o; she thinks it would be monotonous to have too many frivolous
babies. But Bala's eyes can sparkle as no other eyes ever do; and her
mirth is something by itself, like a little hidden fountain in the heart
of a wood, with the sweetness of surprise in it and very pure delight.

When Bala came to us first she was between one and two, an age when most
babies have a good deal to say. Bala said nothing. She was like a book
with all its leaves uncut; and some who saw her, forgetting that uncut
books are sometimes interesting, concluded she was dull. "Quite a
prosaic child," they said; but Bala did not care. There are some babies,
like some grown-up people, who show all they have to show upon first
acquaintance and to all. Others cover the depths within, and open only
to their own. Bala is one of these; and even with her own she has
seasons of reserve.

Her first remark, however, shown rather than said, was not romantic. She
was too old for a bottle, and she seemed to feel sore over this. But
she noted the time the infants were fed, and followed the nurses about
while they were preparing the meal; and when they sat down to give it,
each to her respective baby, Bala would choose the one of most uncertain
appetite, and sit down beside it and wait. There was an expression on
her face at such times which suggested a hymn, set it humming in one's
head in fact, in spite of all efforts to escape it. More than once we
have caught ourselves singing it, and pulled up sharply: "Even me! Even
me! Let some droppings fall on me."

[Illustration: "God's Fire."

Taken on the bank of the Red Lake, near Dohnavur.]

Most of our family remind us very early that they trace their descent to
the mother of us all. Bala, on the contrary, was good: so we almost
forgot she was human, and began to expect too much of her; but she got
tired of this after a while, and one day suddenly sinned. The surprise
acted like "hypo," and fixed the photograph.

The place was the old nursery, which has one uncomfortably dark corner
in it. Something had offended Bala; she marched straight into that
corner and stamped. We can see her--poor little girl--as she rumpled her
curls with both her hands, and flashed on the world a withering glance.
"Scorn to be scorned by those I scorn" was written large all over the
indignant little face.

After this shock we were prepared for anything, but nothing special
happened; only when the demands made upon her are unreasonable,