"WHAT is your name?" I asked; but she turned away, and covered her head with her sari (tunic). She was only a poor Bengali widow, who had come to us from East Bengal to see if what she had heard was true,—that there is a way by which even such as she may find peace with God.
But why does she seem so ashamed to tell her name? After some persuasion, we were able to find out.
"It is such a horrid name, that I do not like to speak it to any one. I once had a beautiful name. They called me Maharani (queen). That was when my husband was alive. But he died, and I was left a widow. His relatives said it was because of my sins; that the anger of the gods had been stirred, and they had stricken my husband. 'Call her no more Maharani,' they said; 'for she is no longer a queen, but a curse among women. Call her—' and then they gave me the horrid name which I am ashamed to speak. So please do not ask me to tell you what it is."
"No," I said; "do not tell me the name they gave you. We shall call you by your real name, Maharani; for if you accept the Saviour, you will become a true child of the King; and why should you not keep the name you once had?"
"Teach me about your Saviour," she said; "and if He can give me the peace I am seeking, I will follow Him the rest of my life."