“My end was near. In spite of all that I had done for the hospital, the sweeper carried me out in a bucket, and then, without ceremony or apology, the whole pile of us were set on fire, and we went up in a chariot like Elijah.” He ended his story, and as I looked at him, I was just about to say: “How did you ever get back here out of the bucket and the fire to come and tell me your story?” but when I began to speak, the bandage speedily disappeared, and so did the hospital, and I awoke from my dream. The hospital records, however, show how the story of the bandage is true in every particular. “Oh, what can little hands do To please the King of Heaven? The little hands some work may try To help the poor in misery: Such grace to mine be given.” [Illustration] XVII NAJMA’S LAST CHRISTMAS Our little Arab friend, Najma, was born a long distance from the place where last Christmas was spent. Bagdad is the city, you remember, where Sinbad the sailor lived, and in this very city on the old river Tibris Najma was born. Her father and mother were both good Moslems and she was their first-born child, and yet not very welcome, because all Moslems like to have boy babies and not girls. They gave her the name of Fatima after the daughter of Mohammed, their prophet. When she was afterwards baptized into the Christian faith with her mother the name Najma was given her which means a “star.” Her father suffered much persecution for changing his religion, and when he was sent into exile far away from his home, she with her mother and brothers came down the river to Busrah and down the Persian Gulf to Bahrein. It was a long zigzag journey for them by flat-bottom river boat and ocean steamer, and then in the little harbour boat, tacking with the wind to shore. Until the family came to us they did not know what Christmas meant, and of course had never celebrated it. When her third Christmas came, and it was her last, it was still a fresh and joyful occasion to her, therefore, as it was to all of us in that lonely island and amongst our little group of converts. Not only was it the last Christmas to Najma but for others in that company gathered to celebrate the birthday of our Saviour. Two other little voices that sang so sweetly “Where do all the daisies go? I know, I know! Underneath the snow they creep, Drop their heads and go to sleep. In the spring-time up they peep. That is where they go,” were silent before the next Christmas came around. And then the mother of Najma who looked so strong and sat in the corner, interested so deeply in all the recitations and songs, with two others of that little company had gone Home before the end of the new year. [Illustration: A Bedouin Girl playing peek-a-boo on a camel]