_A murder._—The next funeral I saw was much sadder. The female mourners wrung their hands and shed tears of grief and despair. The men attended in great numbers, and their dark faces spoke of rage and determination. The previous evening a poor woman had gone to the stream to wash her maize. About sunset a gun was heard, which, however, caused no concern. Though the woman had not come back the villagers did not miss her, and retired to bed as usual. But at night they heard the cries of a child, and discovered one little creature wandering alone in the darkness, and weeping for its mother. The villagers immediately arose and hastened to the stream, where they soon found the woman’s dress and her basket of grain, but the woman herself was nowhere seen. That night the Missionaries on the Station were all sitting together after evening prayers. It was Christmas time, and our friends had come down from Livingstonia. We had received no letters from England for three months, the natives of Mazaro had rebelled against the Portuguese, and war had put an end to all communication. Matters were looking dark. We had no calico to pay native labour, the little that remained was required for buying the necessaries of life, and as it was nearly exhausted, starvation loomed in the distance. The white men were seriously talking of an expedition to get up goods, when a loud rap was heard at the door. “The mail! here’s the mail!” was shouted, but it was Kumlomba with half-a-dozen of his villagers. In great excitement he rushed forward and threw down at the Doctor’s feet the bit of calico that had been the woman’s covering, as he exclaimed, “My child is dead!” This unexpected “mail” took the breath from us all. We tried to calm the poor man. “There was no evidence,” we argued, “that the woman had been killed. A slave-gang was being made up by Kapeni’s people—it was certain she had been caught for slavery.” A celebrated lawyer said to a novice who was going to act at a trial, “Give your opinion boldly, but don’t give any reasons for it: your opinion may be correct, but your reasons will almost certainly be wrong”. The advice is noteworthy, and often have I thought of it when dealing with an African: what he states in expressing his belief is generally right, what he adds by way of argument is often wrong, and it seems doubly so to persons unacquainted with the native mind. Kumlomba said a few things that appeared very disjointed to Europeans, and confirmed our belief that the woman was still alive. The chief listened to us with patience but did not seem satisfied.