much as set thy foot upon it!”

The two men parted without words of anger, but the soul of Fagir was filled with disappointment, envy, and anger. He clenched his hand, gnashed his teeth, and, turning round, he looked after the retiring form of Mahmud with a withering glance of hatred.

“I detest that man,” muttered Fagir to himself; then he started in horror, for behold red spots, as of blood, were staining his once white robe, and in blood-coloured letters on the border appeared the inscription,—Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer; and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life (1 John iii. 15).

Fagir now loathed his polluted garment, and would fain have cast it from him, but he had no power to do so; that which he had received from the angel had become as a part of himself. That robe was Fagir’s own boasted righteousness, and his eyes had been opened to see that his righteousness was but as filthy rags (Isa. lxiv. 6). But the eyes may be opened without the heart being converted; and thus it was with Fagir. The downfall of his hopes regarding the piece of ground made him but the more eager to make money in other ways, that he might indulge his pride and ostentation.

Then, in his dream, Fagir found himself seated at his desk in the cutcherry, with his piles of papers before him. Amongst them was a chit[9] from the Collector Sahib, and the contents of it were as follows:—

“There are two applicants for the office of under clerk: the one, Patras, a Christian, has been highly recommended to me; the other is Abbas, the son of a wealthy merchant. I have desired them both to call upon you, that you may examine them as to their qualifications for the office, as I have not myself time to do so thoroughly.”

“Not time, indeed! the Sahib might better have said, not sufficient knowledge of the language and the people,” muttered Fagir to himself, as he laid down the chit. Then calling an attendant who was outside, he said to him, “Is any one waiting to see me?”

“A young man, of the name of Patras, has been waiting your lordship’s pleasure for this last half-hour,” answered the man.

“Let him enter,” said Fagir; and forthwith the Christian entered, and made his respectful salám.

The head-clerk had no prejudice now against Christians; on the contrary, Fagir was convinced that they held the true faith, and that if they followed the example of Him in whom they believed, they would be the most upright and holy of men. Fagir moreover knew something of Patras, and was aware that he was one who had had to bear losses for righteousness’ sake. With kindliness of manner Fagir received the young man, and began, after the customary salutation, to examine him as regarded his knowledge of accounts and of other matters connected with the work of the office. The replies of Patras were all that could be desired; he was quick in answering, and made no mistakes. It was clear to the mind of Fagir that here was a man who would intelligently and faithfully fulfil the duties of the office.

Yet there was something wanting in that young man,—at least, in the judgment of the government clerk. Though every answer given to his questions was satisfactory, Fagir did not look satisfied yet. Patras had knowledge in his head and wisdom on his lips; but the young Christian had brought nothing in his hand!

“I will see Abbas also before deciding on recommending Patras to the Collector Sahib,” thought Fagir. He dismissed the Christian from his presence; and, hearing from the attendant that Abbas was waiting at the entrance, Fagir gave permission that he should appear before him.

Abbas was a contrast to Patras. The face of the merchant’s son expressed cunning rather than talent; his eyes avoided meeting those of Fagir; and when questioned regarding accounts, the replies of Abbas betrayed his imperfect knowledge of business. Fagir saw that the young man had little to recommend him, and was about to dismiss him, when Abbas slowly, and as it were stealthily, drew forth a heavy bag of rupees. There was no need for speaking a word; this was not the first nor the second time that Fagir—the self-righteous Fagir—had been offered a bribe, and had not declined it!

Behold, O reader! how one sin draws on another, even as do the divers links of a chain. With Fagir pride led to extravagance, extravagance to debt, debt to covetousness, covetousness to malice, meanness, and dishonour. For shameful was the readiness of Fagir, for the sake of money, to betray the confidence reposed in him by his superior, to sacrifice the interests of the public service, and to wrong a deserving man. Fagir felt lowered in his own eyes as he took the bag of rupees, and saw the words on the border of his robe,—He that walketh righteously, and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth the gain of oppression, that shaketh his hand from holding of bribes; ... he shall dwell on high (Isa. xxxiii. 15, 16).

Then, in his dream, Fagir found himself standing in the presence of the collector, who wished to hear his opinion of the two candidates for the office of under clerk.

“Have you examined the two men?” inquired the English Sahib; and Fagir made reply,—

“I have done so, your honour.”

“I hope that Patras is the one best suited for the situation,” said the collector; “for he has been highly recommended to me as a perfectly trustworthy man.”

“Patras may be a good man, Sahib,” replied Fagir; “but he would make a very bad clerk. In everything connected with work, I find him far inferior to Abbas.”

“Then Abbas must have the place,” said the Englishman; “the public interest must ever be considered first of all.”

Fagir heard not the Sahib’s answer, for a feeling of horror had stolen over the soul of the guilty clerk. The robe which he wore had suddenly rent into rags as he had spoken the words of falsehood, and in letters of flame had appeared on the border,—Lying lips are an abomination unto the Lord (Prov. xii. 22). All liars shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone (Rev. xxi. 8).

And at that moment again Fagir beheld before him the bright angel from whom he had received the robe—that garment once so white, but now stained, ragged, and polluted! The angel spake; but the voice which had been sweeter than music now sounded more terrible than the blast of the trumpet of the archangel which shall call forth the dead from their graves.

“O Fagir!” cried the angel, “thou art summoned this moment to appear in the presence of the great King.”

Then a horrible fear and dread seized upon the soul of him who had been so confident in his own righteousness—of him who had said in his blindness of heart, “I can hold my head erect before God and man.” How should a poor wretch clad in loathsome rags dare to appear before Him who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity; how should he venture into the presence of the terrible King! Fagir felt as if he would rather call on the rocks and the mountains to hide him; and, in his agony, he cried out so loudly, “God be merciful to me, a sinner!” that he awoke from his dream. And, behold, he was reclining on cushions, with his hookah beside him, the punkah swinging to and fro, and Kasiti, with her Bible still on her knees, sitting at his feet.

“My lord[10] has had troubled sleep,” said the wife, raising her mild eyes from her book.

“O Kasiti!” exclaimed Fagir, still trembling from the effects of his dream; “how can a poor sinner, such as I am, weak, guilty, and full of evil, become fit to appear before God?”

Kasiti glanced down again at her Bible, and read aloud the prayer of the penitent David from the page which lay open before her,—Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me (Ps. li. 7, 10).

“Can those who have stained the garments of the soul ever renew their whiteness?” exclaimed Fagir.

Kasiti knew not how to reply to her husband in words of her own; but she turned over the leaves of her Bible till she came to the description of the blessed in heaven, and then silently pointed to the words of the angel: These are they which have come out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb (Rev. vii. 14).

Fagir prostrated himself before the Lord in deep humility of soul. Having discovered that he was a great sinner, he now felt his need of a great Saviour. Having seen that his own righteousness was as filthy rags, he desired that his soul might be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world. Fagir soon afterwards sought baptism; but not only the outward sign, the water upon the brow, but the inward baptism of the Holy Ghost, the Spirit which toucheth the heart.

Having received free pardon and found mercy through Christ, Fagir thenceforth manfully struggled against the world, the flesh, and the devil. He strove to put away sin—the proud heart, the covetous desire, malice, hatred, and all uncharitableness. Fagir became one who shaketh his hand from holding of bribes, and keepeth his tongue as with a bridle. All who knew him said of Fagir, “Behold one who walketh uprightly.” But Fagir himself never ceased every day to utter the prayer,—God be merciful to me, a sinner.

II
The Church which Grew out of One Brick.

I.

Gunga Ram, Ya’kub, and Isa Das were three poor ryots[11] who lived by their daily toil, and earned scarcely more than enough to supply their families with the bare necessaries of life. These men were neighbours and friends; they had heard at the same time the gospel preached by the good Pastor Ghopal; on the same day they had received baptism from his hand, and professed their faith in Christ as the Lord. Wherever one of these ryots was seen, it was certain that the other two would not be far distant. And yet, though the three were all Christians in name, toiled in the same field, and led the same kind of life, He who readeth the heart saw as much difference between them as between the diamond which shines in a rajah’s diadem and the pebble which the coolie tramples under foot.

One morning Gunga Ram, Ya’kub, and Isa Das, on their way to the rice-field, passed close to the spot on which their pastor, Ghopal, by the aid of the Sahib Log, had been building a church. Money had come from praying people in England, and brick by brick the church had risen, until only the roof was wanting. Then there came heavy rains, and the river swelled and rose, and overflowed its banks. The storm beat against the unfinished building, and the labour of months was swept away in a day. The rain ceased, the river flowed again in its usual channel; but where a goodly church had been rising, alas, there were now but ruins!

Gunga Ram, Ya’kub, and Isa Das stood gazing upon these ruins, sorrowful to see the destruction wrought by the flood.

“The heart of the Padre Ghopal will be exceeding sad,” said Isa Das. “It was his joy day by day to see his church rising, and to think of the time when he should gather in it his people, as a shepherd gathers his flock.”

“He will build up the church again, and build it more strongly,” said Ya’kub.

“Alas! my friend, where shall the money come from?” cried Isa Das. “I heard Padre Ghopal say but yesterday, with tears in his eyes, that he fears that he can get no more rupees from England. The Collector Sahib, who gave thirty gold mohurs, has gone from the station; and Manton Sahib, who fills his place, has refused to give even a pice.”[12]

“Manton Sahib is very stingy!” cried Ya’kub. “He has a grand bungalow, fine carriages and horses, and feasts like a prince; he could give many gold mohurs and not miss them. Why does he not help to build up our church?”

“Manton Sahib told Padre Ghopal that the people should build one for themselves,” Isa Das made reply.

Then his two companions shook their heads, and said bitter things against the Sahib who cared not to help in such a good work.

“How can we who are so poor build a church?” exclaimed Ya’kub. “We live in small huts, and seldom eat anything better than rice and fruit. I have really not enjoyed one good satisfying meal since the marriage of my younger brother, two years ago.” Ya’kub sighed at the remembrance of that great feast—the rich dishes, the pastry, and the sweetmeats; for a feast was to Ya’kub the greatest of joys, and he knew not when he should taste such another again.

“If I were a rich baboo,” said Gunga Ram, “I would give a thousand rupees to Pastor Ghopal for his church.”

“If I were a great rajah,” cried Ya’kub, “I would build a church all by myself, and make it as grand as the Taj!”[13]

“I shall never be either baboo or rajah,” said Isa Das thoughtfully; “but though I am only a poor ryot, I should like to put one brick in that church;” and he looked, as he spoke, at the ruins.

“What is thy meaning?” asked his companions.

“O my brothers,” replied Isa Das, “did not the Pastor Ghopal preach yesterday on the words of the Lord Jesus: It is more blessed to give than to receive (Acts xx. 35). When I heard him I said in my heart, ‘Is that blessing kept for the rich; shall not the poor give something also?’”

“They cannot give,” cried Gunga Ram, to whom his pice were dear as the drops of blood in his veins.

But Isa Das did not appear persuaded of the truth of these words. “Do you not remember,” said he, “how, when the Lord Christ stood in the Temple, and saw rich men casting into the treasury of God much gold and much silver, and then a poor widow casting in two mites, He said to His disciples, ‘This poor widow hath cast in more than they all’ (Luke xxi. 3). The Lord accepted the offering of her who had little to give, but gave from the heart. I should like to put one brick in that church!”

And before Isa Das left the spot with his two companions, his wish had formed itself into a silent prayer. “O Lord, Thou hast said it is more blessed to give than to receive; help me to win that blessing. Thou dost love the offering of the poor; show me the way to offer something to Thee!”

II.

The three men, Gunga Ram, Ya’kub, and Isa Das, soon reached their place of labour,—a rice-field which bordered on a great river. On the other side of the broad waters they could see the bungalow to which Manton Sahib had come but the week before. It was a large well-built bungalow with white pillars, and was partly hidden by the mango-trees and the tall palm-trees which grew in the compound around it.

“See!” cried Gunga Ram, pointing towards the river; “there is some one on horseback trying to cross the waters.”

“It is a stranger; he knows not the ford,” said Isa Das.

“If he wish not to be carried away by the stream,” observed Ya’kub, “he must turn his horse’s head more to the right.”

Isa Das lifted up his voice and shouted, “To the right—to the right!” Perhaps the stranger did not hear him; or hearing, paid no heed to the warning of a poor ryot.

“It is Manton Sahib himself,” exclaimed Gunga Ram; “I know him by the red beard and long hair.”

“He will be drowned,” said Ya’kub. “See! his horse has lost his footing already, and is plunging madly into the midst of the foaming waters. The Sahib will be carried away by the current, and drowned!”

“Let us hasten to his help!” cried Isa Das; “we know the ford well, and could find it even on a starless night.”

“And we can swim like ducks,” added Ya’kub.

“If we save the Sahib, we shall have a great reward!” cried Gunga Ram, as he eagerly hurried after Isa Das, who had already plunged into the swollen river.

All the three men battled with the waters; all three hastened to save a drowning man; all three risked their lives to do so. The act was the same, but the motive different. Gunga Ram thought of praise and reward; Isa Das thought but of the words of the Lord—“Inasmuch as ye did it, ye did it unto me.”

Before the three ryots could reach the spot where the horse had lost his footing, the commissioner was almost drowned. The rush of waters had borne him out of his saddle; only one of his feet was yet in the stirrup; the rein had escaped from his hand; he was clinging for life to the mane of the struggling horse, of which only the head could be seen above the torrent. The Sahib had scarcely even power to shout for help; but in his great need help was at hand. Ya’kub seized the rein of the horse; Gunga Ram gave his powerful aid; while Isa Das supported the half-drowned man, and assisted him to recover his seat in the saddle. With violent efforts, and with both difficulty and risk, the three ryots succeeded in bringing both the horse and his gasping rider safe back to the side of the river.

As the horse struggled up the bank, with clotted mane and streaming flanks, Manton Sahib uttered a few words which were not addressed to the ryots, and which they could not understand. Isa Das thought, and perhaps thought rightly, that the Englishman, in his own language, was thanking God for preservation from death. The Sahib shook the drops from his dripping hair; his solah topee was floating far away down the river; he had lost it in the desperate struggle for life. Manton patted the neck of his trembling horse; then turning towards the ryots, addressed them in their own tongue,—

“Brave men; you have done a good service, and shall not miss a reward. Follow me to my own house.”

“As your highness commands,” replied the three ryots at once.

“This is a fortunate day for us,” exclaimed Gunga Ram, as the three men followed the commissioner towards his handsome bungalow; “we shall be poor ryots no longer; we shall no more have to earn our rice by the sweat of our brows.”

“We will eat something better than rice,” cried the feast-loving Ya’kub. “In hopes of good food, I seem already to feel myself growing fat as a baboo!” and he patted his breast.

When the commissioner reached his house, he called aloud for his bearer, and gave command that money should be brought. A bag of silver was quickly placed in the Sahib’s hand; and before he dismounted from his horse, Manton drew from it three rupees, and gave one to each of the men.

The ryots made low saláms as they took the pieces of silver, and then together they turned from the commissioner’s house. But the worm of discontent gnawed at the heart of Gunga Ram.

“Does the Sahib value his life but at three rupees?” he muttered. “One rupee is not worth the wetting of my waist-cloth!”

Ya’kub laughed at the disappointment of his companion. “One rupee will at least buy a right good dinner!” said he. “No work to-day for me. I will hasten off to the bazaar, and have once more such a feast as that of which I partook when my younger brother was married.”

“Oh, thou man without wisdom!” cried Gunga Ram, as he tied up his piece of silver in the end of his waist-cloth; “thou wilt not surely spend all thy rupee on one meal?”

But Ya’kub was already beyond hearing of the voice of his friend. It was as if the savoury fragrance of the coming feast were drawing Ya’kub on from afar. He hastened his steps, even as the thirsty camel doth in the desert when he smelleth water, and rusheth towards the well.

“Thou wilt not spend thy money thus?” asked Gunga Ram of Isa Das.

Isa Das smiled as he made reply: “No; I will not thus spend my rupee upon feasting;” and he thought, but he spake not his thought aloud,—“The Lord hath already heard and answered my prayer. I, even I, a poor ryot, will put one brick in that church.”

III.

On the evening of that same day, Padre Ghopal and the English padre, Logan by name, walked together to look upon the ruins of the native church that had been destroyed by the flood. Ghopal, with tears in his eyes, as he stood by the ruins, besought the Padre Sahib to help him in this great trouble, as he had often helped him before.

“I am sorry, very sorry, for the destruction of your church,” said Logan Sahib kindly but gravely; “but I really cannot so soon again ask for subscriptions from England, and my own purse is now empty. There was a collection made for you but last year in my former parish, near London, and some of the very poorest of the school children gave to it their pence and their halfpence, instead of spending the money on sweetmeats. I heard of a blind woman who, day by day, can scarcely earn her scanty living by knitting, who yet found that she could spare something to help the Lord’s work in a distant land. If she cared for the building of a church into which she never will enter, and for the conversion to God of people whom she never will see, are the members of your flock content to remain idle? Do they think it well to sit with folded hands like children, and expect to be fed by others? It is time that native Christians should learn the proverb, ‘God helps those that help themselves.’”

Padre Ghopal shook his head and sighed deeply. “I have spoken to the people on this subject again and again,” he replied, “but they listen as those who hear not. They are as trees that bear leaves of profession, but the fruit of good works is not seen on the boughs. Besides, my people are poor,” added the native pastor.

“Was it not said of the Philippians, how their deep poverty abounded unto the riches of their liberality, for that to their power, yea, and beyond their power, they were willing of themselves?” (2 Cor. viii. 2) said Padre Logan. “Not till we see more of this spirit of liberality and self-sacrifice in the Indian Church, will God’s full blessing rest upon it.”

“I know it, I know it,” sighed Padre Ghopal.

“And not all your people are poor,” continued the English pastor. “You have amongst them baboos in government employ, who receive good salaries every month. Can you not persuade them to give at least one-tenth of their means to the Giver of all, even as every Jew did in the days of old? Shall Christians do less for their religion than did the Jews?”

“The baboos want good houses, and their wives want fine jewels,” said Padre Ghopal. “If we wait to rebuild this church till the people bring free-will offerings, like Jews at Jerusalem or Christians at Philippi, we shall wait till yon river runs dry.”

Even as Padre Ghopal spoke, a poor ryot drew nigh, and respectfully made his salám. “May I speak with the padre?” said he.

“He has, of course, some favour to ask,” observed Padre Logan. “These people are always crying, ‘Give—give!’”

Isa Das, for it was he, heard the words of the Englishman, and they were bitter to the soul of the ryot; but without looking towards him the poor man turned to his own pastor and silently held out his hand, in which there was one bright silver rupee.

“What is thy meaning? What wouldst thou have me do with this rupee?” asked Padre Ghopal in surprise as he took the money.

Isa Das pointed with his finger to the ruins and said, “I should like to put one brick into that church.”

“This is strange—very strange!” exclaimed Padre Logan. “I never heard of anything like it in this country before. How can such a man, lean in body, and wearing but one garment, have a whole rupee to spare?” and he glanced with suspicion at Isa Das, for he thought to himself,—“That man must have stolen the piece of silver.”

“Let not my lord have hard thoughts of his servant,” said Isa Das, who understood the look. “Your servant to-day helped Gunga Ram and Ya’kub to save the life of Manton Sahib when he had missed the ford, and was nearly drowned in the river. Manton Sahib for that service gave to each of us a rupee.”

“And you devote yours to the building of your church!” exclaimed Padre Logan.

“I give it to the Lord, who loved and gave Himself for me,” was Isa Das’s reply, as with a cheerful, happy heart he turned from the place.

Padre Logan watched the poor man as he departed, then suddenly shook Ghopal by the hand. “God forgive me for my harsh judgment!” he cried; “and God be praised that there are men in India like this poor ryot!”

A ray of pleasure and hope brightened the face of Padre Ghopal. “I will once more visit the baboos,” he said, “and see if the example of this poor man will not move them to give of their abundance, even as he hath given of his poverty. But first let us together beseech the Lord to open the hearts of the people.”

IV.

Was Isa Das a poorer man on account of what he had given to God? No one would have thought so, who could have seen with what a light step and happy face he returned to his home that evening. The rich flower of joy grows on the prickly shrub of self-denial; the flower blooms even in this world, but the fruit will be gathered in the next. As Isa Das passed along the dusty road which led to his hut, everything on which he looked seemed to add to his joy. There was the golden light of sunset; Isa Das beheld it, and said to himself, “Light is the gift of God.” He passed where the thirsty cattle were drinking at the river, and said to himself, “Water is the gift of God.” Isa Das remembered his own blessings, and said to himself,—“Eyes to see, and ears to hear, and hands to work, and feet to walk,—these also are gifts of God. The great Father in heaven loves to give. He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life (John iii. 16). God hath called us to be His children; and shall not the children be even as the Father, and also delight in giving? Yea, to give freely and to give joyfully,—this is the right of the children of God.”

When Isa Das came in sight of his humble home, his little boy, his well-beloved, ran forth to meet him. The child had a flower in his hand,—a small flower which he had plucked to give to his father. Isa Das caught up the child and kissed him, and took the small flower from the little hand with a smile of acceptance, as if it had been the Koh-i-noor worn by the Queen. “My loving child,—he also is a gift from God,” thought the ryot.

When Isa Das entered his humble home, he found that his wife had carefully prepared the evening meal. It was but a very simple meal, but Isa Das blessed God before he ate it as thankfully as if he had been sitting down to a feast. Then he told his wife of all that had happened; for Isa Das was the Christian husband of a Christian woman, and they shared all each other’s sorrows and joys, and nothing that the one did was ever hidden from the other. The love which Isa Das and his Lakhdili felt for each other was also the gift of God.

When the wife heard of the gift of the rupee, her eyes sparkled with pleasure, for she thought,—“My husband will perhaps buy a new chaddar for me, or bangles to put on the arms of our dear little boy;” but when Isa Das told Lakhdili that his money had gone to be, as it were, a brick in the church, she was too good a wife and too good a woman to say aught against what her husband had done.

“Oh, husband! thou hast done a good work,” said Lakhdili; “and good works are the ladder by which holy men, as thou art, climb to heaven.”

“Oh, woman!” cried Isa Das with earnestness, “thinkest thou that by good works we poor sinners can climb to heaven? As well might I gather a heap of date-stones together, and think by mounting on them to reach the noonday sun! Heaven is Christ’s free gift; He bought it for us with His own blood. But we love Him who gave us the gift,—we love Him as my little child loves me,—and our offerings are even as this flower which my darling gathered to place in the hand of his father.”

V.

Scarcely had Isa Das finished his meal, when some one approached him. The light of sunset had faded away, and Isa Das could not see the face of him who had come, but when he spoke Isa Das knew well the voice of Gunga Ram.

“Dost thou know what hath befallen our companion Ya’kub?” were the first words of Gunga Ram as he seated himself on the ground near Isa Das.

“I have not seen Ya’kub since the morning,” was Isa Das’s reply, “when from Manton Sahib we each received a rupee.”

“Ah, poor Ya’kub!” cried Gunga Ram, but more in mirth than in sorrow. “Did I not warn him and say to him, ‘Thou man without wisdom, spend not all thy money upon one meal!’ His bright rupee has been to him even as a melon under which a centipede lies hidden, that bites the hand of him who gathers the fruit.”

“What is thy meaning?” asked Isa Das.

“Ya’kub hurried off to the bazaar,” Gunga Ram made answer; “and there, to the last pie, he spent his money on buying dainties, the fat and the sweet. And he bought bang also, and he ate to the full, and he drank to the full, till his eyes would not have distinguished the saddle of a horse from the hump of a bullock!”

“Alas, that Ya’kub should thus have cast disgrace on the Christian name!” exclaimed Isa Das with sorrow.

But Gunga Ram neither showed nor felt any regret at the fall of his weaker brother; it was to him rather a cause of mirth.

“Ya’kub became in his drunkenness as one who is mad,” thus Gunga Ram went on with his story. “Ya’kub ran against the bearers of a palki,—rushing fiercely against them as the wild boar rushes through the jungle,—and, behold! in the palki was the Manton Sahib himself!” Gunga Ram laughed till his sides shook as he added, “So poor Ya’kub, of course, was sent to jail. This was the end of his feast! This was the great good which came to him from the rupee given by the Sahib!”

Then Isa Das could not help thinking of the words of the wise Solomon written in the Holy Book,—“The blessing of the Lord it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with it” (Prov. x. 22). Poor Ya’kub had sought no blessing; he had cared but to gratify the lusts of the flesh; and behold sorrow and disgrace had come where he had looked for nothing but joy.

“Thou wilt not thus spend thy rupee, my friend?” he said unto Gunga Ram.

“Spend it, indeed! Why should I spend it at all?” was Gunga Ram’s reply. “No; I do not lightly part with my money,—I gather it up and store it. A pice is but a little coin, but many pice make a rupee, and many rupees a gold mohur; and as the proverb saith truly,—‘By patience the mulberry-leaf becomes satin.’” Gunga Ram lowered his voice and glanced round him suspiciously as he went on,—“Why should I hide a secret from thee which I have already confided to Ya’kub? The Sahib’s coin lies not alone in my bag,—there are now thrice three, which I have saved by care and self-denial; and if things go well with me to the end of the year, I shall have as many rupees saved as I have fingers on these two hands;” and Gunga Ram stretched out his hands as he spoke.

“What avails our having money, if we never spend it?” asked Isa Das. “Hast thou never heard the words of the Lord: ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal’?” (Matt. vi. 19, 20).

Gunga Ram gave a sign of impatience. “Preach not to me, but look to thyself!” he exclaimed. “I wot thou hast not yet parted thyself with the Sahib’s rupee.”

“I have parted with it,” replied Isa Das with a smile.

“Hast thou then been to the bazaar and bought a ring, or a bracelet, or a new kamarband?” asked Gunga Ram.

Isa Das shook his head.

“Or a goat to give milk to thy child?”

Again Isa Das shook his head as he made reply,—“I have bought nothing, O my friend!”

“Then thou hast lost thy rupee?” cried Gunga Ram.

“I have not lost it,” said Isa Das with cheerfulness.

“Thou hast not kept, nor spent, nor lost it; then hast thou been so mad as to give it away to some poor neighbour?” asked Gunga Ram, who would not so much as have given away an anna to his own brother.

“I have given it to One who is rich,” replied Isa Das; and he added to himself,—“to One who for our sakes was yet content to be poor.”

“If thou hast given thy good rupee to one who is rich already, thou hast indeed acted the part of a fool!—unless, indeed, he be likely to repay thee thy money with interest,” said Gunga Ram.

“A hundredfold—a thousandfold,” thought Isa Das, as he lifted up his eyes towards heaven. “It is there that I would lay up my treasure.”

VI.

On the following evening there was a great dinner at the bungalow of Manton Sahib. All the English gentlemen of the station were invited, and amongst them came Padre Logan.

There was much talk at the dinner-table on various matters,—the last news from Europe, the state of the crops, the movements of the governor-general, and the chance of a war in Burmah. At last Padre Logan observed to Manton Sahib, to whom he sat opposite, “I hear that yesterday you had a narrow escape from drowning.”

“Yes,” replied Manton Sahib; “I missed the ford when attempting to cross the river, lost my seat in the saddle, and never in all my life felt myself nearer to death than I did when the waters came rushing around me, for I am unable to swim. I believe that I should not have been sitting at this table to-day, had not three ryots, capital swimmers, come to my rescue.”

“And you gave each of them a rupee,” observed Padre Logan.

“Unlucky rupees they were,” cried the commissioner, shrugging his shoulders.

“How so?” inquired Padre Logan, whilst the rest of the company at table became silent in order to listen.

“Why, before the day was over, one of the fellows got drunk on his rupee,” replied Manton Sahib. “He actually attacked my bearers with a stick when I was going home in my palki in the evening, and was so noisy and troublesome that I was obliged to send him to prison.”

“But another of the ryots made a very different use of his rupee,” observed Padre Logan.

“That is to say, he made no use of it at all,” replied the commissioner. “But the very circumstance of his having the money brought the poor fellow to grief.”

“How so?” asked Colonel Miller, an officer who sat at the end of the table.

“A rumour had been abroad,” thus Manton Sahib made reply, “that week after week, and month after month, this ryot, whose name is Gunga Ram, has been saving money, pie by pie. But no one was sure of the matter, for the man’s earnings were so small that it was hard to believe that he should be able to scrape any money together. But it appears that Ya’kub, in his drunkenness, had made it known throughout the bazaar that Gunga Ram, like himself, had received a present from me; and perhaps rumour had turned the one rupee into ten.”

“That is likely enough,” said Padre Logan.

“Be that as it may, poor Gunga Ram had to pay dearly for his love of money,” said Manton Sahib. “About midnight some thieves entered his hut, and searched it, but at first could find nothing in it. Determined to reach the supposed hoard, the villains seized poor Gunga Ram, and cruelly tortured him to make him confess where he had buried his money. In his agony the poor wretch told them the place. The cries of Gunga Ram reached the ears of some of the police, who came to his aid; but before they entered the hut the thieves had made off with the money, and the police found only the miserable Gunga Ram stretched on the ground bleeding and groaning. He was carried off to the hospital at once. Thus you see that I had some cause to say that mine were unlucky rupees.”

“You have told us of the fate of two of the receivers of your gift,” observed the English padre; “let me now tell you something of the third ryot, and of the use which he made of his rupee, which may perhaps be to you yet more surprising.”

“One of the fellows is lodged in an hospital, another in a jail,” said Colonel Miller, laughing; “I suppose that the story of the third will be that he bought a rope with his rupee, and hanged himself in the next mango-grove.”

Most of the rest of the company laughed; but Manton Sahib turned attentively to listen to what Padre Logan was going to say. “What did the third man do with his money?” he inquired.

“He gave it to Padre Ghopal, to help to rebuild the little native church that was thrown down by the flood,” was the padre’s reply.

All the company looked surprised. No one had been surprised to hear of a man getting drunk on bang, or of another being tortured and robbed; but they regarded the poor ryot’s free-will offering to God as a very strange thing indeed.

“I can scarcely believe it,” said Colonel Miller; and his face expressed doubt yet more than did his words.

“I was myself present when Isa Das gave his rupee into the hand of Ghopal,” said the English padre.

“Then I can only say that this ryot gives me a higher opinion of the natives of India than I ever had before,” observed Colonel Miller.

“You see, sir,” said Logan, addressing himself to Manton Sahib, “that not all of the rupees went to the thieves or to the seller of bang.”

Manton Sahib was silent for some moments, reflecting deeply. At the time of his preservation from drowning he had thanked God for saving him from death, but never till he heard of the gift of the poor ryot had he thought of bringing a thank-offering, an acknowledgment of the mercy shown to him by God. The poor man’s piety kindled a feeling of piety in the breast of the wealthy Sahib, even as one torch is kindled by another.

“Are the natives, then, so anxious to have their church built?” the commissioner asked of the clergyman.

“Many wish it to be built,” was Padre Logan’s reply; “but Isa Das is the only one of whom I have yet heard as helping the cause by a gift.”

“Then let his example be followed,” cried Manton Sahib; “and my help shall not be wanting. Tell Ghopal, that whatever sum of money he may succeed in gathering from his native flock for the building of the church before Sunday next, shall be doubled by me.”

“Ghopal will not gather much, I suspect,” observed Colonel Miller to Manton Sahib; “your purse will not be greatly lightened.”

“Whether the sum be small or great, I will keep to my promise,” said the commissioner; “and the heavier the drain on my purse, the better shall I be pleased.”

VII.

Before the rising of the sun on the following morning, Padre Logan was on his way to the house of Ghopal, to carry to him the news of the commissioner’s promise. Before the sun had set on that day, Padre Ghopal had visited the dwelling of every native Christian in the place, and in every house had told of the poor ryot’s offering, and of the rich commissioner’s offer. Never had such interest and excitement been shown amongst the Christians before. The punishment of Ya’kub, the erring one, and the robbery of the money of the unfortunate Gunga Ram, were known to all; and the story of the three rupees from the lips of Padre Ghopal fell with more effect upon the ears of the hearers than ten sermons might have done. “God is great!” they exclaimed. “Happy is he upon whom rests the blessing of the Most High. Without that blessing, even money may bring but sorrow and shame.”

Padre Ghopal carried with him a bag to receive the contributions of the people. When he started in the morning, there was but one rupee in the bag—that one was the offering of Isa Das; but before Ghopal returned to his home the bag had become a heavy burden, full of pice, annas, and rupees. Those who had never given before now gave with thankfulness and joy.

“I was going to spend much on the marriage festivities of my daughter,” said one; “I will spend less on feasting and show, that I may have something to spare for the work of God. May the Lord Jesus grant His favour to my child; that is far better than dance or feasting could be.”

“I had intended to buy a new horse,” said a baboo; “but I will make my old pony carry me yet another year. I will ride him with pleasure; and mounted upon him, will go from day to day to see the house of God rising from its ruins, for I shall have put many bricks in that church.”

Margam, the mother of Padre Ghopal, had no money to give; but, with a happy smile, she drew from her arm a silver bangle, and dropped it into the bag of her son. “Let the silver be changed into bricks for the house of the Lord,” said the pious woman.

Before the appointed Sunday arrived, Padre Logan and Ghopal together, with thankful surprise, counted out the money which had been poured by rich and poor into the treasury of the Lord. The coppers and the silver together, and cowries also, that were found in the bag, amounted to a goodly sum; and when the last rupee had been counted, Padre Ghopal lifted up his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, “God be praised! He hath answered our prayers even beyond our hopes. There is lying before me in these heaps half of the money required to build up our church!”

“And Manton Sahib will double the amount,” said the joyful Padre Logan. “He is a man who will never flinch back from keeping his promise.”

Padre Logan was right; nor had the commissioner the slightest wish to flinch back from keeping his promise. Manton Sahib rejoiced to help those who were helping themselves. Never had the Englishman written anything with more pleasure than when he dipped his pen and made out a cheque on the Bank of Bengal for the remainder of the sum required to complete the building of the church.

Fast went on the work of building; the church seemed to grow rapidly, as rice when the water rises around it. Every one in the Christian village rejoiced to see its progress, and many who could give no money gave a helping hand to the work.

“This is our own church,” the people would say; “we need no more money from England. We ourselves, with the Commissioner Sahib’s help, have built our house of prayer, and we will support our minister also. It is a good thing to offer freely and joyfully to the Lord. ‘God loveth a cheerful giver’” (2 Cor. ix. 7).

Before the rainy season arrived the little church was built and roofed in; and there was a glad gathering of all the people to celebrate the opening of the holy house with prayer and songs of praise. Gunga Ram and Ya’kub were there; the one had left his hospital, the other had been dismissed from jail. Gunga Ram had a pale cheek, and a deep scar left by a wound; and poor Ya’kub could scarcely lift his eyes from the ground, for shame covered his face. These two poor ryots joined in the prayer, but their voices were not heard in the songs of joy.

After the meeting was over, Gunga Ram and Ya’kub joined Isa Das, who was standing a little apart, his hands clasped, his face bright with happiness, as he looked at the beautiful building standing where only ruins had been.

“Ah, my brother!” cried Gunga Ram, “this is indeed a day of rejoicing for thee. Behold God hath heard thy prayer, and hath greatly prospered thy work.”

Gunga Ram spoke from the heart, for during the time of his sore sickness and pain God’s Holy Spirit had spoken to his soul. Gunga Ram had resolved that out of his little earnings a tenth part should always henceforth be devoted to holy uses, the support of his pastor, and the relief of the poor. Gunga Ram would seek to lay up for himself treasure in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.

“I am as joyous as if I were sultan of the world,” said Isa Das, “when I look on that house, in which I hope that the gospel will be preached from generation to generation.”

“And thou thyself hath built that church,” said Gunga Ram.

“I build a church!—I, who am but a poor ryot!” exclaimed Isa Das in surprise. “Thou dost not well, O Gunga Ram, to speak words of mockery to thy friend.”

“They are not words of mockery, but words of truth,” replied Gunga Ram. “Without thy prayers and thy offering, that church would not have been standing there this day. It is thou who didst build that church.”

“I laid but one brick,” said Isa Das.

“But as from the seed springs the tree, so from that one brick laid in faith and prayer that goodly building hath risen,” said Gunga Ram. “O my brother, I have learned a great lesson whilst lying wounded and in sore trouble,—a lesson which is worth more to me than the nine rupees which the robbers carried away. Our money is as seed-corn which the Lord, the great Land-owner, commits to His servants that they may sow and reap a hundredfold. Ya’kub was as one who grinds the seed-corn and eats it, and lo, his field is brown and bare when the green blade is springing up in the fields of others around him! I was as one who hides his seed-corn till the time for sowing is past, and that which might have brought forth good fruit becomes corrupted and mouldy. But thou, O Isa Das, thou hast been as one who does the bidding of his lord, and in the day of harvest greatly rejoices. For is it not written in the Word of Truth, He that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the spirit reap life everlasting?” (Gal. vi. 8.)

III.
The Pugree[14] with a Border of Gold.

It was a happy day for Hassan, the Christian moonshee,[15] when all arrangements were settled for the marriage of his daughter Fatima with Yuhanna, a highly respectable baboo,[16] who held the same faith as himself. Hassan had had a time of great trouble both before and after his baptism; old friends had turned their back upon him, and those who had often eaten his bread had crossed to the other side of the road when they saw him. Reproach had been cast upon his name, and sharp words had pierced his soul like a sword. Yet Hassan had held fast to the faith which he had embraced; he had borne losses and endured reproach, strengthened by prayer,[17] and helped by the counsels of Alton Sahib, the English friend who had first placed a Bible in the hands of his moonshee. The storm of persecution had now passed over; men ceased to revile one whom they could not but respect; Hassan earned a comfortable livelihood by teaching; and now his daughter’s betrothal to the baboo whom above all others he preferred for a son-in-law, was as a crown to his prosperity.

“We will have a grand wedding, O Margam,” said Hassan to his wife; “a great tamasha,[18] and plenty of feasting!”

“And my daughter shall have goodly garments, meet for the bride of Yuhanna,”[19] said the smiling Margam. “She shall have a shawl woven at Amritsar, and embroidery from Delhi, and slippers worked in blue and silver, such as are worn by the begum.”[20]

“And what shall I have, O father?” cried little Yusuf, the youngest child of the moonshee, and dear to his heart as the light of his eyes.

“Thou at the wedding of thy sister shalt have a new pugree with a border of gold,” said Hassan, bending down to kiss fondly the brow of his child.

“For the wedding festivities and the goodly garments money must be borrowed,” observed Margam, who knew that the expenses to be incurred would amount to a sum much greater than her husband could earn in a year by teaching.

“Yes, I must borrow,” said Hassan calmly, but with a look of thought. “To whom shall I go for the money?”

“To Nabi Bakhsh,” suggested Margam.

“Not to Nabi Bakhsh, of all men!” exclaimed the moonshee; “he is an usurer who would squeeze juice out of a date-stone! Not to Sadik, for I owe him five rupees already.”

“There is the English Sahib; he is a great friend of my lord,” observed Margam; “surely when he hears that the money is required for a wedding-feast he will be ready to lend.”

“And Alton Sahib is able to do so,” cried Hassan; “his salary is five hundred rupees a month, and I doubt that he spends more than three. He has the smallest and worst bungalow in the station, and keeps fewer servants than a clerk on the railway would do. The Sahib must be laying up money; and he is so much my friend that I am sure that he would help me in this my need. To-day is a holiday in the school where I teach; my time is therefore my own, and I will go at once to the Sahib.”

“And as you come back by the bazaar, O father,” cried the eager little Yusuf, “be sure that you do not forget to buy for me the pretty new pugree with a border of gold.”

“I will not forget it, O my child,” said the moonshee with a smile, as he rose to depart.

Hassan had pleasant thoughts whilst he went on his way towards the bungalow of Alton Sahib. He considered how the Lord had brought him through all his troubles, and after the storm of adversity had given the sunshine of joy to His servant. “Those who despised me will envy me now,” thought Hassan; “my daughter is to marry a good man and a prosperous man, and the grand feast which I shall prepare will show to all that this is an occasion of great joy and rejoicing.”

When Hassan came in sight of the little bungalow of Alton Sahib, his thoughts flowed in another channel.

“It is strange that a government Sahib should choose to live in a place little better than a stable,” said the moonshee to himself. “That bungalow is only fit for owls and rats, and will come down in the next rains. The Sahib is at home, I see, for there is the syce[21] leading away his horse from the door. Horse, did I call it! How can an English Sahib ride such a wretched tattú?[22] The tall man’s feet must almost touch the ground as he rides. There is only one thing which I do not like about Alton Sahib. He is as good a Christian and as true a friend as ever trod the earth, but he must have a close fist, and be uncommonly fond of his money. I never hear of his entertaining a friend: and he seems to make his coat last for ever; I wonder whether he ever intends to buy a new one! I like a Sahib to spend freely, and never take to counting the pice. Does not the Bible say, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth’? Why does one who loves God as the Sahib does hoard up his money thus? It is a grievous fault in the Sahib.”

Hassan forgot the Sahib’s fault when he stood in his presence, met his kindly smile, and heard his hearty congratulations on the approaching marriage in his family. Hassan was asked to take a seat; there were but two chairs in the room, which was very poorly furnished indeed.

Alton Sahib listened smilingly to all that Hassan had to tell him about the baboo who was to become his son-in-law,—how much respected he was by all, and how much property he had in his village. But the smile passed from the Sahib’s face when Hassan, after much other conversation, told the object of his visit, and asked for a loan of two hundred rupees.

“I have not the money,” said the Sahib gravely; “and if I had, it would be against my conscience to lend it.”

Hassan could scarcely refrain from an exclamation of surprise. He glanced round the room in which he sat, and Alton Sahib, who quickly read the minds of men, perceived that in that of the moonshee was arising the thought, “Can the Sahib be speaking the truth?”

The face of the Englishman flushed; he hesitated for several moments, as if it were a painful effort to him to utter that which he was about to say.

“Hassan, I seldom speak to any one about my private affairs,” said the Sahib at last; “but I believe that it will be better both for you and for myself if I do so now. You think me close-handed and unwilling to part with my money; you may even think me insincere, and therefore a most inconsistent Christian; but I spoke but truth when I said that I had no money. The fact is”—the Sahib lowered his voice as he went on—“the fact is, that I am in debt to a friend;” and the flush on the young man’s brow and cheek deepened as he uttered the words.

Hassan’s surprise was now twofold; he wondered how the prudent Sahib could have got into debt, and he wondered why any one should blush to own that he had done so. There was nothing shameful to Hassan in the idea of being in debt; like many of his countrymen, he thought it a very small matter, scarcely a misfortune, and not in the least degree a disgrace. It was clear that debt was not regarded in the same light by the English Christian.

It had often been a matter of regret to Alton Sahib to see how lightly debt weighed on the consciences of many in India. He took a deep interest in the spiritual welfare of Hassan, whom he regarded as a brother in Christ. “Shall I see my brother sin, and not tell him of his error?” thought Alton Sahib. “Debt in this land is as the canker-worm in the grain, or the hidden abscess in the human frame. I can best show Hassan how I abhor it by letting him know what efforts I have myself made, and am now making, to get rid of the plague.”

“I feel it due to myself to let you know something of the circumstances that involved me in the debt from which I am, and have been for years, struggling to free myself,” said the young Sahib, after another pause. “When I was in Calcutta, not long after my first arrival in this country, I was robbed at a hotel of all the ready money which I possessed. This was, of course, a source of annoyance to me, but not of serious difficulty, as I had a wealthy friend in a station in Bengal, who would, I knew, at once advance whatever I required to pay my hotel-bill, and to take me up to the Punjaub, the province to which I had been appointed. I believed that the loan would be very soon repaid by my father in England.”

“Your excellency’s mind must have been quite at rest in the matter,” observed the moonshee.

“As I dipped my pen,” continued the Sahib, “to write to my friend the judge to ask for a loan of three hundred rupees, the very smallest sum that would suffice to cover needful expenses, a servant brought in letters from England. I laid down my pen and opened the first one, little guessing the heavy news which it would contain. The letter informed me that, by the failure of a bank, all my father’s property, the savings of many years, had been swept away; and that he who had risen in the morning believing himself to be in affluence, had lain down at night in a state of poverty, which illness made more distressing.”

“Alas! the news was heavy indeed!” exclaimed Hassan.

“My father has since been called to that happy home where there is no more trial,” said Alton Sahib with a sigh; “he had laid up treasure in heaven, in that bank which never can fail. But at the time of which I speak his need was pressing; I wrote to the judge in haste, but instead of borrowing, as I had intended, three hundred rupees with the assurance that the money would be repaid in two months, I asked for the loan of five thousand rupees, to be repaid I knew not when, that I might send home help at once to my sick and afflicted father.”

“And the Judge Sahib gave the money?” asked Hassan.

“At once, most generously, most readily,” replied the young English Sahib; “nor do I believe that he would ever ask me for one rupee of the money again.”

“All is well, then, your excellency,” observed Hassan; “the Judge Sahib is rich, he needs not the money, the matter is no trouble to him.”

“But it has been a sore trouble to me,” cried the young Sahib quickly; “I could no more sit down quietly under that burden of debt, than I could calmly endure to wear a chain of iron around my neck. My life has been one perpetual effort to cast off that chain; link by link I have broken it away. I lived from the first on half my income—lived as no other English gentleman in my position would do. When my salary was increased, I did not increase my expenses. I have endured to be thought stingy and inhospitable, in a land where not to have the hand and the door open is esteemed a great reproach. I could not give alms or entertain guests on the money that was really another’s; it was better in man’s sight to be unjustly considered mean, than in the sight of God to be dishonest.”

“Dishonest!” exclaimed Hassan in astonishment; the word did not seem in his mind to be in the least suited for the occasion.

“Yes, dishonest,” repeated the Sahib; “money which we have borrowed is not really our own,—it belongs to the lender.”

“It was his pleasure to lend it,” observed Hassan.

“But not his pleasure that it should never be returned,” rejoined the Sahib with animation.

Still the moonshee did not appear persuaded that there could be any harm in incurring a debt to a man who was rich enough to spare the money.

Alton Sahib rose and went up to his table, on which lay a Bible. He turned over the pages, and then silently pointed out the text,—Owe no man anything, but to love one another (Rom. xiii. 8).

“I knew not that such a command was in the Bible,” observed the moonshee. “But the Sahib was under necessity to break it.”