I don't know that I could give
you a reason for the hope that is in me (I speak as one of the
"foolish things"), but this I know, that if we hold fast to the
substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,
looking to Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, then, when
the end comes, we shall be able to lay our heads down like children
saying, _This night when I lie down to sleep_, in the sure and certain
hope that when, having done with houses made with hands, we wake up
in the House of Many Mansions, it will be what John Bunyan calls a
"sunshine morning."
I shall have to stop writing, though lecturing you is a fascinating
pastime, for the day is almost done, and Boggley will soon be home.
Autolycus, looking very worried, is busied with the task of preparing
the evening meal. One of the _chuprassis_, his gaudy uniform laid
aside, and clad in a fragment of cotton, is sluicing himself with
water and praying audibly. The _dhobi_ is beating our clothes white on
stones in the tank. In the village the women are grinding corn; the
oxen are drawing water from the well. The wood-smoke hangs in wisps on
the hot air, and the song of the boys bringing home the cattle comes
to me distinctly in the stillness. The sunset colours are fading into
the deep blue of the Indian night, and the faithful are being called
to prayer.
At home they are burning the whins on the hillsides, and the Loch o'
the Lowes lies steel-grey under the March sky.
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