There are many gifted, cultured, gracious women, whose devotion to the cause of foreign missions is soul-refreshing to see or to read about. But there are also others, equally gracious women, although not equally gifted and cultured, whose labours, sacrifices, and influence are and have been such as even their more gifted and cultured sisters have never come near--gentle, sweet-tempered, tender-hearted, unobtrusive women who, seldom seen on platforms and never in the pulpit, and little heard of even in missionary circles, are not much reckoned among the workers and forces making for righteousness--and yet the influence, example and work of such are among the most powerful factors in the mission field. For not only do they reign as queens in their own homes--which are always models of what such ought to be in cleanliness, comfort and hospitality (‘Marys in the House of God, Marthas in their own’)--but also in the huts and homes of the natives, because they reign in the hearts of the native women, who adore them, and look up to them as their highest example of all that is Christian, womanly and motherly. With limited gifts and but little culture--as those words are generally understood--they are greatly gifted in tact, mother-wit and sanctified common sense, and rich in that heart-culture which counts for so much in all Christian work, but especially in foreign mission work. Like their prototype, Mary of old, they do what they can, and their influence and example, like the odour of her ointment, are felt far and near. For they fill their fields of labour with their aroma, penetrating to the most unthought-of places, and permeating all the ways and walks of native and missionary home, social and public life. Such are not only mothers in Israel, sisters in sorrow, and helpers in every season of affliction and time of need, but they are the Marys, Marthas, Dorcases, Priscillas and Phoebes of the mission field, and rare and precious blessings they are to it and to all connected with it. In those early days there were very few horses, and those not good, while all were very dear. Our pastors, chiefs and other head-men, when they knew I could ride, strongly advised me to buy a horse. There were only a very few men at Fihàonana trained to carry the so-called palanquin with any comfort. Often when I wanted them they were engaged in field or other work for their masters, and could not be had. But the horses were high-priced, unbroken, and riding was exhausting in the rarified air at an altitude of 5,000 feet above sea-level, and hence I was loth to get one. Nor was that all. When on horseback you could not carry an umbrella, and, even in the cold season, without one you were so beaten on the shoulders by the sun’s rays as to feel after a few hours as if you had been belaboured with a stick. Walking was almost an impossibility, and would have been suicidal.