“Poor Miss Sahib,” said one to the other, “she is pressing a piece of wood, and thinks to open the door that way.” The babies came nearer. “Poor Presence--pressing the wood at the side,” and they laughed. I turned round and smiled at them, which gave the younger courage. “Doors,” she said, “open not with pressings of wood at the side; by the turning of yellow balls in the middle do the foreign people open doors. We have seen with our eyes.” Then, as if apologizing for instructing me: “Shut doors were ever a foolishness,” she added, and ran away. XIV THE TIE THAT BINDS “The Hour of Union”--with the west, a red gold lake of fire, turning to the colour of smoke--there, behind the tall gray steeple from which comes the Christian’s call to prayer. The crows which have been so noisy all day long spread their wings for flight; the palms across the road and the great star-flower tree at my gate are among their bedding places, I know of old. All things travel toward the Silence, and my soul stretches herself at ease, up here in the open spaces of my roof. What is it saying, the Christian Bell? “_Vivos Voco: mortuos plango: fulgura frango_,” speaking its unknown tongue to a people that understandeth not, nor wishes to understand. _Vivos voco, vivos voco...._ But no bell calls the Hindu to worship. She worships when she will, not necessarily in groups; she rarely passes a temple without worship, most often just silent prostration: sometimes she will creep in and ring the bell that hangs beside the bull, her timid call of ceremony on the god: or she will run in to leave a flower, or to comfort her heart, poor soul, with prayer for the moment’s need. Nor need she pray always in a Temple. I have seen her light a light at cross-roads--the very tragedy of a prayer--among the wheels of traffic in a busy town, a special prayer this, for a new little life that is to be. _Vivos voco._... No need to call where religion is not imposed, rules of a school whose head master is God. The head master will punish infringement of those rules, so teach the ushers sometimes.... But to the Hindu sin is not an offence against any Being; it is but putting one’s self out of harmony with one’s highest attainment. Do it, an you will, you anger none. You but travel so many more rounds of the wheel of life ... on and on ... on and on ... reaping in the next cycle what you have sown in this ... Oh! the weariness of the pain of birth and re-birth! Oh! the helplessness of trying to escape. There _is_ no escape. Life is inexorable. Life is more inexorable than Death. * * * * *