4

Harichandra reached home, and the news that he had forsaken in his heart the religion of his ancestors fell like a thunderbolt on his kindred and friends. No words can describe the commotion that was caused in his home. People refused to believe the news at first. Had ever a Brahmin renounced his ancestral faith, they asked, and allowed himself to be polluted and degraded thus in the sight of the world? It was thought that learning had made him mad, and his mother in wild distraction summoned the shastris, pundits, and wise men of the town to argue the new mania away. The discussions led to nothing. Some of those with whom he argued could not but acknowledge that Christianity had in it, in a more highly developed form, truths which were only dimly outlined in the Hindu shastras. But their objection to the religion of Christ was that it was a foreign religion, the religion of the conquerors, and that it was, therefore, very unpatriotic for an orthodox Hindu to exchange his own faith for that of the foreigners. Harichandra was of course proof against this argument. Patriotism which sacrificed truth to blind sentiment was, he said, no true patriotism. It was merely another form of cowardice, which truth-loving hearts must repudiate; and then he pointed out that there must be something radically wrong in the religion which made its adherents such moral cowards as the Hindu were, who, though convinced of the truth, yet had not the boldness to follow it at the sacrifice of everything that was dear to them.

Harichandra possessed a friend in his elder brother, Vamanrao. The impartial and thorough researches, the bold investigation, and the deep earnestness and sincere convictions of his younger and more learned brother had made such an impression on Vamanrao that he became a secret believer in Christ. Then followed a time of great persecution for Harichandra, and the painful moment came when his own mother stood before him as his would-be murderer. What pangs the proud woman must have suffered! What struggles she must have gone through to have so far forgotten her natural feelings as to have put poison in her son’s food! But this was quite consistent with her stern character. Better a dead and honoured son, than a polluted living one. Harichandra stood all these trials with a courage and boldness that daunted his greatest enemies. His wife’s face, however, kept haunting him during these days. He knew that the time must come sooner or later when he would have to leave his home and his people, and go over to the Christians, and for himself he was prepared to go. But his wife, must he leave her? No. He felt that his chief duty was to induce her to come with him. In vain he sought for a way of accomplishing this. He had scarcely spoken to her once in his life, and at the very suggestion of leaving Brahminism she would fly away from him. He was, however, determined to make a trial at any cost. He would lay everything clearly before her, and give her the choice of following him or remaining behind. In this difficulty his elder brother was ready with friendly advice. Apart from a feeling of sympathy, this brother had a natural liking to take part in anything that was adventurous, and was generally full of plans. He said, with a wise shake of his head, ‘You must leave this place. You must take your wife with you. I will bring her to you.’ And he partly disclosed a plan that he had thought out sometime before. He requested his brother to be ready at a certain place with the missionary’s covered carriage, which would carry Radha straight off to the bungalow before suspicion was roused, adding: ‘All that you have to do is be very stern and order the girl in. Thanks to our customs, she will be very frightened to see you alone with her, and won’t get over the shock till she sees the bungalow, and even if she attempts to talk and ask questions on the way, a word from you will silence her. I shall cross the fields and go home, and my coming back will keep the people at home from missing you till it is too late for anybody to go in search of you.’

Harichandra listened gravely, and asked if the thing could not be managed in some other way. ‘It pains me to use authority in this way. I should never forgive myself for practising such deception as you suggest. What would Radha think of me, at least for the time being? Would she not despise me? Oh! I could not stand it.’ Plain dealing was more in his line.

Then give her up for ever,’ said the impulsive brother, firing up. ‘Make her life a life of misery. Her head will be shaved, and she will become an object of scorn. Wherever she is seem, people will exclaim: “Ah! This is the polluted one’s wife; this is the unfortunate woman whom the gods have disgraced.” Life will become a living death for her, and you will be cursed forever in her heart. You will like that, I suppose? What has she done to suffer such wrongs from you? If you take her with you, she may in time come to fall in with your way of thinking, and she will be happy.’

After a struggle with his natural self, in which it seemed to his strict mind a sort of deception to keep his wife ignorant of his course of action even for a time, but which reasoning ultimately seemed to conquer, he gave in. ‘Very well, bring her, brother; I don’t know how you are going to manage, and we shall see how it will all turn out.’

Vamanrao, thus left to act on his sole responsibility, delayed not a moment. He started that very day for Shivagunga, intimating that he was going on very urgent business, and would be away for three or four days. A day’s journey brought him to Shivagunga. Here he posed as a great man, and frightened all his poor relations by his imperious manner and talk.

‘What do you mean by keeping a young girl of sixteen so long in your house? Has she no house, no husband, no mother-in-law, no duties? You people won’t do anything for the girl. How long are you going to keep her like this?’ But with all his talk he could not bring the girl away so easily as he had hoped to do. The relations tried to pacify him, but he kept grumbling and complaining loudly and would not be pacified.

A day had already passed, and Vamanrao began to fear lest the people of Shivagunga should hear of his brother’s change of religion, especially as the town was one of the most bigoted centres of Brahminism, and was under the Hindu Rajahs. On the eve of the next day, however, his servant, a witty old man who was left outside the town, appeared in the character of a messenger, dusty, tired, and way-worn. He pretended to have walked all the way from Devaghar, and asked Vamanrao, with the familiarity and authority of an old servant, what he was doing there, living in the houses of relatives; and added that his brother had said that if his relations were not willing to send home the girl, they might keep her, but he wanted to know what his own brother was doing there, in the house of relatives, eating their bread and drinking their water. Then by way of parenthesis he added a saying: ‘If the head is safe, the turbans are thousands; he could get wives by the dozen, but not a brother.’

This frightened Radha’s brother. He had wished her to stay for a ceremony, but now he made haste for her departure. It was arranged that Radha was to be taken by Poona. The town was on the way, and she was anxious to see her sister. After asking if there were any more requests to be complied with, and with many messages and remembrances, Vamanrao commenced a hasty journey back. He had two servants with him who had orders to change the bullocks every three miles. This alarmed  Radha a little, and when she found that they did not take the usual way to Poona, she began to cry and ask questions. Her companion, however, took no notice of her, and became all at once deaf and dumb, absorbed in the interesting process of chewing betel-nut. The girl then questioned the passers-by if they were on the way to Poona, and began to cry. Some pitied her loudly, ‘Poor girl! going to her mother-in-law’s house I suppose,’ and some stopped and made enquiries of the old servant, who was seated prominently in front of the cart. He loudly and readily answered with a broad grin that she had lost a valuable jewel, and was expecting a good beating from her mother-in-law.

Near the temple, outside Devaghar, the cartmen were dismissed. Radha was told to sit inside the temple and wait for her mother-in-law, while the servant sat in front of the weird, wind-beaten, stone building and smoked his chillem. It was the way to their village close by, and Radha expected to see her mother-in-law coming towards her, so she stood on the high pavement half inside the dark temple, and looked toward the golden, waving corn-fields to see if there were any signs of the old lady’s approach. In about five minutes she saw a peculiar carriage stop in front, and who should get down but her husband. Her fears were roused, but there was no room for remonstrance. He ordered her in, and told the handyman to drive on. At first she kept very quiet, with her head down, but suddenly peeping out she saw that they were driving away from the town, and with fear and shame depicted on her face she looked imploringly up and said: ‘Please see where the man is going. He does not know the way.’ Her eyes were filled with tears as they looked touchingly in his for one instant, as much as to say: ‘I won’t speak. It is against our custom, but I am quite frightened.’

Harichandra was very much moved. Her shy beauty, simplicity, and sweetness went right to his heart, and he would have told her everything, but he checked himself and answered: ‘It is all right, your husband is with you. No harm will come to you.’

She was silent, and kept furtively looking at him and out of the window. But when the carriage stopped at the bungalow of the missionary, she looked aghast. Her husband’s voice fell on her dazed ear, ‘Radha, get down.’ She instinctively obeyed, and looked round, wondering if it was all a dreadful dream, but before she could realise her situation, she found herself following her husband into a room, and the door closed on her. Everything seemed clear now. This was the padre[/pb_glossary] [pb_glossary id="118"]sahib’s house, and she had entered it, she a Brahmin. What pollution! What degradation! A time of intense anguish followed. In her first impulse she tried to push open the door, and shook the bars of the window; but when she found herself powerless, she sat down on the floor quivering with anger, and with the sense of some great wrong done to her. Her tears had fled, and she tried to think what her position was, but she could not analyse her thoughts. A sense of shame overwhelmed her at the thought that her husband, in her eyes the very perfection of humanity, should have brought her to this disgraceful place. What was he about? And yet in the midst of all these overwhelming thoughts the undercurrent of trust and confidence in him was not shaken. She thought of the past two years during which she had watched him closely. Whatever his elder brother was, her husband was upright and just; his word was never broken, and he was never known to do anything mean. But what did this act signify? To impute any low motive to him was to break everything that she held dear; she felt humbled to the dust. This humiliation was, however, followed by an overexcited state of mind. Her soul rebelled against what seemed to mean, wicked, and debasing, and the gentle Radha was for the time changed into an avenging angel, who shot her glances and words with withering scorn at her husband. He sympathized with her state of mind, the pure instinct that directed her to resent such an act, and the hidden, deep sincerity of her nature. He had hoped to see her calm, and to place before her kindly and gently all he had to say; but how could he explain anything to her now? He could only say: ‘Rest contented, Radha. I am doing all this for your good.’ His heart went out to her, though her words beat on him with untold agony. But when with tragic earnestness she threw her jewels at his feet, and asked him whether it was money that he needed, and falling at his feet piteously entreated him to run away from the place and take her to Tai Bai, he could bear it no longer, and went out of the room with a heavy, distressed heart.

Events thickened. Towards night the whole town turned out. The news was spread by the handyman that a Brahmin girl and a young man were being wrongfully confined in the missionary’s bungalow. It became exaggerated as it spread, and soon there was a general commotion. The police were unable to keep order. Radha’s mother-in-law made her way into the compound, found out Radha, told her to keep quiet, that justice would be done, and went to the Collector’s bungalow in great agitation. He was in bed, but came out on hearing the noise. His calm and dignified manner did a great deal to pacify the excited crowd, and when the mother-in-law narrated her tale of wrongs, and asked for justice, he told her not to be frightened, and that early in the morning he would go and investigate the case himself. The crowd went away satisfied.

A court was held in the morning, and Harichandra declared that he was not detained by the missionaries, but resided there of his own accord. Radha was brought before the court, trembling, and was asked three times whether it was her intention to live with her husband or not. She was not prepared for such a question. According to the customs of her country nothing was so disgraceful as for a wife to say that she would not live with her husband, and so, ignorant of the consequences, she replied to the question put to her in the affirmative. The court was dissolved. But soon Radha discovered her mistake. Then was enacted one of the most painful scenes that was ever witnessed in the life of a convert. The proud mother, finding no other means or hope left, fell at her son’s feet, and implored him in tones of agony to think of his home, and his family, and not to bring such a great disgrace on her. ‘Kill me,’ she said, ‘but don’t send me away to my house bereft of a son and robbed of my good name and honour.’ The wife joined her in her tears and entreaties. The mother clasped his feet and would not let him go. She beat her head and threatened to kill herself then and there. At last, she was taken forcibly from Harichandra, and sent away weeping and crying: ‘My son, my son, I have lost my son.’

The bitter separation was over for Harichandra. His soul had passed through a fiery furnace and had come out purified.

Radha, though ready to go with her mother-in-law with her best saree on, and her jewels all stowed away in her waist, was told to stay with her husband, for the court had decided so. She was rebellious and uncontrollable for a long time. She had her idols, kept her fasts and festivals, and gave her husband food outside the house. She would have nothing whatever to do with the Christians and sahibs; and when the ladies gathered round the attractive young girl, fresh from Brahminism, and tried to show their love and sympathy for her, she would resent their advances; the kindly meant epithet of ‘sister’ would be emphatically denied, and she would add, ‘What, you mem sahibs! How dare you call me sister?’ She would hold her clothes tightly round her as if a touch was pollution, and when an impulsive young lady thought to smooth matters by a kiss, she would rub her cheek and turn away her face in disgust. Nothing daunted, the ladies continued to visit the young woman whose habits were so unlike theirs. Radha, busy at her work, would scarcely notice them at first, but afterwards she took pride in showing them what she knew in the way of cooking, and would make them taste her different preparations, and was gratified at their praise. Soon she was induced to visit them in return, and was in a bewilderment of joy at seeing so many queer-looking nice things in the bungalow. The pretty fancywork caught her attention at once, though she never would never have anything to do with reading. ‘Those are magic letters,’ she would say, shaking her head, ‘and Christianity is tied in the books.’ Capricious, unmanageable, and full of whims, as she showed herself outside, she had moments of thoughtful inquiry. Her mind was often troubled, and she had secret misgivings regarding her belief in shastras and idols. These were superior people that surrounded her. Their love was great, she acknowledged, but what made the difference? She felt she moved in a purer and higher atmosphere. She also noticed the transforming effect of Christianity on her husband. His gentleness, kindness and patience unconsciously set her thinking. The calm of the Christian Sabbath, the call for morning and evening prayers, her husband’s devotion, and the great forbearance shown to her ignorant, superstitious ways by those whom she felt were superior to her,—these and many other things changed her attitude towards the new religion, and gradually she succumbed to the strong influences of Christianity. It was the silent acquiescence of a gentle nature; and when she came to know more of the religion, she fully appreciated the noble motives that guided her husband’s actions of love and charity, his strong confidence in his God, his whole-hearted consecration to his Lord and Master; and at last in the religion which her husband had embraced she herself found a rich harvest of joy and happiness. What comfort was there in suffering! What stay in time of trial! What contentment in poverty! What peace of mind, undisturbed by the greatest of earthly misfortunes and trials, for was not a kind, wise, loving hand directing all things? And though now and then she failed to see the wisdom of His dealings, yet the confidence that all things worked together for good enabled her to rest contented. Her trusting nature clung to her Heavenly Father, and she found peace and joy where all was misery, tumult, and superstitious dread before. Man was God’s and God’s alone, and this God was all-powerful as well as merciful. Christ’s hand had washed the sin away from her soul, and the feeble, crushed heart rejoiced in the possession of a new-found freedom. It expanded under the new and soothing influences, treasured the God-given love; and, like a weary, tired, worn-out child, she rested her head on the Almighty Father’s arm and knew no will but His.

There was now no feeling of constraint between Harichandra and Radha. The unnatural fetters of custom had fallen away, and they met and talked with the freedom of children. One evening as they were sitting outside on the veranda under the silent stars, with whispering winds and broken shadows for company, Radha, thinking of the heavenly love that filled her heart, and diffused such happiness around her, placed her hand in her husband’s, and said, ‘Oh! I am so happy, so happy. Why should God give me so much happiness? Surely others deserve it more than I do.’ Then, as if a new trouble had burst on her, she said, clasping her hand to her heart, “What will you say if I tell you what I think sometimes when I feel most happy? It seems all at once as if all became dark around me, my new happiness in which I glory becomes clouded, and thoughts rise in my heart to which I fear to give expression. Oh! why do I feel so? Do you feel like this?’

‘No, Radhabai, but tell me all.’

‘I feel,’ she said, in a hoarse whisper, ‘that I am so unworthy of God’s great love that God cannot love such as one as me. Oh! you don’t know the weakness of my heart, the depths to which I fall. I don’t want to sin, and yet I sin. How can He love me? How can He accept the offering of such a weak sinful heart as mine? I want to rise above the world, and yet I cannot raise myself at all, and then suddenly all is dark and I feel I am lost, lost again.’

‘Oh Radhabai, don’t think so. You have given yourself up to God, and you cannot be lost. It is God’s power that must raise you and keep you from sin, not yourself. Trust in Him more and give yourself up more entirely to Him. Let Him fight your battles, and you will then be victorious.’

‘But can He love me, the great, just, and holy God? Is not His kingdom for stronger and greater natures, who never feel what I feel?’

‘Love you, Radha!’ There was a glow on the hills, and Harichandra’s face turned to it as he spoke. ‘Of course, He loves you. You cannot judge Him by human love. He loves you with a love as eternal as the hills. There is no shadow of change in Him. Your best is always weak and poor, but His promises are sure. He is able to make the weak and feeble powerful, and the least, the mightiest in His kingdom. Only believe, believe in His word and His power.’

Radha’s heart swelled as she listened to the words. The winds murmured loud and seemed to prolong the word love, as they carried it to the flowing river with its deep, solemn voice. She felt the eternal love round her as well as in her heart.

In the silence of that night, words of soul-raising strength fell from her husband’s lips with great eloquence and power; she trembled before the greater nature, the greater grasp of God’s word that were disclosed to her view. He infused into her some of his iron thoughts, some of his faith that would wrestle with God and take hold of the promises by force. Never did she forget that night. It revealed the inner fibre of a nature that she had venerated but never understood so well before; now she felt its power, she had a glimpse of its depths and its heights, and her thoughts rose on the wings of faith nearer to her God. She forgot that she ever had doubted her lord and master. The glad light of the moon broke from the hills and enveloped the little cottage home in a soft silver radiance. The victory of the night was curiously blended with the soft moonlit beams, and the peace and joy unspeakable that overspread her heart seemed tinged with a heavenly light from above.

Harichandra’s course of action lay clear before him from the first. He never seemed to be in any perplexity, he cared not for what befell him, what hardships he had to face, or what trials he had to bear; his purpose was firm, his mind unmoved. He had taken upon himself the duty of preaching to his countrymen, and his life was to be a life of self-denial. Never did he for a moment reflect as to what he should eat or what he should drink. He grappled with a stern undaunted energy all the difficulties that lay in his path. He was to walk in the footsteps of Christ. The proud Brahmin was to preach to Mahars^[1], and to live with the lowest of the low. He felt that all men were one; and if his life and hours were spent in raising the lowest he was satisfied. He welcomed poverty, hardships, and trouble, and gloried in the Cross. At first he took upon himself the duties of a humble evangelist. He made tours into villages, went to places of pilgrimage, pierced the mountain fastnesses to carry the glad tidings of the gospel. He had to suffer great persecutions, had to go without water and food many a time, was driven from place to place, mobbed, and on more than one occasion his life was in danger. But in the midst of all these trials he experienced the highest spiritual exaltation, his confidence in his God was great, and his persecutors were often taken aback by his calm fortitude and his immovable manner. It seemed as if nothing in life could harm him, and death had no terrors for him. His influence of course was very great. People flocked to hear him, and many a villager looked upon him as a saint. Through his preaching some of his greatest opponents were brought to the feet of Christ.

It is midnight. The dim, antique church rises solemnly through the trees. The pale light of the moon—a shivering broken radiance—falls on roof and pane. Inside a pale glory streams through the open window, and there in the pure halo of the moonlit beams is seen a form kneeling. The hands are clasped tight, and the soul seems to be floating on the wings of devotion away from the body. Outside the wind rustles through the trees. The owls hoot to the midnight moon, and the solemn river rolls on. It is the eve of Harichandra’s ordination, and he is trying to realise his mission from God, that he may worthily receive his commission from the hands of the Most High. ‘Oh! how unworthy, unworthy!’ he cries, as he lays himself at his Master’s feet, ‘how unworthy, Lord, for the great work Thou art calling me to do;’ and with deep and fervent prayer, silent and unspoken, he entreats his Lord and Maker, to bless and strengthen him, and send him forth to preach His word with zeal and power.

The night is far spent; the dumb voiceless prayer ascends. Hush! The angels are hovering round. Intrude not with thy presence. Break not the silence. Learn the secret of faith and prayer, and go back thou into the world to fulfill thy mission.

The dim light of mornings is on the hills. The prayer is answered. The humbled soul receives the mandate from on high. He rises with a new power in his heart, a new vigour in his frame, and the words of the Lord, spoken in the midnight silence, ring in his ears. His Lord’s presence envelops him as with a cloud. Never did he feel so much the force of those words: ‘Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.’

As a pastor and evangelist Harichandra’s duties were many and various. Now we find him in the midst of an excited multitude, standing up for the rights of Christians as men who held equal rights with Hindus to the water that was given for all. As for himself he did not mind, but he could not bear to see the sufferings of the poor Christians who were driven from wells and rivers, and were obliged to be contented with filthy, muddy streams from which even the animals refused to drink. There he was in the very midst of the infuriated multitude, lowering the first vessel himself, nothing daunted by the abuses, curses, and stones that were hurled at him, and opening the way once and forever for the Christians. Now her was to be seen sitting in the temple yard, because an ordinary inn was denied to Christians. Hundreds are gathered round him ready to fall upon him, and yet they do nothing but gaze with wonder at the one mortal that has defied them all, even at their temple doors. ‘If the inn is denied, I stay here. Let him who dares shake me from this place.’ What held their hands? It was the conviction that his cause was just. In this way he gained for the poor Christians many a privilege that was denied to them in those days. Now we see him alone in the desolate jungle with dim solitary hills around him; alone because none cared to stay with him, and he would not travel on a Sunday. The cartman left him in anger in the middle of the night, and he, who had never broken a Sunday, would not break it now. Ten miles away there was a village, and a traveling sahib’s tent was there. News spread fast that the Christian was in the jungle alone, without food and water. The sahib heard the news, knew who the Christian was, and made haste to send some food and water, and himself fetched him back the next day.

But a day came when Radha’s heart failed her. The evening had been one of marked success in that bigoted place. Under the tree Harichandra had preached with unusual power. He denounced the idols, the faith that misled hundreds of the simple, and the belief in salvation through merit, and he pointed to the Cross of Calvary as the only means of obtaining complete salvation. The accents rang through the chain-bound crowds: ‘Believe, believe, and ye shall be saved.’ The preaching was over, and the crowd gathered round him, and entreated him to stay longer. Harichandra passed on; he failed to see the angry faces of the infuriated Brahmins, who vowed that before the day was done the Christian should expiate with his blood the heresy and sedition that he had been teaching. He passed on to a quiet spot to pray, and they laid in wait for him on the road leading to the town. Harichandra prolonged his stay until it was too late to return by the usual path. He therefore tried another path, which, however, proved longer, but which brought him safely home.

Radha laboured by him with a hope equal to his own, though her chief duties lay in her little home. She watched for her husband in the evenings, standing at the door often with a beating heart, praying for him. Whenever she had great misgivings, the sight of the grand mountains round her would suggest the thought that the ‘Eternal God was her refuge, and underneath were the everlasting arms,’ and she would feel comforted. In the growing dusk she would see her husband’s form approaching, his firm heavy tread and his big iron-built frame would be soon recognised; then the silent tear would be hastily wiped away, while he would chide her gently and ask if that was her faith in God, assuring her that nothing on earth could harm him, and that God was with him. And there in their mountain home the same quiet, humble spirit brought up her treasures for God, inculcating in them by word and manner the virtues of patience and humility. And now what happiness was hers. Her husband’s love was poured on her in its richest fullness! Her children grew by her side in beauty, strength, intellect, and piety. Shall we not forgive the mother’s pride as each new joy lay in her lap, and each child as it grew clung to her with a love that more than made up for the suffering that she had borne in her own childhood?

A large family grew round Harichandra and Radha. The Christian life in that home was of a simple apostolic type. The children knew no luxuries, nor hankered after any. The little ones tumbled about in coarse garments which Radha prepared herself. They often displayed somewhat ridiculous combinations of English and native dress, for comfort was studied rather than effect. The girls knew nothing of ornaments and jewels, and the boys put their hands to manual labour as readily as they took to study. There was an absence of false shame and pride, which imparted a certain innocence and freshness to their manner and behaviour. Simplicity, truthfulness, piety, and the habit of self-reliance were inculcated. On the other hand anything like duplicity, obstinacy, or levity was severely punished. ‘Children be true to yourselves, and you will be true to others. If you take to study, do it thoroughly with all your heart, but don’t make that an end in itself. I would rather see my children coolies earning their bread honestly with the sweat of their brow, than learned, in high earthly places and ungodly.’ Thus brought up they learned to love simplicity for its own sake. They never felt the sting of poverty, and they enjoyed the sweet, quiet, simple life in a way that cannot be expressed.

In this happy family there grew up one whose nature bore a striking resemblance to that of the father. This was one of the elder daughters. Harichandra saw himself in her. There was the iron will, the strength to overcome self, there was beauty, and there was intellect. Unconsciously he grasped her hand in his and poured out his mind to her. She was his friend and companion. Their life was bound up together, and they felt it. The daughter accompanied the father on his many tours. Father and daughter would rise before the flickering light of dawn, and go to the villagers while they were at their early work in the fields, or to their houses when the birds sang fresh and clear, and the soft light of morning spread it dewy mantle over village, field, and tree. The grave, dignified, solemn-looking girl would sit by the well side in the golden, streaming radiance and talk to the women with her usual deep earnestness. She would tell them of the great God that made heaven and earth, of their souls so heavily laden with sin, the redemption that was wrought by Christ, and the happiness and joy that filled the heart when sin was removed. Her sweet gravity of tone and manner, her winning sympathising look that seemed to crave for their love and told of her oneness with them, and the words of sincere regard and affection would open the simple hearts round her. The women would pour their troubles in her ears, and in their blunt hearty way offer her the fresh milk of their cows, or any other rustic refreshment.

Thus years passed on in hard continuous labor. At last one day suddenly the strong iron frame gave way, and Harichandra was laid low with disease. The crisis was as sudden as it was grave. It seemed as if the chords of life had snapped at once, and death followed fast in the wake of disease. But the end was glorious. Faith, great faith,—faith that could move mountains was his; and when the last moment came, he alone was calm. He pointed with a beaming face and a triumphant smile to the heavenly home on high, and said: ‘You shall follow me; I will go and wait for you there.’ Poor Radha scarcely realised what was coming, and stunned and bewildered, looked round at her husband and crowding children. At last she seemed to know it all; she sank to the ground in a swoon. Who can tell what the feelings are when that which is held as dear as life is felt to be slowly slipping away into death and eternity; when the heart-strings are breaking, and the gradually yawning void is being felt, while the soul refuses to believe and the shuddering heart hides the thought from view? Radha’s despair and agony were great. In vain the husband in feeble whispered accents of love tried to lead her thoughts away from the bitter parting to the triumphant meeting. It was useless. She held her children to her heart and cried piteously, and moaned out as if to herself: ‘What shall I do with all these children now? Who will feed them, take care of them? We have laid nothing by.’ But the answer broke from those dying lips once more in the old firm tone: ‘Rahadbai! Is God’s arm shortened? Trust in God. His word is sure,’ and her repeated to her the verse: ‘I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’

The time for parting had come, and he pointed to his elder daughter, the girl who had bravely walked by his side, worked with him, whose heart and his had been one, whose trust in God was as great as his own, and who now stood by his bedside supporting his head, her hand in his, her face unmoved, though tears welled in her heart, —he pointed to her and said: ‘This is your son,’ and passed away.

So ended my father’s life. This is the sister that I spoke about, the remembrance of whom comes back through hazy years, so full of sweet associations. She fulfilled her trust faithfully; she stood by the mother as a son, and only left the family after most of them were settled in life and the remaining ones comfortably off. My readers will now understand the many silent influences that were at work in moulding the character of the younger members of the family, the most potent of these being the father’s memory and the sister’s example.