“I do not think he has hurt me, papa; but I can not—keep—away—no—oh, no!”
“What do you mean, Moung-Moung?”
“The sorcerer has done something to me—put his beautiful eye on me. I see it _now_.” And the boy’s own eyes glowed with a strange, startling brilliancy.
“_’Mai, ’mai!_ what a boy! _He_ is not a sorcerer, only a very provoking man. His eye—whish! It is nothing to my little Moung-Moung. I was only sporting. But we will have done with him; you shall go there no more——”
“If I can help it, papa!”
“Help it! Hear the foolish child! What strange fancies!”
“Papa!”
“What, my son?”
“You will not be angry?”
“Angry!” The soft smile on that stern, bearded face was a sufficient answer.
“Is it true that she—my mother——?”
“Hush, Moung-Moung!”
“Is it true that she ever _shikoed_ to the Lord Jesus Christ?”
“Who dares to tell you so?”
“I must not say, papa; the one who told me said it was as much as life is worth to talk of such things to _your_ son. Did she, papa?”
“What did he mean? Who could have told such a tale?”
“Did she, papa?”
“That is a very pretty _goung-boung_ the foreigner gave you.”
“Did she?”
“And makes your bright eyes brighter than ever.”
“Did my mother _shiko_ to the Lord Jesus Christ?”
“There, there, you have talked enough, my boy,” said the father, gloomily; and the two continued their walk in silence. As the conversation ceased, a woman who, with a palm-leaf fan before her face, had followed closely in the shadow of the stranger—so closely, indeed, that she might have heard every word that had been spoken—stopped at a little shop by the way, and was soon seemingly intent on making purchases.
“Ko Shway-bay!” called out the missionary. A man bearing a large satchel, which he had just newly filled with books, appeared at the door of an inner apartment of the zayat.
“_’Ken-payah!_”
“Did you observe the tall man who just passed, leading a little boy?”
“I saw him.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He is a writer under government—a very respectable man—haughty—reserved——”
“And what else?”
“He hates—Christians, _Tsayah_.”
“Is he very bigoted, then?”
“No, _Tsayah_; he is more like a _päramät_ than a Boodhist. Grave as he appears, he sometimes treats sacred things very playfully, always carelessly. But does the teacher remember—it may be now three, four—I do not know how many years ago—a young woman came for medicine——?”
The missionary smiled. “I should have a wonderful memory, Shway-bay, if I carried all my applicants for medicine in it.”
“But this one was not like other women. She had the face of a _nät-thamee_” [goddess or angel], “and her voice—the teacher _must_ remember her voice—it was like the silvery chimes of the pagoda bells at midnight. She was the favorite wife of the _Sah-ya_, and this little boy, her only child, was very ill. She did not dare ask you to the house, or even send a servant for the medicine, for her husband was one of the most violent persecutors——”
“Ay, I do recollect her, by her distress and her warm gratitude. So this is her child! What has become of the mother?”
“Has the teacher forgotten putting a Gospel of Matthew in her hand, and saying that it contained medicine for _her_, for that she was afflicted with a worse disease than the fever of her little son; and then lifting up his hands and praying very solemnly?”
“I do not recall the circumstance just now. But what came of it?”
“They say,” answered the Burman, lowering his voice, and first casting an investigating glance around him—“they say that the medicine cured her.”
“Ah!”
“She read the book nights, while watching by her baby, and then she would kneel down and pray as the teacher had done. At last the _Sah-ya_ got the writing.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Only burnt it. But she was a tender little creature, and could not bear his look; so, as the baby got out of danger, she took the fever—”
“And died?” asked the missionary, remarking some hesitation in the manner of his narrator.
“Not of the fever altogether.”
“What then? Surely, _he_ did not—”
“No, _Tsayah_! it must have been an angel-call. The _Sah-ya_ was very fond of her, and did everything to save her; but she just grew weaker, day after day, and her face more beautiful; and there was no holding her back. She got courage as she drew near Paradise, and begged the _Sah-ya_ to send for you. He is not a hard-hearted man, and she was more than life and soul to him; but he would not send. And so she died, talking to the last moment of the Lord Jesus Christ, and calling on everybody about her to love him, and worship none but him.”
“Is this true, Shway-bay?”
“I know nothing about it, _Tsayah_; and it is not very safe to know anything. The _Sah-ya_ has taken an oath to destroy every body having too good a memory. But,”—and the man again looked cautiously around him—“does the teacher think that little Burman children are likely to run into the arms of foreigners without being taught?”
“Aha! say you so, Shway-bay?”