Your spade has aroused to life the dormant seeds of evil, germinated the ugly waste life that all these long years has been sleeping out of sight--in twenty years, with careful cultivation, you may fight down the weeds and restore the grassland, but it takes a lot of doing. Your intentions may have been the best in disturbing the primal sod; you may have had views of roses flourishing where grass was; the result is very much the same. I apply this parable to the story of a missionary and his work. The missionary was a good man, though of the wrong colour. He had large ideas on his duty to his fellows; he was inspired by the work of his cloth in another country; but, as Sanders properly said, India is not Africa. Kenneth McDolan came to Mr. Commissioner Sanders with a letter of introduction from the new Administration. Sanders was at "chop" one blazing morning when his servant, who was also his sergeant, Abiboo, brought a card to him. It was a nice card, rounded at the corners, and gilt-edged, and in the centre, in old English type, was the inscription-- Rev. KENNETH McDOLAN. Underneath was scribbled in pencil: "On a brief visit." Sanders sniffed impatiently, for "reverend" meant "missionary," and "missionary" might mean anything. He looked at the card again and frowned in his perplexity. Somehow the old English and the reverendness of the visiting card did not go well with the rounded corners and the gilt edge. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Master," said Abiboo, "he is on the verandah. Shall I kick him off?" Abiboo said this very naturally and with simple directness, and Sanders stared at him. "Son of sin!" he said sternly, "is it thus you speak of God-men, and of white men at that?" "This man wears the clothes of a God-man," said Abiboo serenely; "but he is a black man, therefore of no consequence." Sanders pulled a pair of mosquito boots over his pyjamas and swore to himself. "White missionaries, yes," he said wrathfully, "but black missionaries I will not endure." The Reverend Kenneth was sitting in Sanders' basket-chair, one leg flung negligently over one side of the chair to display a silk sock. His finger-tips were touching, and he was gazing with good-natured tolerance at the little green garden which was the Commissioner's special delight. He was black, very black; but his manners were easy, and his bearing self-possessed. He nodded smilingly to Sanders and extended a lazy hand. "Ah, Mr. Commissioner," he said in faultless English, "I have heard a great deal about you." "Get out of that chair," said Sanders, who had no small talk worth mentioning, "and stand up when I come out to you! What do you want?" The Reverend Kenneth rose quickly, and accepted the situation with a rapidity which will be incomprehensible to any who do not know how thumbnail deep is the cultivation of the cultured savage.