only he could persuade the rioters to return, something might still be saved, and he would gain time for his wife and children. He lifted up his heart to God, and walked forward into the courtyard, his head erect, his face lighted up with the courage which God gives to those who put their trust in Him. He needed it all to-day. The sight which met his view, when he turned the corner, was disquieting in the extreme. The din was terrific; the courtyard a mass of howling, frantic rioters. Glancing hastily back to the house to see that all was right there, he suddenly turned pale. On the verandah overlooking the courtyard stood a small, slight figure he knew only too well—the little, white face of the child whom he loved.

"Oh, father, father darling, don't go; oh, come back to us; they will kill you."

"Cicely, for God's sake, my darling, go back to your mother. I must do my duty. You are only increasing my anxiety tenfold; go back at once." The little figure suddenly disappeared, and, with a sigh of relief, Mr. St. John went out and faced the angry crowd. What he saw gave him the keenest pain and apprehension. Their hands were literally red with blood. They had killed several of the native Christians, dragging their bodies along with them in fiendish triumph. One poor fellow lay at Mr. St. John's feet; he was suffering from frightful wounds, but he was still alive, and as for the moment the attention of the crowd was distracted by a fresh disturbance from without, the clergyman managed to draw him into the house, and place him for a moment in a position of safety. He did what he could for the poor fellow; gave him a long draught of water, and staunched the flowing blood, but it was evident to the practised eye of the physician that his life was ebbing fast away. Yet the cross of Christ still triumphed—tortured, wounded, bleeding to death, on his face there lay the light which was not of this world.

"Teacher," he murmured, with a bright smile of recognition, "it is all over, and I am glad. Only a few minutes more and I shall be with Jesus. Do not look sad, I have no pain, and I am going to the land where there is no more weariness, or persecution, or suffering." Suddenly his whole countenance was eradiated with joy. "I see the gates of heaven opened," he cried, with ecstasy, "and Jesus on the right hand of God waiting to receive me. Oh, what a blessed thing to belong to Christ!"

"Dear, dear fellow," said Mr. St. John, tenderly, holding the poor man's hand in a kind, gentle clasp. "How thankful I am that the Lord sent me here. It has made it hard for you in this world, but this 'light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.'"

"Yes, the glory; the glory, that is it," the dying man murmured almost inaudibly, and even as he spoke he seemed to pass away. Mr. St. John laid him gently, reverently down. His heart was sad and yet throbbed with joy. The pain was over for ever, and he was at rest with Jesus. He had no time for much thought; the noise seemed to be increasing without, and once more he turned to the court-yard. What he saw there sent the hot blood surging through his veins—tied to a post in the court-yard was a poor woman he knew, one of the converts who had but lately been baptized.

Poor Daig Ong stood there in agony of fear, her hands were tied behind her back, and fastened to one of the posts in the court-yard; she would be beaten to death unless someone interposed—this being a very favourite manner of execution amongst the Chinese. The man nearest to her raised his heavy stick; there was a dull, sickening thud, a groan of pain. The man lifted his stick a second time, but, in a moment, before it could descend, Paul St. John was upon him. He had not been the best athlete at Cambridge for nothing. With one blow he dispossessed the man with the stick, the next instant the poor woman was free, and he was standing before her, his head thrown back, his nostrils dilated, eyes ablaze with righteous indignation. Stern and beautiful he looked as he stood there, yet as he gazed over that sea of cruel yellow faces, more like demons than men, his anger died away, and a vast wave of pity surged in his breast; it was akin to that pity the Christ felt when He gazed at Jerusalem and wept over it. All this hatred and cruelty and hideous passion were the result of devil thraldom—"and such were some of you." Yes, indeed, without Christ, wherein should any of us differ?

"The poor woman was free, and he was standing before her."

How little we in England, who speak of the reproach of Christ, know what it really means in a heathen country. Perhaps we are coldly treated, and we think it hard if we have to put up with a sneer or a few unkind words, and flatter ourselves with the conviction that we are bearing His reproach that we are suffering persecution; but when we look on the other picture our paltry woes dwindle into insignificance. Indeed, when we read, as we did last year, of the awful hardships and privations, the torturing deaths, which our missionaries and the native Christians underwent, then we would sink into the ground for shame. We feel that we can never thank God enough for His mercies to us, the while we look on our fellow Christians over the sea with an admiration a little, maybe, tinged with envy, in that they were accounted worthy to suffer for that beloved Name, dearer and sweeter by far to every Christian than any other on earth.

For a brief moment there was a respite; a mob ever recognizes power, and this was something they could not understand. What if the white man who stood there so fearlessly towering above them were an incarnation of one of the gods? But no, the pictures of their gods were far different from this: they had cruel, wicked faces, like their own. Still they hesitated. They had heard of this man, this great doctor, of his wonderful cures. Suppose, now, he used his magic upon them, inflicting some sore disaster, some awful punishment. Paul St. John noticed their indecision and took advantage of it to whisper to the poor woman behind him to slip back by degrees, and so make good her escape. They were standing together at the entrance of the courtyard; the crowd, for the most part—the mad, surging, bloodthirsty crowd—stood between them and the house. The eyes of the people seemed to be drawn to him as the one central figure; they watched him as a man on guard would watch every movement of his opponent in a deadly duel.

Daig Ong was permitted to pass out unperceived, and found refuge in a house belonging to one of the native Christians. When she was gone Paul St. John breathed more freely. He knew that unless God wrought a special miracle in his favour this could not last long; yet he felt no fear, Jesus had never been so near. It seemed to him that the Lord was actually standing there beside him, and something of the rapturous exaltation of his soul was visible in his countenance. He raised his hand to speak. The spell was broken. With one hideous cry, more dreadful, more cruel in its lust for blood than that of any wild beast, they sprang at him and threw him down and trod him underfoot. It was like a storm picture—you look out and see the gallant little vessel battling with the waves, borne up upon their crested billows, and the next moment they roll over it, and