h loving little hands, and I can hardly believe it.
"You--_you_ do such a thing!" I say. And she says, "Yes; when the day
came round to sacrifice to our family divinity, my little brother held
the goat's head while my father struck it off, and I twisted the
chickens' heads. It was my pleasure!"

We go up along the bank; still those crowds, and those goats killed or
being killed. We cannot get away from them.

At last we reach a tree partly unoccupied, but it is leafless, alas! On
one side of it a family party is cheerfully feeding behind a shelter of
mats. A little lower down some Pariahs are haggling over less polite
portions of the goat's economy. They wrap up the stringy things in
leaves and tuck them into a fold of their seeleys. At our feet a small
boy plays with the head. We sit down in the band of shade cast by the
trunk of the tree, and, grateful for so much shelter, invite the
passers-by to listen while we sing. Some listen. An old hag who is
chaperoning a bright young wife draws the girl towards us, and sits
down. She has never heard a word of our Doctrine before, and neither has
the girl. Then some boys come, full of mischief and fun, and threaten an
upset. So we pick out the rowdiest of them and suggest he should keep
order, which he does with great alacrity, swinging a switch most
vigorously at anyone likely to interfere with the welfare of the
meeting.

My little companion speaks to them, as only one who was once where they
are ever can. I listen to her, and long for the flow at her command. "Do
you not do this and this?" she says, naming the very things they do;
"and don't you say so and so?" They stare, and then, "Oh, she was once
one of us! What is her Caste? When did she come? Where are her father
and mother? What is her village? Is she not married? Why is she not? And
where are her jewels?" Above all, everyone asks it at once, "What is her
Caste?" And they guess it, and probably guess right.

You can have no idea, unless you have worked among them, how difficult
it is to get a heathen woman to listen with full attention for ten
consecutive minutes. They are easily distracted, and to-day there are so
many things to distract them, they don't listen very well. They are
tired, too, they say; the wild, rough night has done its work. Yesterday
it was different; we got good listeners.

Being women, and alone in such a crowd of idolaters, we do not attempt
an open-air meeting, but just sit quietly where