After supper we all went to the house of the native teacher for a little prayer meeting. He was a young married man with several children, but his housekeeping arrangements were very simple. There was but one room. The floor was of mud, the ceiling was mud and straw, the walls were mud and stone. In one corner was a big pile of mattresses and blankets; in another was a small pile of cooking utensils, and one wall was hollowed out to serve as a bin for flour. The teacher’s children lay on mattresses spread upon the bare floor and slept quite soundly through all the talking and singing. As there were no other Protestants in the village, the attendance was naturally small. Two or three neighbors slipped in quietly and seated themselves by the door. These Catholics were probably drawn here merely by curiosity to see the American ladies and their visitors; but they sat reverently through the service and seemed to pay very close attention, though their dark, inscrutable faces gave no hint as to what they thought of the proceedings. It was not an inspiring audience; but the ladies met each newcomer with a bright smile and a tactful word of greeting. We sang strange-sounding words to an old, familiar tune, after which one of the missionaries read a few verses from the Bible and added a brief explanation of their meaning. The second hymn was set to an Arab air that sounded a little startling to our Western ears. Then came a short closing prayer, followed immediately by very lengthy Oriental salutations, as the two strangers were introduced to the people of the Ras. We should have liked to stay several days and investigate at first-hand the work among women, of which we had heard encouraging reports; but we had to ride away early the next morning. The two missionaries walked out to the edge of the village with us, where the older lady gave us a ridiculously large lunch and a pleasant invitation to “call again the next time you are passing!” The younger—she was very young—pretended to weep copiously at our departure, and wrung bucketfuls of imaginary tears out of her handkerchief. Then the two cheery figures went back up the hill to their long, lonely winter of exile. * * * * * On the last Sunday of the Old Year the air was just crisp enough to make walking an exhilarating delight. It was one of the days, not infrequent in the rainy season, when the clouds draw away for a time, while earth and sky, cleansed and refreshed by the recent showers, shine with the refulgence of the rarest mornings of our Western springtime.