Mr. St. John’s face changed. "Rachel," he inquired, gravely, "how do you know that no one is coming to be healed this morning?" "Because Seng Mi said so, father. The people are angry about something, I don’t know what, but I am so glad. Cicely, why don’t you say you’re glad, too, instead of looking like St. Cecilia at the piano?" Cecilia flushed, and the tears came into her eyes. Her father took hold of her hand and pressed it between his own. "Father, darling," she whispered, "has it come already?" "God only knows," he replied, sadly, "but we shall be ready, at any rate, darling." "Yes, father," she said, earnestly, lifting her sweet, grave eyes to his. "Do you know—I have often wished to tell you—Jesus is so precious to me that sometimes I long to suffer for His sake." "My dearest child, God grant that He may be more exceedingly precious to each one of us every day. God be with you all in the time that is coming, and the dear native Christians. Ah, Cicely, my heart bleeds for them." "Why, father?" asked Rachel, who had caught the last words. "Because, Rachel, I am afraid there is a time of great trouble in store for them—terrible persecution. Indeed," he added, "it has begun already; in the letter which I received last night from Pekin, your uncle speaks of the dreadful suffering, not only of Europeans, but also of the native Christians—there have been hundreds of martyrs for Jesus already." "Have there, father?" Rachel’s gentian-blue eyes were very wide open indeed—"I haven’t seen anybody being persecuted here yet." "No; but my dear little Rachel, it has not reached us yet, God be praised for that; but it may come any day—it might even come to-day." Rachel was silent for a moment, and then suddenly reverted to what had been uppermost in her mind—of paramount interest to her: "About the games, father," she said, coaxingly, "if mother will give us a holiday, will you come and have some games with us? I should like blind man’s buff and hide and seek; Cicely and I will hide, and you shall find us." "Rachel," said her father, gently, "I should like to do what you wish, but first I must tell you a story, and then you shall decide yourself about the games afterwards." "Oh, a story, father, I shall like that; let’s sit down here under this banyan tree, and then we can listen nicely," and Rachel flung off her big, shady hat, and settled herself down by her father’s side, prepared to drink in every word. With the dark curls tossed back from her little, eager, upturned face, and her sparkling blue eyes, she made a pretty picture, and formed a pleasing contrast to her equally lovely sister—indeed, Cicely’s was the lovelier face of the two, for God Himself had taken up the brush and been the Painter there. [Illustration: "Rachel flung off her big shady hat, and settled herself down by her father’s side."]