peration. Her face was a passport to their hearts. Ignorant of
books, human faces were the scrolls from which they had been reading for
ages. They had been the sunshine and shadow of their lives.

Iola had found a school-room in the basement of a colored church, where
the doors were willingly opened to her. Her pupils came from miles
around, ready and anxious to get some "book larnin'." Some of the old
folks were eager to learn, and it was touching to see the eyes which had
grown dim under the shadows of slavery, donning spectacles and trying to
make out the words. As Iola had nearly all of her life been accustomed
to colored children she had no physical repulsions to overcome, no
prejudices to conquer in dealing with parents and children. In their
simple childish fashion they would bring her fruits and flowers, and
gladden her lonely heart with little tokens of affection.

One day a gentleman came to the school and wished to address the
children. Iola suspended the regular order of the school, and the
gentleman essayed to talk to them on the achievements of the white race,
such as building steamboats and carrying on business. Finally, he asked
how they did it?

"They've got money," chorused the children.

"But how did they get it?"

"They took it from us," chimed the youngsters. Iola smiled, and the
gentleman was nonplussed; but he could not deny that one of the powers
of knowledge is the power of the strong to oppress the weak.

The school was soon overcrowded with applicants, and Iola was forced to
refuse numbers, because their quarters were too cramped. The school was
beginning to lift up the home, for Iola was not satisfied to teach her
children only the rudiments of knowledge. She had tried to lay the
foundation of good character. But the elements of evil burst upon her
loved and cherished work. One night the heavens were lighted with lurid
flames, and Iola beheld the school, the pride and joy of her pupils and
their parents, a smouldering ruin. Iola gazed with sorrowful dismay on
what seemed the cruel work of an incendiary's torch. While she sat,
mournfully contemplating the work of destruction, her children formed a
procession, and, passing by the wreck of their school, sang:--

"Oh, do not be discouraged,
For Jesus is your friend."

As they sang, the tears sprang to Iola's eyes, and she said to herself,
"I am not despondent of the future of my people; there is too much
elasticity in their sp