Page:They're a multitoode (1900).djvu/64

 CHAPTER VII.

Sadly my father wended his way down the mountain. All was hopeless. Heaven had forgotten to smile upon him. Then he noticed ahead of him a small crowd surrounding a foreigner. He was a missionary from the neighboring town, and was busy selling books and preaching to the worshippers of the goddess. Father stepped up, partly out of curiosity and partly remembering the good deeds of the foreigners in the famine district.

The crowd were inclined for some fun at the stranger's expense; but he answered with such good humor and politeness as to win their good opinions. Then he commenced to preach. He did not abuse the idols—there might have been trouble had he done so—but he told of a True Spirit who was loving and good. Father listened. Who could that Spirit be, so full of love? Not the god of thunder whom everybody feared, for he struck men dead in his wrath. Not the fierce god of war, or the pitiless Niang-niang rejoicing in the sufferings of the smallpox victims.

As the missionary spoke his face glowed. He told of Jesus, who went about doing good and at last died for men. There were no Chinese gods who would do that, father thought. They would take your money, but die for you?—well, that was nonsense. Eagerly