AFTER a few more weeks of suffering, during which Mr. Boardman grew weaker, he fell asleep in Jesus. It took some time before a letter telling of Mrs. Boardman's great loss could reach her friends in America; but when her father and mother knew that their much-loved Sarah was a widow with one little boy in a land of strangers, they lost no time in writing a long, loving letter, saying that they thought it would be best for her to return as soon as possible to the home of her childhood, where they assured her a warm welcome awaited not only her but her child.
But was she really free? Was her work for Christ in Burmah done? Could she leave the Karens, about whom I told you so much in my last chapter, at a time when many seemed really anxious to know "How they could be saved.”
Come with me to the mission-house, and you shall judge for yourselves. It is late in the evening, but a group of Karen women, some of whom came many miles to see their beloved teacher, still linger in Mrs. Boardman's room. All day long she has been so busy visiting the sick, teaching in the schools, or caring for her little George, that they were obliged to wait before finding an opportunity of telling her of their love and sympathy.
What are they saying? They speak in a language we do not understand, but their pitying looks show that they share the grief of one they all love, and tears are on the faces of several.
One, a Christian from Rangoon, says "I was telling a native disciple that it had pleased God to call our beloved teacher to Himself, and that now you would be very sad and lonely. He said, That is true, so you must go and comfort her.'”
Another said, “My home is in a village, far away among the mountains, where many worship idols; there are a few Christians; we are all very poor but very happy, for we love God and each other. Our only sorrow is the death of our beloved teacher; if you go away too, we shall feel like children who have lost both father and mother.”
Many, too, were beginning to show great interest in the gospel, and is it any wonder that Mrs. Boardman decided to stay where she was and work on among her scholars and the native women, who, though very ignorant, were as humble and teachable as little children?
Writing to her friends in America, she says: "The love some of these poor people show for the gospel often makes me feel quite ashamed of my coldness. Some of them will come from forty to fifty miles to attend a Bible reading or beg a christian book; and that, too, when the way lies through pathless forests, known to be the haunts of the lion and tiger. A Karen woman, who has been for some time living at the mission-house, told me that when she came she was often obliged to cross streams so deep that the water almost touched her chin. I asked her if she was not afraid. She said, ‘Only of the alligators,' that make their homes among the tall grass and reeds growing on their banks.”
Mr. Boardman had been dead about a year and a half when his widow became the second wife of Mr. Judson. And now I must tell you how the Lord in His grace gave His faithful laborer what must have been a very sweet and precious foretaste of the joy of harvest.
Day after day Mr. Judson would sit for hours in the wayside zayat, sometimes speaking to natives who ventured in, sometimes alone, reading aloud some simple gospel book, in the hope that some passer-by might listen, if only for a few moments, to "the wonderful words of life." It was on one of the hottest days of the Indian summer. The palm-leaf roof of the zayat hardly seemed to shelter him from the rays of the sun, and the missionary felt so tired he would gladly have closed the book and indulged in a brief rest.
But he would not, for perhaps he remembered how once his Lord and Master had, when very tired with a long journey, lingered at noon by Jacob's well, telling one lonely, sorrowful woman of living waters. (John 4) And it might be that the same gracious, loving Lord would guide some passing strangers that way, and incline them to stop and listen. So Mr. Judson read on.
“Look, father, look, that is Jesus Christ's man! Oh, how very white he is." The speaker was a dark-skinned, bright-eyed little boy, who passed holding the hand of a tall Burmese gentleman, whose dress and manner marked him as belonging to the educated upper-class. Mr. Judson, who loved children dearly, smiled at the boy, who returned his smile with a look so bright and open, that the missionary quite longed to take the little fellow on his knee and tell him "the sweet story of old.”
The next day, at about the same hour, the father and son passed again, and the next Mr. Judson made a sign to the boy, whose name was Moung Moung, that he wanted to speak to him. In a moment the child was at his side. The missionary knew it would not be well to say many words, or detain him long. But taking a gaily colored Madras handkerchief, he folded it into a turban and twisted it round the boy's head. Moung Moung, much pleased, ran back to his father, saying, "See what a beautiful turban Jesus Christ's man has given me.”
The father looked grave, and said in a low, troubled voice, “Yes, Moung Moung, it is very pretty; but I do not care for your going to the zayat. It is not a very good place for you. These white foreigners have strange ways of making people believe things. Why do you always wish to walk this way?”
"Oh, my father, the white teacher will do me no harm. But I want you to tell me something I wish very much to know," and Moung Moung drew closer to his father's side, and grasped his hand more tightly. "Did my mother worship the Lord Jesus Christ?”
The father's face grew stern and hard as he said, "Who dared to tell you so?”
"But did she? Is it true?”
"Who could have told you such a tale?”
"I must not tell you, my father, for I promised I would not. The one who told me said it was as much as life was worth to talk of such things to your son. But do tell me if it is true?”
"We will not talk any more of these things, Moung Moung. The white teacher was very kind to give you such a pretty handkerchief.”
The pair had been closely followed by a woman whose veil was drawn closely over her face, and who carried a large palm-leaf fan. Unnoticed by either speaker, she had been near enough to hear almost every word. She now stopped at a small shop and seemed intent on the purchase of some bananas. But there was a strange new look of gladness on the veiled face, and an unspoken thanksgiving made music in her heart.
Father and son were out of sight, a cluster of bamboos had hidden them from the missionary, and he began once more to read aloud the little book he had already read and re-read so many times that he could have repeated every word from memory. But the words seemed to come with greater sweetness and power to his own soul, and he felt almost rested.