"One thing one notices very much as a 'freshman'--that is, the unconscious influence which Christianity has over a nation. Go to the most depraved wretch you can find in England, and he has probably got a conscience, if only one can get at it. _But here the result of heathenism seems to be to destroy men's consciences. They never feel sin as such._" _Rev. E. S. Carr, India._ "I have heard people say they enjoyed hearing about missions. I often wonder if they would enjoy watching a shipwreck." _Mrs. Robert Stewart, China._ LEAVE this chapter if you want "something interesting to read"; hold your finger in the flame of a candle if you want to know what it is like to write it. If you do this, then you will know something of the burning at heart every missionary goes through who has to see the sort of thing I have to write about. Such things do not make interesting reading. Fire is an uncompromising thing, its characteristic is that it burns; and one writes with a hot heart sometimes. There are things like flames of fire. But perhaps one cares too much; it is only about a little girl. I was coming home from work a few evenings ago when I met two men and a child. They were Caste men in flowing white scarves--dignified, educated men. But the child? She glanced up at me, smiled, and salaamed. Then I remembered her; I had seen her before in her own home. These men belonged to her village. What were they doing with her? Then a sudden fear shot through me, and I looked at the men, and they laughed. "We are taking her to the temple there," and they pointed across through the trees, "to marry her to the god." It all passed in a moment. One of them caught her hand, and they went on. I stood looking after them--just looking. The child turned once and waved her little hand to me. Then the trees came between. The men's faces haunted me all night. I slept, and saw them in my dreams; I woke, and saw them in the dark. And that little girl--oh, poor little girl!--always I saw her, one hand in theirs, and the other waving to me! And now it is over, the diabolical farce is over, and she is "tied," as their idiom has it, "tied to the stone." Oh, she is tied indeed, tied with ropes Satan twisted in his cruellest hour in hell! We had to drive through the village a night or two later, and it was all ablaze. There was a crowd, and it broke to let our bullock carts pass, then it closed round two palanquins.