woman says:

"I have prayed and prayed till there is no breath left in me. God does
not answer. He does not care."

"To whom do you pray?"

"I don't know, but I call Him God. I tell Him I have no friend. I say
'You see me. I am sick. I am hungry. I am good. I don't steal. I don't
keep bread from any one. I don't kill. I don't speak with my mouth when
my heart is far away. Have mercy upon me.'"

Mary talks to her lovingly and earnestly, and when she leaves, the
heart of the wretched woman is quietened and grateful.

It is afternoon, and time for the Efik service at four o'clock, and
Mary, a little tired with the heat and the strain, turns and makes for
Mission Hill.




IV. THE PULL OF HOME

It was not long before she had to revise her opinion of the climate.
Nature was beautiful, but beneath its fair appearance lurked influences
that were cruel and pitiless. "Calabar needs a brave heart and a stout
body," she wrote; "not that I have very much of the former, but I have
felt the need for it often when sick and lonely." Both the dry and
rainy seasons had their drawbacks, but she especially disliked the