Chapter VIII

The Girls’ School.

So began my school-life. There is not time to tell you all about it now. There were about seventy of us there, from five to seventeen years old. Some of them had been slave girls, and could tell a story to match mine. Twice a day we gathered for meals, and we learnt to clean out our rooms, mend and wash our clothes, and make our own shoes, so as to be useful when we returned home. Then there was study and drill, and all of it was so interesting—not a bit like the dry way they teach in Chinese schools. Yet, best of all, were the Sunday services in the chapel and the class-meeting and Bible-study in the week. My feet were gradually loosened, and as they grew again I learned to skip and run with the other girls; and when I went home it was wonderful the impression made on the people in our out-of-the-way village.

Several years have gone by since I went to school and entered upon that new life. Now I am learning to teach others; for teachers are badly needed in our schools and women teachers are difficult to get. To-day I have been thinking over my life. Like a dreadful dream there rises before me the picture of Yin-dee, the neglected little slave of a cruel woman. I see myself hobbling over the ground picking cotton, or in the evil home making tea for opium-smokers and gamblers. I almost expect to hear the harsh tones of my mother-in-law calling me to do some menial duty.

Then I remember the famine and its horrors. I can scarcely believe that it is all a thing of the past, and I have become Ping-an, the child of rest and peace. And what has done it all? Just this—the love of Jesus. It was Jesus who sent the missionary with the message of love and pardon, and it is Jesus who now fills my heart with joy. Yet I cannot forget that there are many—oh, so many!—of my sisters in China in the same sad plight as I was. I wonder how long it will be before the message will come to them? How long before they will enter the land of rest and peace?

In the city of Pekin there hangs a great bell, and there is a legend connected with it on which I love to ponder. Twice had the labor of years been lost at the time of casting. The third time, just as the molten metal was to be poured into the mould, the lovely daughter of the maker, knowing that by no other means could a perfect bell be cast, flung herself into the cauldron and gave her life to save her father from disappointment and shame.

China now is waiting to be moulded. Old things are passing. It is a new China we are beholding. Many ways have been tried for her regeneration. The cold morality of Confucius is powerless. Buddhist monks and Taoist priests have come in vain. Only by the cleansing Gospel of Christ can China be purified and made a vessel meet for the Master’s use. Ages ago this girl sacrificed herself that the bell might be perfect. What we women and girls of China need is that more missionary teachers should come to us, bringing the love of the Lord on their lips and in their lives—then will China be saved and won for Christ. It is worth it a thousand times. Will some of you come? Will more of you give? Will all of you pray? There is something each can do, if you will only try. Out of death springs life, and out of your sacrifice for Christ shall spring a new China, free from the sins which have bound her in the past.