“I say nothing, _Tsayah_.”
“What of the child?”
“A wonderful boy, _Tsayah_. He seems usually as you have seen him; but he has another look—so strange! He must have caught something from his mother’s face just before she went up to the golden country.”
The missionary seemed lost in thought; and the assistant, after waiting a moment to be questioned further, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and proceeded up the street.
The next day the missionary remarked that the _Sah-ya_ went by on the other side of the way, and without the little boy; and the next day, and the next the same. In the meantime, the wrinkled old water-bearer had become a sincere inquirer. “The one shall be taken and the other left,” sighed the missionary, as he tried to discern the possible fate of his bright-eyed little friend.
The fourth day came. The old water-bearer was in an agitated state of joy and doubt—a timid but true believer. The self-confident philosopher had almost ceased to cavil. Fresh inquirers had appeared, and the missionary’s heart was strengthened. “It is dull work,” he said to himself, though without any expression of dullness in his face; “but it is the Saviour’s own appointed way, and the way the Holy Spirit will bless.” Then his thoughts turned to the stern _Sah-ya_ and his little boy; and he again murmured, with more of dejection in his manner than when he had spoken of the dullness of the work, “And the other left—the other left!”
The desponding words had scarcely passed his lips when, with a light laugh, the very child who was in his thoughts, and who somehow clung so tenaciously to his heart, sprang up the steps of the zayat, followed by his grave, dignified father. The boy wore his new Madras turban, arranged with a pretty sort of jauntiness, and above its showy folds he carried a red lacquered tray with a cluster of golden plantains on it. Placing the gift at the missionary’s feet, he drew back with a pleased smile of boyish shyness, while the man, bowing courteously, took his seat upon the mat.
“Sit down, Moung-Moung, sit down,” said the father, in the low tone that American parents use when reminding careless little boys of their hats; for, though Burmans and Americans differ somewhat in their peculiar notions of etiquette, the children of both races seem equally averse to becoming learners.
“You are the foreign priest,” he remarked civilly, and more by way of introduction than inquiry.
“I am a missionary.”
The stranger smiled, for he had purposely avoided the offensive epithet, and was amused and conciliated by the missionary’s frank use of it. “And so you make people believe in Jesus Christ?”
“I try to.”
The visitor laughed outright; then, as if a little ashamed of his rudeness, he composed his features, and with his usual courtesy resumed, “My little son has heard of you, sir; and he is very anxious to learn something about Jesus Christ. It is a pretty story that you tell of that man—prettier, I think, than any of our fables; and you need not be afraid to set it forth in its brightest colors; for my Moung-Moung will never see through its absurdity, of course.”
The missionary threw a quick, scrutinizing glance on the face of his visitor. He saw that the man was ill at ease, that his carelessness was entirely assumed, and that underneath all, there was a deep, wearing anxiety, which he fancied was in some way connected with his boy. “Ah! you think so? To what particular story do you allude?”
“Why, that of the strange sort of being you call Jesus Christ—a _nät_, or prince, or something of that sort—dying for us poor fellows and so—ha, ha! The absurdity of the thing makes me laugh; though there is something in it beautiful, too. Our stupid _pongyees_ would never have thought out anything one half so fine; and the pretty fancy has quite enchanted little Moung-Moung here.”
“I perceive you are a _pâramät_,” said the missionary.
“No—oh, no; I am a true worshipper of Lord Gaudama; but of course neither you nor I subscribe to all the fables of our respective religions. There is quite enough that is honest and reasonable in our Boodhistic system to satisfy me, but my little son” (here the father seemed embarrassed, and laughed again, as though to cover his confusion) “is bent on philosophical investigation—eh, Moung-Moung?”
“But are you not afraid that my teachings will do the child harm?”
The visitor looked up with a broad smile of admiration, as though he would have said, “You are a very honest fellow, after all;” then regarding the child with a look of mingled tenderness and apprehension, he said softly, “Nothing can harm little Moung-Moung, sir.”
“But what if I should tell you I do believe everything I preach, as firmly as I believe you sit on the mat before me; and that it is the one desire of my life to make everybody else believe it—you and your child among the rest?”