the sleepers were roused.

"Ma," said a Government doctor at last, "you will die if you do not take
a rest." And very sorrowfully she replied that it was likely, and so
she went home to Scotland, taking Dan and leaving Janie to take care of
the other children.

Dan, who was only six years old, proved a very handy little
man-of-all-work. He soon learned to speak English, and ran her messages,
carried her parcels, and even cooked her tit-bits of food. He had a
royal time, being loaded with toys and books and sweets, and Ma was
anxious that he should not be spoiled. She would often ask those with
whom she stayed to allow him to sit on the floor, that he might not
forget who he was.

He had quick eyes, and saw everything. When he went out in a town with
Ma he begged to have the money for the street cars, for, he said,
"Gentlemen always pay for the ladies!" But he did not always understand
what he saw. At table he thought the sharpening of the carving-knife on
the steel was part of the grace before meals!

Her friends found Ma much changed. "Oh, Mary," said one, "I didn't know
you."

"Nae wonder," she said, laughing, "look at my face!" It was dark and
withered and wrinkled, though her eyes were as bright and merry as ever
and full of changing lights.

One day she went to pay a visit to Mrs. Scott, the lady of the manse at
Bonkle, in Lanarkshire. They had written to one another for years, but
had never met. There were young people there, and all were greatly
excited, for the black boy was also expected. Everything that love
could think of was done for the comfort of the guest. At last the cab
appeared at the bend of the road, and all hurried to the gate. Down
jumped Dan smiling, sure of his welcome. Then was helped out a frail and
delicate lady, who looked round shyly and brightly answered all the
greetings. She walked slowly up the garden path, gazing at the green
lawns and the flower-beds and the borders of shady trees, and drinking
in the goodness of it all.

"All this," she said, "and for me!"

She was so weak and ill that she was glad to sink into a cushiony chair
placed for her in the sunniest corner of the sunny room. The young girls
followed her in. Stretching out her hands towards them, she cried:

"Oh! how many of you lassies am I to get?"

And, glad to tell, she did get one, Miss Young, who went out to Calabar
and became to her like a daughter, and was afterwards picked out by the
Church as the one be