Finally the old water-bearer, grinning in angry derision till her wrinkled visage became positively hideous, rose, slowly adjusted the earthen vessel on her head, and passed along, muttering as she went, “Jesus Christ!—no Nigban!—ha, ha, ha!” The heart of the missionary sunk within him, and he was on the point of laying down the book. But the shadow of another passer-by fell upon the path, and he continued a moment longer. It was a tall, dignified looking man, leading by the hand a boy, the open mirthfulness of whose bright, button-like eyes was in perfect keeping with his dancing little feet. The stranger was of a grave, staid demeanor, with a turban of aristocratic smallness, sandals turning up at the toe, a silken robe of somewhat subdued colors, and a snow-white tunic of gentlemanlike length and unusual fineness.
“Papa, papa!” said the boy, with a merry little skip, and twitching at the hand he was holding, “Look, look, papa! _there_ is Jesus Christ’s man. _Amai!_ how shockingly white!”
“Jesus Christ’s man” raised his eyes from the book which he could read just as well without eyes, and bestowed one of his brightest smiles upon the little stranger, just as the couple were passing beyond the corner of the zayat, but not too late to catch a bashfully pleased recognition. The father did not speak nor turn his head, but a ray of sunshine went down into the missionary’s heart from those happy little eyes; and he somehow felt that his hour’s reading had not been thrown away. He had remarked this man before in other parts of the town; and had striven in various ways to attract his attention, but without success. He was evidently known, and most probably avoided; but the child, with that shy, pleased, half-confiding, roguish sort of smile, seemed sent as an encouraging messenger. The missionary continued his reading with an increase of earnestness and emphasis. A priest wrapped his yellow robes about him and sat down upon the steps, as though for a moment’s rest. Then another stranger came up boldly, and with considerable ostentation, seated himself on the mat. He proved to be a philosopher, from the school then recently disbanded at Prome; and he soon drew on a brisk, animated controversy.
The missionary did not finish his day’s work with the shutting up of the zayat. At night, in his closet, he remembered both philosopher and priest; pleaded long and earnestly for the scoffing old water-bearer; and felt a warm tear stealing to his eye, as he presented the case of the tall stranger, and the laughing, dancing ray of sunshine at his side.
Day after day went by, as oppressively hot, as dusty, and bringing as many feverish winds as ever; but the hours were less wearisome, because many little buds of hope had been fashioned, which might yet expand into perfect flowers. But every day the tall stranger carried the same imperturbable face past the zayat; and every day the child made some silent advance towards the friendship of the missionary, bending his half-shaven head, and raising his little nut-colored hand to his forehead, by way of salutation, and smiling till his round face dimpled all over like ripples in a sunny pool. One day, as the pair came in sight, the missionary beckoned with his hand, and the child, with a single bound, came to his knee.
“Moung-Moung!” exclaimed the father in a tone of surprise blended with anger. But the child was back again in a moment, with a gay colored Madras handkerchief wound around his head; and with his bright lips parted, his eyes sparkling, and dancing with joy, and his face wreathed with smiles, he seemed the most charming thing in nature. “_Tai hlah-the!_” (very beautiful) said the child, touching his new turban, and looking into his father’s clouded face, with the fearlessness of an indulged favorite.
“_Tai hlah-the!_” repeated the father, involuntarily. He meant the child.
“You have a very fine boy there, sir,” said the missionary, in a tone intended to be conciliatory. The stranger turned with a low salaam. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as though struggling between his native politeness and his desire to avoid an acquaintance with the proselyting foreigner. Then taking the hand of the little boy who was too proud and happy to notice his father’s confusion, he hastened away.
“I do not think that zayat a very good place to go to, Moung-Moung,” said the father, gravely, when they were well out of hearing. The boy answered only by a look of inquiry strangely serious for such a face as his.
“These white foreigners are——.” He did not say what, but shook his head with mysterious meaning. The boy’s eyes grew larger and deeper, but he only continued to look up into his father’s face in wondering silence.
“I shall leave you at home to-morrow, to keep you from his wicked sorceries.”
“Papa!”
“What, my son?”
“I think it will do no good to leave me at home.”
“Why?”
“He has done something to me.”
“Who? the _Kalah-byoo_?”