“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.”