In a house at Monghyr, a few hours' journey from Calcutta, my father lived at one time with his followers. One morning, after the usual service was over, a gentleman who had been present waited hoping my father would say he need not go to the office that day. As my father, however, said nothing he left looking very sad. After some time my father said to his followers : ' You did not want Mr. to go?"
"No, we hoped you would let him stay," was the reply.
"Do you want him to come back?"
"Well, he's about a mile away ; how can any one overtake him?"
My father smiled and asked for a khole (a sort of drum), and struck it gently, calling the gentleman by name as he did so. It seems incredible, but is nevertheless true, that the person thus summoned heard the call as he stood under a tree by the roadside. "I hear him," he cried, "I am to return," and to the great surprise of all he did return, and related how he had heard his name called.
My father used to tell us stories from the Bible and other sacred books, and I remember how much impressed we were with the story of the Ten Virgins. He described it so well that we could see the whole thing, and I remarked : " We must be careful not to run out of oil or to fall asleep when the bridegroom is coming." He also told us many other stories, and one was a particular favourite.
