shut, and I could watch him narrowly. It is not so often that one sees
an old man with a sweet face. But there was sweetness in both the face
and voice of this priest. He spoke slowly and clearly, sometimes
pausing for a little between his sentences as if for better
inspiration, as a Quaker will sometimes do in speaking at meeting. His
tones were no higher than could be heard clearly in the room. There
was nothing of the exhorter in this man. His talk did not sound like
preaching at all. It was like kind, friendly talk at the fireside at a
solemn time. "Faith, prayer, morality: these alone are necessary," was
the burden of the simple address. "We have faith by divine providence;
out of our thanksgiving comes prayer, and we cannot but be good." It
was plain that the old women loved their priest. In the front of the
congregation were three crones gnarled in hands and face. When the
sermon of an hour or so came to an end they spoke quaveringly of the
mercy of Buddha to them, and of their own feebleness to do well. The
old priest gently offered them comfort and counsel.

After the service, in the light of the priest's paper lantern, I made
my way along the road to the temple. At length I found myself mounting
the lichened stone steps to the great closed gates. The priest drew
the long wooden bolt and pushed one gate creakingly back. We went by a
paved pathway into the deeper shadow of the temple. Then a light
glowed from the side of the building, and we were in the priest's
house. It was like a farmer's house only more refined in detail.

About half-past four in the morning I was awakened by the booming of
the temple bell. It is the sound which of all delights in the Far East
is most memorable. I got up, and, following the example of my host,
had a bath in the open, and dressed.