The religious history of the state of Bahia has been making since that day, but not without persecution. A third school was planted, and grew, out on the nearest edge of “the interior” at the cattle-market, Feira St. Anna, in spite of warnings of priests and Romish fanatics, with Christine Chamberlain as principal teacher, beloved by the children and admired by their parents, who needed such goodness, efficiency and magnetism as hers to overcome their fear of a Protestant school. Now the burning torch which was beginning to lighten that dark spot has been taken away to the land where there is no more night. Both Miss Chamberlain and her Brazilian assistant, Noemi, have died of fever, contracted while going through an unsanitary part of Bahia on a visit of friendly inspection to that “factory school.” And the factory school is like a green bay tree. The patron was warned that it might cost him his friends and even his great business, but he has been determined to accomplish such instruction for his people in spite of the fact that the Bible was to be used as freely as any text-book. He is a convert to modern (Christian) education. Pretty Bahia seems more nearly in a comatose state than the other Brazilian cities you have heard described so freely on the steamer. You gather that there is less intelligence, more superstition, less broad public spirit, more fevers, less elegance of speech and courtesy of manner. Your steamer does not wait long enough for you to verify these impressions. You only climb the bluff in an elevator, go in a bond to see pretty suburban residences, passing consular offices with their national colors. You come back through the narrowest of streets, and stop at one church “of Our Lady,” and have a hurried look within. It is old-looking, bare and dirty to your eyes, and the image of the little Christ in His mother’s arms shocks you by its ugliness and frippery. Hung about are waxen imitations of arms, legs, heads, etc., with sores and various ailments depicted on their surfaces. You recognize them as the offerings you have heard about, and to be found in many churches, of sufferers who plead with the Mother of Our Lord to heal their diseases. Time and dust do not make these objects more pleasing to the eye. Back again you row to the ship and dine, then go on deck. Forget the few unpleasant things you saw ashore, remember the palms and the colors, and give yourself up to the pleasure of the soft night-air and that great crescent of lights--electric and gas--from the water’s edge to the height of the bluff, with the lighthouse shining nobly at the point.