Inside was a narrow courtyard which gave you the impression of not being
big enough for all the women and children who crowded round. No garden,
no flowers, no pretty verandahs, nor cushions. Old ladies and young
girls, my heart sank as I saw them all shut in together in this prison.
They were very pleased for us to sing for them, but it seemed impossible
to talk to them. Even if _one_ wanted to listen the others would not let
her. We always came away with a sad feeling. The woman who first asked
us to go seemed to be in disgrace when we went the second time, and
would not come near us, and there seemed to be quite a little world to
itself of intrigue and quarrel, joy, and sorrow, and sin in there. One
old lady would have sung to her the quaint Hindustani bhajam "Rise,
pilgrim, get ready, the time is fast going," but she did not want to
hear about our Lord Jesus.

One day, when walking up a street in Hyderabad city selling Gospels, a
boy called us into a large house. Here we found a little Nawab being
taught by his teacher, who was very polite. The great houses give you a
curious feeling; all is grand and spacious, but nothing is comfortable
or home-like. Great verandahs and balconies all round the central
courtyard and garden. After hearing our errand, the young Nawab offered
to take us to his mother and grandmother. We went with him. In one
corner of the courtyard was a funny little hole, we could not call it a
door, with a dirty piece of sacking hanging in front of it. We went
through and found ourselves in the zenana. Crowds of women and a dirty,
dull, dreary-looking place are all that stays in my memory; but we were
not allowed to look long, for no sooner did the old grandmother find we
had the Gospel of Jesus, than she had us hustled out. In vain the boy
and younger woman pleaded for us to stay. She would not hear of it, so
we had to go. We left some Gospels with the boy. The teacher begged for
the whole Bible, which we sold him a few days later. Into many zenanas
we went in this way, but we did not get invited a second time as a rule,
and we generally find that having once been able to tell the Gospel in a
Mussulman house, if we do go a second time, we find the women primed
with stock arguments against us.

We find we get nearest to them in the medical work. We hear tales and
stories in the dead of night then, when sitting with them, which we do
not get a hint of at other times. I remember a woman once showing