How intensely He struggled, in those hours in the upper room, to make them understand that He loved them, to lead them to a comprehension of the meaning of service, to help them to accept the great commission His death would leave them to fulfil. [Illustration: _Copyright, Underwood & Underwood_ Out there on the wind-swept hills, without priest or altar, we could better understand the words of the Book.] We could almost hear the voice of our Lord saying: “Behold the hour cometh, yea is now come, that ye shall be scattered every man to his own and shall leave me alone: yet—I am not alone because the Father is with me. “These things have I spoken unto you that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer. _I have overcome the world._” It was easy to see Peter standing by the fire in the place which they showed to us and to hear the cowardly words, “I never knew him,” but easier still, as though a beam of light had fallen upon a dark picture, to hear Jesus saying, “Tell my disciples _and Peter_.... Peter, lovest thou me?... Peter, feed my sheep.” From the background of Mount Zion we went to the Garden, not to the formal garden of Latin or Greek, with their chapels, their neat little gardens, their oranges and their olive trees planted about with fragrant flowers and green grass, though they are very beautiful, terraced there upon the steep sloping hillside. We went instead to the Armenian Garden, kept as nature made it, a wall with the vine leaning over it, a fallen trunk covered with doll moss, and the olive trees, large and small, gray green with twisted boughs ages old, grass as in a meadow, with lilies of the field nodding here and there in sunny spaces, though it was still winter. A soft mist hung about the hill and settled in low lines over the Garden. In one of the trees, hugging a branch, was a tiny gray bird. We could hear its song in the silence. The friend who had come with us had been often in the Garden. He told us of the beautiful service of the Relief Workers here on Easter morning, of the night after Allenby entered Jerusalem when the workers filled with joy over the manner of the victory came to this sacred spot to pray in gratitude and for strength for the long wearying days of toil which lay ahead. He told us of the Armenian girl, kneeling early one morning in the damp grass, trying to repeat Gethsemane’s prayer. She was a graduate of the American Woman’s College, was teaching in a girls’ high school when deportation orders came, and from then until her rescue had been an Arab’s slave in his dirty tent.