PERSECUTED FOR CHRIST'S SAKE IN INDIA.
By Miss Grace Stephens
THE Nicodemus Cottage of the Methodist Mission in Madras is where women go who long to learn more about Jesus, and who are able to reach this haven of refuge. There are terrible difficulties in the way of these "Purdah ladies" openly confessing Christ. One native lady in the zenanas whose heart opened to receive Jesus, said, "I must now put Jesus first," but her husband, and mother, and friends were very angry. After a time she came to the Nicodemus Cottage, saying, "Jesus must be first; I must give up all for Him who died for me." Her friends followed her, and besought her with wailings and entreaties to come back; they scolded, they petted, they used every means in their power to induce her to give up Christ, and return to them, and their foolish and abominable idolatries. But she kept firm, saying gently, "Jesus must be first, I am a Christian, and Christ must be first." Then they put into the mother's arms her sweet little boy of three, her only child; but as she clasped him to her breast, and caressed him with kisses, still she said, "Jesus is first." Then they tore him from her, and showered down oaths and curses and imprecations and insults upon her and upon the Saviour she adored. The next day they came again, and the missionary, not apprehending serious danger, had them admitted to the compound. Such a crowd poured in that police followed, but they were powerless to help, for among the crowd were many Sepoys—some dressed in women's clothes, but others in military uniforms. Then again, as this dear Christian woman stood before them (for they demanded to see her, and threatened to break down the cottage, if denied), the friends called and entreated her to come back to them. Finally, finding all their entreaties and threats were unavailing, one among them held out her little son, bidding her come and take him. Suspecting nothing, the mother stepped forward with outstretched arms, and, at that instant a dozen hands clutched at the poor woman's throat and throttled her; then tore off her dress, threw her against a pillar, and swiftly carried her off. The missionaries followed down the street, in the hope of rescuing her as she was borne aloft on the shoulders of the frantic crowd. No chance, alas! for rescue; for sharp knives were flashing in the sunlight. Now let me give you over against this a bright picture. The Convert's Home at Baranagore, six miles from Calcutta, has fifty-two widows in it, who have come out from the darkness and dreariness of heathen widowhood, into the light and love of God. They are willing to work hard to support themselves and their children, and to be trained for Bible women and Bible teachers. One day, some time ago, an educated Bengali lady came with her husband and little boy. The husband said, "My wife can not find any peace in the Hindu religion, tho she has tried many ways; she says if she comes here she knows she will get what she wants." This gentleman was agent for a wealthy Bengali, but as he really loved his wife was willing to part with her in the hope that she might find the peace she longed for. Only a few days passed by before this Bengali lady found "joy and peace in believing;" at once she sent the good news to her husband, and kept writing to him. In a little while he came back to say that his wife's letters had made him want to be a Christian. So we put them into a little mud-built cottage (very poor compared to his bungalow) outside the compound, and provided a teacher to instruct him in "the way of life." After a few days he came, saying, "I find I can not be a Christian, and tell lies or take bribes, so I must throw up my position." This he did, after some plain talks, for we had nothing to offer him except to go into the brass workshop among the boys, and earn, when competent, four annas a day. This Bengali gentleman, who had never soiled his fingers, cheerfully blackened them every day for some weeks for Christ's sake. After this testing-time we put him and his wife as teachers in a mission school in one of the villages near, and there they, with their little son, are still happily working. Praise God!—Bombay Guardian.