When Mr W. Barbrooke Grubb came to the Gran Chaco the Indians showed him plainly by their manner that they did not want him. This, however, did not discourage him in the least, but only spurred him on to try to win their favour. He made himself one with them; he learned their customs and their language; he travelled when they travelled, took part in their feasts, and lived exactly as they did--until finally he won their confidence and love. How they needed the Gospel, for they were in gross heathen darkness! They had no religious customs, though they had their witch-doctors, and lived in constant dread of evil spirits. Amongst the Indians here “baby-killing,” which grown-up people call “infanticide,” is sadly very common. “Superstition,” writes Mr Grubb, “causes many of these deaths. Girl babies, if they are born first, are put to death; deformed children are also killed, and twins are never allowed to live. Many die through want of care during the first years of childhood.” How heartless such customs seem! Yet there is something still more sad, which has to do with their beliefs. For many years Mr Grubb tried to show the Indians “the better way,” and to do away with the cruel practice of killing their babies. Their burial rites are very weird, and no funeral ever takes place after sunset. If, therefore, a sick Indian is likely to die in the night, before sunrise, they bury her or him before the sun goes down, even though the spirit may not have left the body, break up their camp, and move away before they settle down for the night. The mother of a dear little Indian girl became very ill one day. The husband, who really loved his wife, did all he could to make her well, but in spite of this she gradually grew worse instead of better. When he saw that she could not possibly live, and that all hope was gone he left her alone. There she lay, outside the hut, with a reed matting over her face, her life fast ebbing away. It was about an hour before sunset. The Indians were getting restless, when the missionary walked into their midst. Seeing the form on the ground, he stooped down, taking the matting from the Indian woman’s face. She whispered: “Water.” Reluctantly it was brought by the Indian husband, but a few minutes later she became quite unconscious. The eyes of the Indians were anxiously looking, not towards the dying woman, but toward the sinking sun, for she must be buried before sunset. They would all have to pack up and hurry away to a new camping place, where the woman’s spirit could not follow. Impatiently they stepped forward, but were waved back by the missionary. Her grave was ready, everything was prepared for the funeral rites. “The spirit has not left her yet,” he said; “do not touch her.” “But we must hasten, or darkness will be upon us before we leave,” replied the husband; “we cannot break our custom.”