life to children of Syrian and Armenian, and now and then to a Moslem or a Jew. From that little town between six and seven hundred Jews and Syrians had emigrated to America. Since the war many had returned and were rapidly building the city. Others had sent money to rebuild the homes of their families. These homes were of stone built two stories high with the flat roof but with plenty of space for light and air. Gardens surrounded many of them and trees were being planted everywhere. The children were well nourished, well clothed, and well trained. It helped us to have more confidence in the dreams with the fulfilment of which all Christendom is in sympathy. If only patience and unselfishness can be set as watchmen over against the door of enthusiasm! We were told that the Hebrew High Commissioner of Jerusalem looks to Ramallah as a prophecy. We sat for a while on the journey from Kantara to Cairo with a British officer and a nurse who had seen hard service during the war and is now in charge of a number of stations where the native nurses meet her to report progress and receive further instructions. She helps them to understand the care of mothers and young babies and trains them to fight the terrible diseases of the eye that result in a staggering percentage of blindness. The native girls are taking up their work with enthusiasm, even the little children are sharing in the campaign against flies. “That is a far harder campaign than any we have ever waged when you consider the people you have to train to fight,” said the officer. And remembering the flies on our days at Suez and Port Said, we could agree with him. It was nearly midnight when she left the train at a little station in the sand. Her man-servant was waiting with her horse and we watched her ride off to her hospital out there somewhere in the blackness. “No finer women on God’s earth than those who wear that uniform,” said the officer. A half hour or more and he left us. He was a lover of the desert and almost made us forget how pitiless, how cruel, how destitute of all that makes life for most of us, it is. He knew the names of all the stars and when they would appear in the velvet sky over his great stretch of camps. He loved the cold of the night and was not afraid of the heat of midday, he loved the sunrise and sunsets and “the desert-folk worth many times the puny men of cities.” He, too, rode off into the darkness. At last—Cairo—and we left the train through the long station, bright as day. A car was waiting. The luxury of our room made us feel that we had entered fairyland. It had been so long since we had seen the things for rest, comfort and cleanliness that had in our past been common necessities, that now after these months of journeying about the world they seemed extravagances indeed!