The scores of holy men and women sustained by them, with prayers in their hearts, tears in their voices, hovering like angels and toiling like slaves, along all these borders of misery and woe, counting peril as gain and death as naught, so it is in His Name. But here another picture rises; as if common woe were not enough, the angel of disease flaps his black wings like a pall, and in once bright Zeitoun and Marash contagion reigns. By scores, by hundreds, they die; no help, no medicine, no skill, little food, and the last yard of cotton gone to cover the sick and dying. To whom came the cry, "Help or we perish! Send us physicians!" The contributed gifts of America open the doors of classic Beyrout, and Ira Harris, with his band of doctors, speeds his way. In Eskandaroon sleep the waiting caravans. The order comes, "Arise and go! henceforth your way is clear." Camels heavy laden, not with ivory and jewels, gold in the ingot and silk in the bales, but food and raiment for the starving, the sick, and the dying. Onward they sweep toward dread Killis--the wild tribe's knives before, the Moslem troops behind--"go on! we protect;" till at length the spires of Aintab rise in view. Weary the camels and weary the men--Hubbell, Fuller, Wistar, Wood, Mason--names that should live in story for the brave deeds of that march but just begun. The quick, glad cry of welcome of a city that had known but terror, sorrow and neglect for months--a little rest, help given, and over the mountains deep in snow, weary and worn their caravans go, toiling on toward fever and death. Let us leave them to their task. This is the work of America's people abroad. My message, through you, to her people at home--not to her small and poor, but to her rich and powerful people, is, remember this picture and be not weary in well doing. CLARA BARTON.