Hear, the story of ButÉ, the moonshee’s only daughter.

ButÉ had, when she was but a babe in arms, lost her mother, but she was to her father as the light of his eyes. The moonshee often went to teach a Mem Sahiba,[28] whose husband was in government employ. The Mem Sahiba was kind to little ButÉ; she let her sometimes come to her bungalow, and gave her sweetmeats, and once a doll from England. Those were happy days to little ButÉ when her father, taking her hand, led her to the white bungalow in which the Mem Sahiba dwelt.

One day the Mem Sahiba said to the moonshee: “The Sahib wishes to go on a journey into Cashmere, and to take you with him; are you willing to go for six months with the Sahib?”

The moonshee’s heart was glad, for he had long wished to visit the beautiful Vale of Cashmere; but then trouble came over him like a shadow, for he thought of his little ButÉ.

“If I go far from hence,” said he, “what will become of my only child? Behold, I have but one, and her mother is dead, and I have no sisters who would be to her as a mother. ButÉ, if I leave her, will be as a stray lamb that is found by the jackals.”

“Have no fear for ButÉ,” the Mem Sahiba made reply; “if it be your wish, I will place her in the school at Khushpore, for the Miss Sahiba there is my friend. ButÉ shall learn to read and to write, and all that is good will she learn; for the Miss Sahiba is one who fears God, and she dearly loves little children.”

And thus was it arranged; the moonshee went to Cashmere with the Sahib, and little ButÉ was sent to the school at Khushpore.

ButÉ shed many tears at parting from her father, but her tears were soon dried. The Miss Sahiba looked kindly upon her, and spoke sweet words; and though ButÉ was shy at first, and hung down her head in silence, even before the end of the day she was as merry as the little gray striped squirrel that runs up the trees, and hides in the branches.

ButÉ had now many companions, and soon made friends with them all. Very fond was the little girl of talking, and in the hours of play the words from her tongue flowed on as the brook that runs down from the hills. ButÉ liked to speak much of the Mem Sahiba whom none of the other girls had seen, and of the grand things in her house. ButÉ did not take any heed to speak truth, so that the stream of her words was not pure, but as a muddy and polluted brook.

“My Mem Sahiba,” the child would say, “has more shining rings on her fingers than there are leaves on that tree. The Sahib is a very great man; those who come near him bow down to the ground, and when he goes forth he rides on an elephant with a howdah of gold.”[29]

Some of ButÉ’s companions wondered when they heard her stories, and some laughed and called them jhuth muth (fibs); but when the Miss Sahiba heard them she never laughed, but she sighed, and her gentle face grew grave. Often, when alone in her room, the Miss Sahiba would kneel down and thus pray to the God in heaven who listens to prayer: “O Lord, show my dear children the shame and the sin of lying! Teach them Thy way of truth; make them holy, for Thou art holy!”

When ButÉ came to school, she wore a chaddar pink as the petals of a rose. The Miss Sahiba did not much like to see this chaddar, for those worn by all her other girls were white. But ButÉ did not wish to change her pink garment for a plain white one.

“I cannot leave off wearing this chaddar,” she said, drawing it closer round her slight form. “My Mem Sahiba gave it to me, and she told me always to wear it.”

The Miss Sahiba made no reply, but her mind was not at rest. She thought to herself,—“I never know whether ButÉ be speaking the truth or not. Oh that I could but trust her word! I love my little ButÉ—she is gentle and docile, quick at her lessons, never cross, and ready to do a kindness to any of her companions; but a pleasant child with a deceitful heart is like a fruit that looks fair to the eye, but which is all decayed and worthless within.”

The Miss Sahiba used often to gather the children around her and talk with them when the hours for lessons were over; and much did they like to listen. Sometimes she told them of the dear mother whom she had left behind in England, that she might come and teach little Indian children the way to heaven.

The Miss Sahiba sat in the schoolroom on one hot summer’s day, when the weather was too sultry for even her native children to go out, and they were seated on the floor around her. The Miss Sahiba felt weary and faint, for she had come from a land where the heat is never great, and the glow of India was to her almost as that of a fiery furnace. But she thought that her dear Lord had given her these children as His little lambs to feed, and she was willing to live and even to die far away from her own home, if she only might be permitted to lead these children to the Lord Jesus, the Good Shepherd, who gave His life for the sheep.

“I think that there was never a better mother than mine,” said the Miss Sahiba, as she showed to the children a little picture of her dear parent which she had just received from England. “My mother was always kind and good to me, but there were three occasions in my life on which she showed the greatest love; and whenever I recall these occasions to mind, I bless God for having given me such a good mother.”

The children were eager to hear more, and little ButÉ, who sat nearest to the feet of the Miss Sahiba, looked up into her face and said, “Tell us of these three times when the Mem Sahiba in England showed so much love.”

“I will tell you,” replied the Miss Sahiba; “and you shall judge on which occasion the greatest love was shown.

“The first time was when I was sick with the small-pox. Day and night my dear mother watched by my bed. If, after feverish sleep, I opened my eyes at midnight, there, close at hand, ready with the medicine or cooling drink, I ever saw my beloved mother. But for her tender care, I believe that I should have died. Was it not true love that made her watch over me thus?”

The Miss Sahiba paused, and all the children who had heard her replied, “It was very great love.”

“The second occasion was this,” the Miss Sahiba went on. “One evening in winter, when the fire was lighted in our sitting-room, I saw above the mantlepiece a picture that had been crookedly hung. It was rather higher than I could reach with my hand, so I brought a stool, and stood upon it, that I might set the picture straight. I knew not that my dress, as I stood, had touched the fire, until, to my great terror, I found myself all in flames! My shrieks brought my mother to my aid. She threw me down on the floor; she wrapped a thick rug around me; with her own dear hands, all scorched and blistered, she put out the fire. Never shall I forget how my mother then clasped me to her heart, and wept, and thanked God who had enabled her to save her child from a terrible death. She was herself in very great pain from her burns, but she scarcely thought of the pain.”

Again the Miss Sahiba paused, and one and all of the children said, “The Mem Sahiba showed very great love.”

“On the third occasion, of which I am going to tell you,” said the English Sahiba, “I think that even greater love was shown, for my mother saved me from something worse than even fever or fire.”

Then every child bent forward to listen, and wondering, thought in her heart, “What can be worse than fever or fire?”

“The third time when my mother showed how well she loved me,” continued the Sahiba, “was—when she gave me a beating for telling a lie!”

The children were all so much astonished that they could not utter a word. They opened their black eyes wide, and stared at the Sahiba. ButÉ began to laugh,—it seemed so strange to her that a beating should be called a proof of great love!

“Oh! well, well do I recollect the grief of my mother when she found that her little girl had spoken an untruth!” said the Miss Sahiba. “The pain to her heart was worse, far worse, than the pain of the burns had been to her hands. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, that liars will be shut out from heaven. She punished me, but not in anger; oh no, but in very great sorrow and love. Then she and I knelt down together to ask God to forgive my great sin. I could not speak because of my sobs; but I heard my mother ask God to blot out her child’s sin in the blood of His dear Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, that which alone can wash away sin. My mother prayed—oh, how hard she prayed!—while the tears ran down her cheeks, that God, for the sake of the Lord Jesus Christ, would give me His Holy Spirit, to make my sinful heart clean, and to guide me into all truth. Dear children, I shall never forget that day, either the punishment or the prayer. Thanks to my mother who gave the punishment, thanks to God who heard the prayer, I believe that I have never since that time uttered a lie. Now, tell me, my dear children, did not my mother do more for me then, did she not show more true love for me on that sad day, than when she watched me through my illness, or saved my life from the flames?”[30]

Some of the girls said “Yes;” but one of them whispered softly, “It does not seem so to me.”

“I will tell you why I think it,” said the Miss Sahiba, who had heard the whisper. “Sin is a worse evil than fever, and the fire of God’s anger worse than fire that only burns the body. It was pain to my mother to punish me; but she did not shrink from the pain, no more than she shrank from throwing me down on the floor, or scorching her own hands when she was trying to put out the flames.”

Many of the girls were listening with interest and attention; but the Miss Sahiba saw but too well that ButÉ did not care for good counsel. The child’s eyes had wandered to the picture which the Miss Sahiba still held in her hand; and while others were thinking of the lesson of truth taught by the lady, ButÉ only asked the trifling question, “Is the frame of that picture real gold?”

Alas! that when God’s servants speak of heaven and the way to reach it, and of other solemn truths, some who might listen and learn let their attention be drawn away by the merest trifles. It is as if a person to whom a diamond is offered should turn away to chase a butterfly; or as if one fleeing from a tiger should stop to pluck a flower by the way.

It was not many days after that on which the Miss Sahiba had told her story, that her first friend, the Mem Sahiba, came to visit the school at Khushpore. It is easy to be imagined that ButÉ was rejoiced again to see her kind friend; and in honour of the visit, the Miss Sahiba promised all the children a feast of fruit.

The two ladies walked up the room in which the classes were assembled, and as they came near the place where ButÉ stood with her eyes sparkling with pleasure, the Miss Sahiba said to her friend, “Here is your little ButÉ, in the pink chaddar which she says that you gave her and told her to wear.”

“I never gave her a chaddar of any colour,” said the Mem Sahiba with a look of surprise; “what could make the silly child utter such an untruth?”

Do you think that ButÉ blushed and hung down her head in shame at having been found out guilty of lying? Alas! no. ButÉ had told so many lies in her short life that she felt no sorrow or shame for the sin. She was only vexed that the Miss Sahiba should know of her falsehood.

If ButÉ did not care, the Miss Sahiba cared a great deal. She thought, “Oh, how shall I cure this poor child of her terrible habit?” Then turning towards ButÉ, she said aloud, “ButÉ, I grieve to find that you have told me an untruth. I cannot let you share in our feast. Retire to the sleeping-room directly; I should not be your true friend if I passed over this matter.”

Then ButÉ began to cry; not because of sorrow for sin, but because she had lost the feast, and was sent so early to bed. She clasped her hands, and glanced towards her former friend, the Mem Sahiba, as if to entreat her intercession; but the lady looked grave and shook her head. She knew that the punishment had been deserved, and that it would be no real kindness not to inflict it.

But still poor ButÉ, accustomed from her infancy to hear lies, could not but think herself hardly dealt with. Had her lie got any one into trouble, had she slandered a companion, she would have seen that sin had been committed; “But what did it signify,” thought she, “whether I said truly that the chaddar had been given to me by my father; or untruly, that it had been given to me by the Mem Sahiba?” As ButÉ turned weeping to go to her room, the Miss Sahiba heard her murmur between her sobs, “Why does she make such a fuss? What harm could the lie do? it was such a little one!”

The feast of fruit began; plenty of nice kÉlas (plantains) were spread on the floor. Some of the girls were sorry for ButÉ, sent to remain in her bed to think over her fault; but soon even these girls forgot the poor child, who could hear from her apartment the sound of their laughter and singing. ButÉ lay crying, listening to the children’s voices, and longing to join them.

As the Miss Sahiba, with her friend, sat watching the young people enjoying their fruit, she was suddenly startled by a scream from the neighbouring room, which was that to which ButÉ had been sent in disgrace. The scream expressed violent terror or pain; and the Miss Sahiba, who loved the child whom she punished, rushed into the room with such speed to see what could be the matter, that almost before the girls had time to cry, “What has happened?” the lady was at the side of her poor little charge.

ButÉ was standing on her bed, her face pale with terror, looking at a small black scorpion which was running across the floor. The Miss Sahiba’s heel in a moment had crushed the scorpion, and in a quiet, composed manner she turned to ButÉ. “Why did you scream so?” she asked.

“It was on my bed—close—quite close to me! I just raised my arm, and it fell on the floor,” cried ButÉ, who was trembling violently from the effects of the fright.

“Why did you make such a fuss?” said the Miss Sahiba, after motioning to the girls, who were crowding into the room, to leave her alone with ButÉ.

“How could I help making a fuss?” exclaimed the astonished ButÉ; “the dreadful thing might have stung me!”

“Likely enough,” said the Miss Sahiba coldly, as she seated herself on the edge of the bed; “but what harm could it do?”

ButÉ was more and more surprised. “It was a horrid poisonous creature!” she cried.

“It was such a little one,” said the lady, looking steadfastly into the face of the girl.

ButÉ did not know what to make of her teacher taking the matter so quietly; she herself was not disposed to take it quietly at all. “I wish that you would have the place searched,—oh, every corner of it!” she cried. “I should not wonder if a whole nest of scorpions were hidden in some hole in the wall!”

“That’s likely enough,” said the Miss Sahiba quietly; “this is a season for insects. I saw pretty fire-flies last night; I am going to look for them again in the compound.”

“You think of fire-flies, when there may be scorpions in this very room!” exclaimed ButÉ. “The Sahiba does not seem to care for the danger to her poor little girl.”

Then the manner of the lady quite altered; the cold, careless look changed to one of earnestness and love. She drew the frightened ButÉ close to her, held her little trembling hand in one of her own, and with the other pointed to the dead scorpion which lay on the floor.

“O my child!” she cried, “see in that poisonous reptile a type of your own sin of untruth. That scorpion could only hurt the body; but falsehood poisons the soul. Who but a fool would play with a scorpion and say, ‘It is but a little one,’ instead of crushing it at once! Who but a fool would amuse himself with fire-flies when poisonous reptiles were lurking near! ButÉ, my poor child, how many lies, more hateful than scorpions, have been suffered to nestle in your bosom and to come forth from your lips! And you think me hard and severe because I wish to crush them, because I warn you against the sin which God hates. You were grieved and disappointed at being shut out from a little feast which would soon have been over; but think what it would be to be shut out for ever from heaven, from its brightness and glory and joy! And it is written in God’s holy Word, There shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth or maketh a lie.”

The Miss Sahiba added many more words, and this time they fell on an attentive ear. She taught ButÉ how to pray for forgiveness of past sin, and for the Holy Spirit of God, through whom alone she could conquer her sin in the future. Little ButÉ learned a prayer before she went to sleep that night, and she thought of it the very first thing when her eyes unclosed in the morning. While ButÉ prayed that God would make her truthful and holy, she also tried very hard herself to be truthful and holy. Soon all her companions saw a great change in little ButÉ. Her face grew brighter as her heart grew more pure; for we never are so happy as when we feel that the smile of the Lord is upon us. No girl in the school was more loved and trusted than she who had once been constantly uttering falsehoods; and when she spoke of anything that had happened, however strange the tale might be, it was instantly believed. It became a common saying amongst those who knew her, “I would rather doubt my own eyes than the word of ButÉ.”