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Ordinarily he would not have cared for the acts of either moth or butterfly, but to-day there was in Comale's heart a sense of guilt that found accusation from unwonted sources. "Comale!" warned his father again, "another false cut!" Tears of mortification sprang to the lad's eyes. Never had ha seemed to himself to be so awkward a peeler.
Then he would bind the cinnamon into bundles by pieces of split bamboo. But Comale's father kept an eye on his son's work, also. Comale was much abashed at his father's reproof. For a time the lad kept his mind upon the cinnamon.
But now, since beginning his day's work, his quarrel and the possible consequences of his misdeed had begun to weigh heavily on Comale's conscience, and had lent an accusing tongue to nature. So true is it that a guilty conscience finds censure where a heart that is at peace with God and man would find no reproving reminder.
Had he not often heard that he who would be a Christian must forgive others? Instead of forgiving Pidura, he had done something that perhaps might kill her. "Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God, for Christ's sake, hath forgiven you." It was what the missionary had said. "I ought to have forgiven Pidura!" Comale's heart cried. "Oh, I am bad, bad!
This veranda was overshadowed by the high-pitched roof, and while, inside the house, there was matting on the floor, as in Cingalese houses, the veranda had a rough material made from the husks of the cocoanut. This material was so placed as to prevent serpents from crawling into the house. Ceylon has many serpents, and Pidura, Comale's sister, was very much afraid of them.
The strip had been hung up out of the way, and had swung a little in the current of air between the top of the wall and the roof. As the bamboo strip swayed, it had gradually slipped lower and lower toward the sleeping little boy below. Comale's outcry had aroused the household; and without reserve the penitent lad told to the family the story of his misdeed.
But ever, as Comale worked this day, something inly disturbed his thoughts. He was very unhappy. "Comale," warned his father sharply, "that was a bad cut! Be more careful!" Comale's father was attending to some bark that had dried to quills. He was putting small cinnamon quills into larger ones, till he made a collection about forty inches long.
It was I who made Comale's heart angry." The father looked from one child to the other. "Little children, love one another," he said. The door of the "panaderia" opened. Americans would have called the place a bakery, but the sign said "Panaderia," which might be interpreted "breadery" or bake-house.
It was something beside awkwardness that ailed Comale's hand to-day. He was worrying over the possible consequences of a deed of his. That morning, he and his sister Pidura, who was about his own age, had quarreled. They did not quarrel as often now as they used to before Pidura and he knew anything about the way to be a Christian.
How can I bear it, to wait till I can go home to see if all is safe?" Naturally, Comale's work was not done well, to-day. But he cared little for criticism of his peeling, when at evening the time came to go home. He ran all the way. He plunged headlong into the street where he lived. He ran past the tile-roofed houses.
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