It was a cold Sunday afternoon in November. Fifteen or sixteen people had collected at Lady Margesson's home to meet the Swami. They were all seated in the drawing room on the floor in a semicircle facing the Swami. There was a cosy fire in the hearth behind him. He was dressed in a flowing ochre robe fastened with a girdle round the waist. His calm bearing, gentle eyes, deep voice, and spiritual power, impressed all his listeners. From time to time he would recite Sanskrit verses, and he had the habit of saying now and again 'Shiva ! Shiva !'
Margaret liked the talk he gave, but told her friend she thought there was nothing new in it. But when she went home and thought over what he had said she felt that she had been unkind and unjust in passing such a judgement. He had given them many new ideas.
Please support for more contents