The first hut was near at hand: a square one, tiny, tumble-down, even squalid. Yet it was roofed over with wood, and within the open doorway firelight shone. There must be human creatures there; and there Oman was determined to enter. He approached, almost reverently, and halted before the door. Within, was only one person—a woman, or girl, of perhaps sixteen. Her dress proclaimed her widowhood, and her caste was too easily recognizable. Oman, however, accustomed to such matters, thought of nothing but that she was a woman—kneading barley-cakes before her fire; and, as he watched her, his heart warmed with humanness, and he smiled. After a moment she, lifting her head, perceived him, dimly outlined near the doorway. At once she rose, though without any welcome in her eyes, and advanced, with respectful salute, saying, in a voice that was pleasantly modulated:
“Enter, sir, enter. I have entertainment for him that desires it.”
Oman shook his head. “I come from out of the hills. Nor have I any money,” he added, suddenly aware of his destitution.
But the girl only saluted him again: “The reverend One is a Brahmana.[8] Enter, then, in the name of the gods.”
[8] Wandering fakirs of any religion were called “Brahmanas,” a word to be distinguished from “Brahmans.”
Once more, though slowly and with deep reluctance, Oman shook his head. “I am neither Bhikkhu nor Brahmana,” he answered. “I am—an outcast.”
For a moment the woman turned away her head, and Oman’s heart sank. But, all of a sudden, she ran to him, taking him by the hand, and looking at him so that he perceived the gentleness of her face and eyes. “Enter,” she whispered. “I am lonely. I will share my cakes with you. And there is milk.—But my husband’s brother must not know this thing. He is of the weaver caste; and he is very proud.”
Chattering in a subdued voice, she led him in, and placed him before the crackling fire, the smoke of which escaped through a hole in the roof. The cakes which she had just kneaded and shaped lay on a board before the fire, baking questionably. Now she ran to a cupboard in the corner and took therefrom a large jar of meal, a little of which she put into an earthen pot, near at hand. Water, from another jar, was poured over the grain; and then she set the dish in the fire, where the simple porridge was soon steaming pleasantly.
Oman sat silent on the floor, looking on with rising emotions. It was such an unspeakable luxury to watch her, low-caste and poverty-stricken as she was, moving about in the one-roomed hut which was none too tidy in its simple arrangements, that he could not be ashamed of his beggary. The meal was soon ready; but, before he ate, the wanderer, suddenly realizing what his appearance must be, took occasion to make use of some of the contents of the water-jar for his face and hands. The girl brought him a piece of cloth on which he dried himself; and, when he turned to the fire again, she cried out:
“Why! Thou art beautiful! And—ah! You are not an outcast!” And, leaning over, she laid her hand on the Brahman cord still fastened over his left shoulder.