Running into McLeansville early this Monday morning, thinking to make it a minister’s rest-day, with only this article and other letters and a sermon for the night on hand, I found the church at the opening of a protracted meeting with the visiting preacher announced for forenoon, afternoon and evening; house crowded all day, with two hundred people in it by count; all remaining with lunch in hand, between the first and second services, and many holding over between the second and third. And this is the habit of the people at such a time. All unnecessary work is put aside and the entire time given up to religious service. This habit they take from that of the white churches, with the exception that the colored people have added the third service. Pastor Connet had held a similar meeting in another part of his field this fall, and yesterday, as a result of it, twelve members were added to this church. One of those converts, an old man, testified, bearing himself with the air of a conqueror: “I have fought the devil, and I’ve got the victory. Jesus helped me. I have fought the devil, and I’ve got the victory.” The meetings are orderly and solemn—congregational, only warmed up by the African glow. The membership now numbers one hundred and fifty-six. Pastor Connet is also superintendent of the school, which is doing a good work in raising up teachers. * * * * * CONTRASTS. The Past and the Present. L. A. P. “Reminiscences” in the October MISSIONARY have recalled a host of buried memories concerning the days of pioneer work, with its swiftly-changing experiences of humor and pathos. I might draw a picture of the good man who often asked the Lord to “bless these teachers that have left their homes in foreign lands and come a far distance to destruct us;” of the old aunties who came to inquire about friends and old masters in Virginia and the Carolinas, thinking we must know the history of each family, because “didn’t you come right by there on your way down from the North?” of the romances and tragedies connected with the hundreds of letters we wrote inquiring for lost friends, sold away in the days of slavery; but one picture is more vivid than others, and as the days of quaint prayers are rapidly passing, I am tempted to commit it to print. Almost a dozen years ago, I found myself one of two teachers in a night school varying from forty to sixty pupils. The roughly-ceiled room was long, low and dimly lighted. The scholars were hard-working men and women who walked one, two, three or four miles, after the day’s labor, for the sake of acquiring a bit of book learning. At ten o’clock lessons closed with a Bible reading, singing and prayer.