LETTERS FROM ABROAD
believe in its cry. I sit at its table, and while it fills its cup with wine to slake its unnatural thirst, I try to listen, through the noisy carousal, to the murmur of the stream carrying its limpid waters to the sea.
NEW YORK, December 22, 1920.
To-day is the seventh of Paus, I wish it were allowed to me to stand among you in the mandir and mingle my voice with yours in uttering our prayer. It is real starvation for my heart to be deprived of this great privilege. To-day I realise more than ever before, that nothing can be truer for me than to be with my dear children and friends, this beautiful sunny morning of December, and bow my head to our Father and dedicate my service to Him. By that dedication our works become great, and not by extension of external resources, Oh, how simple is truth and how full of light and happiness? Not to be distracted by the curiosity of crowds, only to be rewarded by the approval of Him, who knows our heart, is the fulfilment of our endeavour. I only hope that what I am doing here is in response to the call of the Shantam, that my lonely celebration of seventh Paus in this Hotel room finds its harmony with your festival. Let our faith in the real be not overcome by the lure of the unreal, Let come to us what is good and not what we desire. Let us bow our head to the Good, to the supreme Good.
