"But what _makes_ it go?" was the third time repeated query. Then the small questioner, and I, listened for words of wisdom from the mother's lips. "I told you, Alice, it was a cable car; now be quiet; you ask too many questions." I think Alice and I came to the same conclusion; that the mother did not understand how to explain a cable car, and did not want to own it. Now you are asking _me_ what a cable car is. Oh, dear! I don't understand how to tell you; and I will own it. I have questioned until it is pretty clear to me, but as I said, I don't know how to tell it. You see, the one who explained it to me, seated me in a chair at one side, and said: "You are the engine." This astonishing statement held me quiet, while he put into my hand a tiny cord which he said was a very strong and heavy band. Being bound to believe him, I watched the band placed around a great wheel, on the street in front of me. Away down the street, about two miles, was another wheel, and a rope which had neither beginning nor end was placed around both wheels; at least that was what "he" said. To be sure, it looked to me like the study table, and an inkstand, and a tin can with some twine around them. But since _I_ was an engine, why could not they be two great wheels connected by a rope? "Now," said the speaker, "you--being the engine, you understand--are set in motion, and the band about you being connected with this great wheel, when the band moves, the great wheels do the same, and the iron rope responds, and moves round and round. Now here comes along a car" (it wasn't, it was a spool of thread; never mind!) "here comes along a car drawn by horses; but this a steep ascent" (it was as level as the floor), "and they want to use engine power, so they take off the horses, and a little contrivance underneath grasps the chain, and away goes the car. Understand?" Yes, I understand, after a fashion. The question is, Do you? Well, we went down town on the cable car. Arrived at the city, we went with speed to a music store, made our way up stairs to the "parlors." We were late; every chair taken; very little standing room left. We found some, however, to stand in, and were glad even for this opportunity of hearing the sweet-voiced speaker. Who who she? Her name is Layah Barrakat. A strange-sounding name? Oh, yes, she is a foreigner. Her birthplace is away among the mountains of Lebanon. Once she was a little heathen girl; and the strange sad things she told would have made the tears come to your eyes. If ever you hear or read that Layah Barrakat is to speak on Foreign Missions in any building near where you live, I want you to be sure to hear her. Let me tell you the story of a pair of red shoes. Our missionaries had a Sabbath-school near where Layah lived; but she had been taught that it was a very wicked place, and she must have nothing to do with it.