scolding them, but always leading them to the only things that
mattered. "If I told you what I have seen and known of human sorrow
during the past months you would weep till your heart ached," she wrote
to a friend. Some of her experiences she could not tell; they revealed
such depths of depravity and horror that the actions of the wild beasts
of the bush were tame in comparison.

At Creek Town, as elsewhere, it was not easy to tabulate what had been
achieved, as the fact that women could not make open confession without
incurring the gravest penalties kept the missionaries ignorant of the
effect of their work. But Mary saw behind the veil; she knew quiet
women whose souls looked out of their eyes, and who were more in touch
with the unseen than they dared tell; women who prayed and communed
with God even while condemned to heathen practices. There was one blind
woman whom she placed far before herself in the Christian race:

She is so poor that she has not one farthing in the world but what she
gets from us--not a creature to do a thing for her, her house all open
to rain and sun, and into which the cows rush at times--but blind Mary
is our one living, bright, clear light. Her voice is ever set to music,
a miracle to the people here, who only know how to groan and grumble at
the best. She is ever praising the Lord for some wonderful
manifestation of mercy and love, and her testimony to her Saviour is
not a shabby one. The other day I heard the King say that she was the
only visible witness among the Church members in the town, but he
added, "She is a proper one." Far advanced in spiritual knowledge and
experience, she knows the deep things of God. That old hut is like a
heaven here to more than me.

"Pray for us here" was the appeal in all her letters to Scotland at