_Sunday, 28th October_.--My patient holding on; will now probably pull through. As he has to be fed on liquids, my own fowls have all gone in chicken soup. Fowls are now very scarce, and my men, taking advantage of the high premium and urgent demand, have gone long distances to get them. They will not supply them to the invalid, but sell them to me to give him. Wishing to teach them a lesson in philanthropy, I declined to buy any more on these terms; and after seeing me go three days dinnerless to give Kacquia his chance of life they became ashamed of themselves, and handed me all the fowls they had in a present. This was a prodigious effort for a native, and proves him capable of better things. The whole camp had been watching this byplay for a day or two, and the finish did good all round--more especially as I gave a return present, after a judicious interval, worth five times what had been given me. Held the usual service in the evening--a piece of very primitive Christianity. Moolu, who had learned much from Dr. Laws, undertook the sermon, and discoursed with great eloquence on the Tower of Babel. The preceding Sunday he had waxed equally warm over the Rich Man and Lazarus; and his description of the Rich Man in terms of native ideas of wealth--"plenty of calico and plenty of beads"--was a thing to remember. "Mission-blacks," in Natal and at the Cape, are a byword among the unsympathetic; but I never saw Moolu do an inconsistent thing. He could neither read nor write; he knew only some dozen words of English; until seven years ago he had never seen a white man; but I could trust him with everything I had. He was not "pious"; he was neither bright nor clever; he was a commonplace black; but he did his duty and never told a lie. The first night of our camp, after all had gone to rest, I remember being roused by a low talking. I looked out of my tent; a flood of moonlight lit up the forest; and there, kneeling upon the ground, was a little group of natives, and Moolu in the centre conducting evening prayers. Every night afterwards this service was repeated, no matter how long the march was nor how tired the men. I make no comment. But this I will say--Moolu's life gave him the right to do it. Mission reports are often said to be valueless; they are less so than anti-mission reports. I believe in missions, for one thing, because I believe in Moolu.