I knelt on the outside of the congregational group.  It was cold as the great doors were slid open from time to time and the kneeling figures grew in number to about forty.  Day broke and a few sparrows twittered by the time the first part of the service was over.

The priest then took up his lamp and low table, and, coming without the altar rail, knelt down in the midst of the congregation.  In this familiar relation with his people he delivered a homily in a conversational tone.  Buddha was to mankind as a father to his children, he said.  If a man did bad things but repented, his father would be more delighted than if he got rich.  The way of serving Buddha was to feel his love.  To ask of the rich or of a master was supplication, but we did not need to supplicate Buddha.  Our love of Buddha and his love for us would become one thing.  Carelessness, an evil spirit, doubt:  these were the enemies.  Gold was beautiful to look at, but if the gold stuck in one’s eyes so that one could not see, how then?  The true essence of belief was the abandonment of ourselves to divine providence.

So the speaker went on, pressing home his thoughts with anecdote or legend.  There was the tale of a woman whose character benefited when her husband became a leper.  Another story was of an injured lizard which was fed for many days by its mate.  We were also told of a mischievous fellow who tried to anger a believer.  The ne’er-do-weel went to the man’s house and called him a liar.  The believer thanked him for his faithful dealing, and said that it might be true that he was a liar.  He would be glad, he said, to be given further advice after his wife had warmed water in order that his visitor might wash his feet.  “The mind of the vagabond was thereupon changed.”

The rays of light from the lamp illumined the large Buddha-like shaven head and mild countenance of the priest and the labour-worn faces of his flock around him.  Two weatherbeaten men curiously resembled Highland elders.  I saw that they, an old woman and a young mother with a child tied on her back kept their eyes fixed on the preacher.  It was plain that in the service they found strength for the day.

I was in a reverie when the priest ended his talk.  To my embarrassment he begged me to come with him within the altar rail and speak to the people.  I had been quickened to such a degree by the experience of the previous night and by this service at dawn that I stood up at once.  But there seemed to be not one word at my call, and my knees knocked because of cold and shyness.  I grasped the chilly brass altar rail, and, as I met the gaze of friendly, sun-tanned, care-rutted alien faces, which yet had the look of “kent folk,” I marvellously found sentence following sentence.  What I said matters nothing.  What I felt was the unity of all religion, my veneration for this rare priest, a sense of kinship with these worshippers of another race and faith, and a realisation