We did not ask her who "he" was. We
knew. Nor did we ask the price he had paid. We knew; fifty rupees, about
three pounds, was the price paid down for a younger child bought for the
same purpose not long ago. This one's price might be a little higher.
That is all.

We stood by the bullock cart ready to get in. The people were watching.
The mother had gone back into the house. Then a great wave of longing
for that child swept over us again. We turned and looked at the little
form as it lay on the floor, dead, as it seemed, to all outward things.
Oh that it had been dead! And we pleaded once more with all our heart,
and once more failed.

We drove away. We could see them crowding to look after us, and we shut
our eyes to shut out the sight of their smiles. The bullock bells
jingled too gladly, it seemed, and we shut our ears to shut out the
sound. And then we shut ourselves in with God, who knew all about it,
and cared. How long, O God, how long?

And now we have heard that she has gone, and we know, from watching
what happened before, just what will happen now. How day by day they
will sear that child's soul with red-hot irons, till it does not feel or
care any more. And a child's seared soul is an awful thing.

Forgive us for words which may hurt and shock; we are telling the day's
life-story. Hurt or not, shocked or not, should you not know the truth?
How can you pray as you ought if you only know fragments of truth? Truth
is a loaf; you may cut it up nicely, like thin bread and butter, with
all the crusts carefully trimmed. No one objects to it then. Or you can
cut it as it comes, crust and all.

Think of that child to-night as you gather your children about you, and
look in their innocent faces and their clear, frank eyes. Our very last
news of her was that she had been in some way influenced to spread a lie
about the place, first sign of the searing begun. I think of her as I
saw her that first day, bright as a bird; and then of her as I saw her
last, drugged on the floor; I think of her as she must be now, bright
again, but with a different brightness--not the little girl I
knew--never to be quite that little girl again.

Oh, comrades, do you wonder that we care? Do you wonder that we plead
with you to care? Do you wonder that we have no words sometimes, and
fall back into silence, or break out into words wrung from one more
gifted with expression, who knew what it was to feel!

With such words, then, we cl