“And who sing English hymns in the old church?”
A slight contraction passed over her face as she replied—
“Nay—I am a Persian woman from Bushire. What should I know of thy songs or thy tongue?”
“Then who—can it be?” inquired Jervis, looking at her steadfastly.
“Noble youth—why ask me? A woman from the dead, perchance,” she retorted mockingly.
“At least, it is you who do so much good among the sick Pahari-folk and lepers?” he persisted.
“Yea, I am but one—the field is great. Who can fill jars with dew? I would I could do more.”
“I believe that were hardly possible.”
“As far as these hands go,” extending a pair of delicately-shaped members, “I do what I can; but what is one lemon for a whole village to squeeze! If I had a big house that would serve as a hospital, I should have my heart’s desire. I am skilled in medicine, so also is my servant; we would have our sick beside us, and could do much—that is my dream. It will never come to pass till the sun shall be folded up and the stars shall fall.”
“Surely one of these bungalows would answer. Why not this mess-house?” suggested Jervis generously.