tronger arms could of course do better, and everything was soon in
special dress. Then Pathema had a comforting talk with the grandfather
and with his faithful little servant-maid, ending by telling her a
charming tale of a Forest Nymph. Before leaving she placed a silver
coin in the old man's trembling hand; and as she departed, he could
only say, "God bless thee," while the child clung to her sympathetic
hand for some distance along the street.

Thus Pathema, accompanied by her servant, went from house to house a
messenger of mercy. The harvest-field of suffering and privation was
then, as ever, white; but the reapers were few, and of modern reaping
instruments--hospitals and "homes"--there were none. How much
Christianity has done, yet how much to do!

Partaking of a plain mid-day meal of _maza_, barley bread, and figs,
with a venerable heathen widow whose heart was opening to Christianity,
she also supplied this poor one's need, and resumed her journey
refreshed.

The afternoon was well advanced when they passed underneath the Triple
Arch of the city wall on their way outward to a sheltered spot not far
beyond. In a clump of olive trees and beside a limpid spring, they
came upon a hut occupied by motherless children, alone and unprotected,
the hireling having left the day before. Sadder still, the only one
old enough to give material help, and who did help as long as she was
able, Biona, a girl of twelve, was dying of consumption. The sight to
Pathema was very distressing, but she attended promptly to the wants of
the sick one, laving her face and hands, and giving her a little
nourishment, while Miriam looked after the younger children and the
house.

Biona was somewhat revived, and Pathema sat down beside her to whisper
just a consoling word or two at intervals. The girl expressed heir
gratitude briefly, showing it more in her large, hollow but brilliant
eyes, which rested for a time in peace on her visitor's tender face.
The peace was of short duration, for Biona was very feeble. She moved
her head and hands uneasily in the hot air of the little room, and at
last exclaimed in a low plaintive voice--"Oh! for breath and rest,
rest."

"Let me carry thee out, my dear, as thy father does, and lay thee among
the olive trees," said Pathema, feeling keenly, while she held the
invalid's thin, white hand bearing the marks of toil.

"Thou art not able," replied Biona huskily, and with grateful tears,
adding