ABSTRACT
In her courtyard she told me something of her story. She was first kept by a Brahmin to whom, she asserted, she had given all her money and property. Later on he left her and is now in Bangalore. My little schoolgirl is her adopted child. I shivered. Adopted, for what purpose?“ If she is not your own daughter I beg you to let Papamma come to me,” I implored.“You must ask her father” (i.e. the man with whom she is now living).A bigger girl whom she called her niece was sitting by. Too late to save her, I could see. Little Papamma had come running in and sat near us, listening to all that was said with a grave little face. Though only about ten years old the meaning of the whole conversation was perfectly plain to her.The thought of child tragedies in India drives one almost mad at times.But it is the hardest thing to effect a rescue. Evince an interest in an individual case and immediately the person is spirited away. The walls of caste close solidly against you.Some time ago I went to see a merchant woman. Dorcas was with me. The woman was not in her private house, but had gone to her shop in the bazar street. Dorcas went to call her. I sat in the courtyard and waited. A young girl came out of the house and sat down picking over vegetables.I started talking to her and found she was the merchant’s niece and alas! a widow. She had come from the village where she lived with her father and brother, to visit her aunt in this town.“And I am very afraid,” she said urgently. “ My father is an old man, my brother is married and has a family to keep. Will he want to look after me when my father dies? Where shall I turn then ?”She looked pitifully young. I urged her by all means to keep straight.
