IT was no ordinary home to which Hira's feet had been guided when she
was lost in the storm. Rámpál Singh, the master of the house, was one
who, brought up and educated as a Hindu, had been led to seek for One
worthy of his heart's homage and obedience, and finding Christ to be
that One, had left all to follow Him.
Never for one moment had he regretted that decision, but as in every
new circumstance and time of need he proved his chosen Master to be
all-sufficient, he longed more and more that others might share in the
blessing which he had gained, and rejoice in the same great salvation.
For some years, he had spent his life going about from village to
village teaching and preaching, but about a year ago, a severe attack
of fever had made it necessary for him to lead a less wearing kind of
life. So having taken this house, he sought to shed a light in the
darkness surrounding him. His only daughter, Shushila, whose greatest
joy and delight was to be with her father and share his work, was his
faithful attendant and companion. Surely it could have been none other
than the Good Shepherd Himself who had guided the steps of the lost
child to those who were so well fitted to teach her what she so longed
to know and understand!
The next morning, Hira was burning and tossing with fever, which was
not to be wondered at, after the exposure and shock of the night
before. The father and daughter took counsel together, and sought for
that wisdom which is promised to those who lack, that they might know
what was the right thing to do in this difficult case.
"Oh, father, I would just love to keep her always and teach her about
the Lord Jesus!" said Shushila, whose whole heart went out towards the
helpless child who had been thrown so unexpectedly on her hands.
"And so you shall," answered her father, "if she really has been sent
to us, as it seems likely, and there is no one who has the right to
take her from us. But it may be that even now others are anxiously
looking for her, and it seems only right that we should seek to let
them know that she is safe."
Then Anandi, who had been standing near, proposed that she should go
out and make inquiries as to whether a blind child was missing from
any house. This was thought to be an excellent plan, as if the child
belonged to the neighbourhood, and any consternation was felt at her
disappearance, the news would certainly spread. So Anandi set forth on
her errand, doing her day's shopping at the same time.
Wherever she went, she asked the same question, "Do you know of any
blind child living in these parts?"—Always receiving the same answer.
No one knew of any such child.
The old woman had the wisdom to add, "If you should hear of any child
having been lost, you can just tell them to come and inquire of us."
She returned home having learnt nothing, but those who had sent her
felt more contented having done what they could.
Later in the day, Shushila remembered that she had promised to send
some broth to a child who was ill, and Anandi went to take it. It was
Mary Dayál's child, and through her illness, Shushila had found an
entrance into this house, and appeared as an angel of mercy to the
heavily laden mother who dragged out her weary existence there.
Anandi had given the broth, inquired after the sick child, and was just
going out at the door, when she turned back and said, "Have you ever
heard of a blind child living in these parts, a little girl who wears a
red sari?"
Mary looked up with some interest. There flashed before her sight the
vision of the small, red figure, the earnest face with its sightless
eyes, and once more, the oft-remembered words sounded afresh in her
ears, "Have you got ready to meet God?"
In a moment it came and went, and without any pause she answered, "Yes,
a blind girl in a red sari came here one day. She came with a woman who
comes to sell butter, and asked me such strange questions for a child,
that I thought she was not quite right in her head. Why do you ask?
What do you want to know about her?"
Then Anandi told the story of the voice crying at the door, and how
her young mistress had brought in the lost child and put her to sleep
in her own bed, and would gladly keep her altogether, if she could be
quite sure that no one else wanted her.
When she had told all, Mary Dayál remarked, "There is one person who
could tell you all about her, and that is the woman who comes to
sell butter. She has no children of her own—they have all died, poor
thing—and she seems to love this blind child as if she belonged to her.
Hira, I remember she called her."
Here at last was some light, though to know who could tell was of
little use unless she could be found, and that was no easy matter, for
all that Mary knew was that she lived some little distance off.
Having received the promise that if she came there to sell milk, she
should be at once sent on, Anandi went home to give time information
she had gained. Mary Dayál went back to her sick child, and as she sat
and watched beside her, she thought again of the blind girl. She felt
glad to think that she was with one who was so well able to tell her
what she wanted to know. She had often thought with shame of how this
child had come to ask her about Him of whom she ought to have been so
glad to speak, and had learnt nothing. Now as she heard of her being
sheltered by Shushila's loving care, she thought to herself,—
"Perhaps God sent her to me first, and because I could not, or would
not, help her, He led her Himself to one who can."
Then the burden which had pressed so heavily on her heart pressed so
sorely that she buried her face in her hands and murmured,—
"O God, make me ready to meet Thee; for I am surely no better than that
little heathen blind girl."
If only she had understood, how she would have rejoiced to know that,
first by the message sent through the lips of Him, and then by this
hunger in her heart, her heavenly Father was drawing His child home to
Himself. One day she would hear the words, "I have loved thee with an
everlasting love, therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee,"
and know them to be true.
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