true religious life. I like your spirit. I will give you my book. And you shall learn Sanskrit and read it. You will give me your book. I already know English."
"You are yogi, you are mahatma. You are all-knowing and can perform miracles. Can you see to America and tell me what happens there?" I asked, "you can read my mind."
The smile faded from the venerable face. He looked pityingly, kindly at me. "No, my daughter. No one in India can see to America. Put away care. Do not think sorrow. Do not think money." And the renowned seer of seers, sage of sages, the living god, the Brahman above caste laid his hand in blessing like any noble old bishop. We spent a charming half-hour under the Annanbag trees, eating the saint's oranges, talking with him and his visitors as at any garden tea. When we were leaving, the saint threw over our shoulders the jasmine garlands his worshipers had laid at his feet, wound the borrowed chudda around him, and, rising, stalked with the swaying gait of extreme age to the gateway. He shook hands with us fearlessly and conventionally, for he was beyond defilement, and urged us to come again and talk with him in his garden.
Then Chaturgam Lal's tongue was loosened and he told us more of the great mahatma and of the miracles he had performed. "Why, once they sent officials to invite him to come to America. They wished him to perform miracles at the World's Fair in Chicago." This was shock and anticlimax, surely.
