ABSTRACT
A letter from home just received contains the sentence that it is always worth while to enter into other people’s lives, that it brings its own reward. I am on the look-out for that reward just now, for this is an account o f my last twelve hours.The day began in Dharmpalli, where our Mission workers had come together for special meetings. After the final meeting Radha walked in.“ I have a word”— beginning to gulp. I knew what these gulps meant. Nobody loves me, is the gist.“Joseph”—gulp-“Joseph says I am bad.”“Well, Radha, suppose he does. Does it matter very much ?”“Oh, oh, oh !”—the flood-gates yielded wide. “He says I am bad, and you say it does not matter very much. My sister is dead, and I have no one in the world!” The stream flowed on. Knowing it a relief I let it flow; but grief merged into anger.“He says . . . he says . . . Ought he to say such things ?”“No. But that is his business and not ours. Our business, Radha-what is just now in your heart?”“Anger,” she said promptly, in her frank way.“Yes, anger and bitterness. . . .’’Here the Collector’s peon marched in holding out a large official envelope. “The permit to go to Punneru is herewith cancelled.” These terrible war restrictions-the long-looked-forward-to prospect of a little rest and fellowship with friends dashed from me in a moment. Inwardly I staggered a little; but there was no time to dwell on disappointment, for Radha still stood there, desiring to hear Joseph condemned. When she went at last, mollified, I hope, Rebekka the school teacher entered.
