One day she noticed a tornado brewing on the Cameroon heights, and kept
indoors. While sitting sewing the storm burst. The wind seized the
village, lifting fences, canoes, trees, and buildings; lightning played
and crackled about the hut; the thunder pealed overhead; and rain fell
in floods. Then a column of flame leapt from the sky to earth, and a
terrific crash deafened the cowering people. Accustomed as she was to
tornadoes Mary was afraid. The slaves came rushing into the yard,
shrieking, and at the same moment the roof of her hut was swept away,
and she was beaten to the ground by the violence of the rain. In the
light of the vivid flashes she groped her way through the water, now up
to her ankles, and from her boxes obtained all the wraps she possessed.
To keep up the spirits of the children she started a hymn, "Oh, come
let us sing." Amidst the roar of the elements they caught the tune, and
gradually their terror was subdued. When the torrent ceased she was in
a high fever. She dosed herself with quinine, and as the shadow of
death is never very far away in Africa she made all arrangements in
case the end should come. But her temperature fell, and in two days she
was herself again.

There was a morning when her greetings were responded to with such
gravity that she knew something serious had occurred. During the night
two of the young wives of a chief had broken the strictest law in Efik,
had left the women's yard and entered one where a boy was sleeping, and
as nothing can be hidden in a slave community their husband knew at
once. The culprits were called out, and with them two other girls, who
were aware of the escapade, but did not tell. The chief, and the men of
position in his compound and district, sat in judgment upon them, and
decided that each must receive one hundred stripes.