“I am wondering,” he replied slowly, “why we two should be sick. We are both Christians and you are a minister, and there are so many on board who do not try to do right. I hear them cursing God all the time as they pass up and down the gangway. And they are all well. I have often thought of it; but I do not understand.” A little boy from the depths of the African jungle struggles with the same question which sorely tried an ancient sufferer, and to which his friends gave but vain answers. There was among the deck-passengers a woman whose language Ndong knew, although it was not his own. Before his sickness reached the worst I sometimes asked this woman to sit with him while I sat on deck. One day he said to me: “Mr. Milligan, we must pray for that woman. She is in great darkness. She talked about things she ought not to mention; and I told her about Jesus.” We called at many ports along the way; but I did not leave the ship. On the fourth Sunday we reached Sierra Leone, usually the last African port for these ships of the southwest coast. In this splendid and beautiful harbour with its amphitheatre of hills, there were more vessels together than I had seen in years. But the most interesting of all was a British man-of-war. I heard the singing at the “divine service” which is held every Sunday morning on all British war-ships. All the passengers excepting myself had gone ashore, and I was alone on the deck, and not only alone, but lonely and tired. Ndong was sleeping in a chair beside me. It was then that the first hymn from the war-ship rang clear across the still water, sung in perfect time by that large chorus of strong men’s voices, the harbour forming a perfect acoustic chamber. The tune was the old classic, “St. Anne.” The words were those usually sung to this tune in our own churches, “Our God, our help in the ages past!” I have never heard anything more beautiful and impressive; and after my long exile in the jungle my mind was susceptive to the influence of its power and beauty. The hymn, both words and music, had always been a favourite, answering, as it seemed to me, to something fundamental in our nature; but from this time it became _the_ favourite. And since that time, whenever I ask choirs and congregations to sing it I am always hearing within and beyond their voices, the music of that chorus of men in the far off African harbour. I cannot forbear to quote the words. “Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come; Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home! “Under the shadow of Thy throne, Thy saints have dwelt secure; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defense is sure. “Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. “Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.