You will rejoice to hear of the good work in the Central Congregational Church of New Orleans. The interest has been sufficient to bring an unusual number every night for four weeks to our prayer-meeting. One evening, after the pastor had taken nearly the usual time, he called for brief testimony from Christians. Fifty-three responded in the limited half hour. The fruit to be gathered in was from among the older students of the school, who were not already professing Christians. This was what would be expected by those who know their faithful, Christian teachers. All teachers know the thrilling interest that clusters around the conversion of young persons under their tuition. So, as I have heard our teachers talk of this scholarly young man, and that promising young woman, coming over to the Lord’s side, I knew very well what a burden of prayer and effort was lifted from their hearts and hands. The third week of our meetings a younger class seemed interested. One evening a widow begged us to pray for her daughter, in tones that would have melted a heart of stone. As she passed out of the door, at the close of the meeting, I overheard her saying to one and another, “Pray for my child! pray for my child!” An earnest mother, I thought; who can doubt the reality of her religion? On my way home I learned that her husband had been a devoted member of our church, and a wealthy, intelligent, respected colored citizen. I am happy to find such men are not rare in New Orleans. The next evening the mother, with the same pleading earnestness, begged us to pray for her child. Since her husband’s death her property had gone, other dear ones had passed on, and it seemed as though she could not be denied the conversion of her child. The grandmother was present, too, and gave us a soul-stirring testimony of her long pilgrimage. When those who wished our prayers were requested to come forward, several responded. All were strangers to me; but when a certain little girl went forward just behind the others, a tide of emotion almost overcame me. She was as much a stranger to me as the others, and I, for a moment, wondered at my tears. Then it flashed upon me that she must be the widow’s child, and my emotion was caused by the flood of sympathy that was involuntarily surging from heart to heart for that praying mother. On inquiry, I found I was not mistaken. You can imagine, better than I can describe, the scene, when mother and grandmother gathered about the child, pleading with her to yield to Jesus, as we all knelt to commend the lost lambs to a loving Shepherd.