Our next station was Pak Chun, six miles away (the distances used to be twenty and thirty miles, now six, eight or twelve), but before we reached there we must stop and meet a little band of Christians at a farm where seed had been dropped by passing believers and where a whole family had been converted. Here we met a young bride from another hamlet not far distant, who with her husband had lately become a believer. At Pak Chun we were received with the usual hearty welcome. Here I found Mrs. Kim of Sorai like a ministering angel going her rounds of self-appointed, unpaid ministration of the Word, teaching the gospel to these poor women, not one of whom could read. A good many from neighboring villages were examined here, and we held a baptismal and communion service just before leaving. The church was as yet unfinished and extremely damp and cold, as well as uncomfortably crowded, so I sent our little son out of doors to play until we should finish. But scarcely had the meeting well begun when word came that “the Moxa’s child had fallen in the well.” Mr. Underwood rushed to the rescue, giving out a long hymn as he started, to keep the crowd occupied. However, by the time we reached the scene he had emerged from his cold bath and been taken to our room. The ox-cart with all our packs was standing at the door, just about to start for the next place. It was the work of a few moments to pull down the whole load, open our trunks, and get out dry garments, only too thankful that it had not already trundled several miles on. I found a dripping, shivering little animal awaiting me as I rushed into our quarters, but no harm was done, he was soon quite dry and warm, his wet apparel dangling from the ox-cart acting as an excellent road sprinkler. Just before leaving I saw a child quite naked, covered with smallpox pustules in full bloom, standing near our door. I asked one of the natives if there was much of that disease in the village at present. “In every house,” was the concise reply. “Why there is none in the house we are in,” said I, with confidence. “Oh, no, they took the child out the day you came in order to give you the room,” was the reassuring answer. We had eaten and slept in that infected little room, our blankets all spread out there, our trunks opened, everything we had exposed. We had even used their cooking utensils and spoons and bowls before our own packs had arrived. For ourselves we had been often exposed, and believed ourselves perfectly immune. Mr. Underwood had nursed a case of the most malignant type, and I had been in contact with it among my patients, but our child! So we sent a swift messenger with a despatch to the nearest telegraph station, twenty-four hours away, to Dr. Wells, in Pyeng Yang. He at once put a tube of virus into the hands of a speedy runner, who arrived with it a week later.