hand, and there was uproar and craven fear. Sharing in the panic the
master was powerless. At the sight of others in peril Mary threw aside
her own nervousness and anxiety and took command. In a few moments
order was restored and the boat was brought close to the tangle of
bush, and the men, springing up like monkeys into the branches, held on
to the canoe, which was now being dashed up and down like a straw. Mary
sat with the water up to her knees, the children lashed to her by a
waterproof, their heads hidden in her lap. Lightning, thunder, rain,
and wave combined to make one of the grandest displays of the earth's
forces she had ever witnessed.

As quickly as it came the storm passed, and to the strains of a hymn
which she started the journey was resumed. She was shaking with ague,
and in order to put some heat into her the chief came and sat down on
one side, while his big wife sat on the other. As her temperature rose,
the paddlers grew alarmed, and pulled as they had never done in their
lives. Dawn was stealing over the land when Old Town was reached, and
as "Ma" was hardly a fit sight for critical eyes, she was carried up by
a bush path to the Mission House.

Ill as she was, her first care was to make a fire to obtain hot tea for
the children and to tuck them away comfortably for the night. Then she
tottered to her bed, to rise some days later, a wreck of her former
self, but smiling and cheerful as usual....

Towards the close of the year 1882 a tornado swept over Old Town and
damaged the house to such an extent that she had to make a hasty escape
and take refuge in a factory. The Presbytery brought her to Duke Town,
but she became so ill as a result of her strenuous life and her
experience in the storm, that she was ordered home, and left in April