do not fear them, but somehow a feeling of unrest steals over me; they seem like shades of departed Israelites back again from their long sleep. In the gathering gloom I pass quickly into the mission-house near by.

This proves to be an evening full of interest to me. I learn that a mission-service is soon to begin, and that a number of the villagers will be here for the service. I am impressed with the quiet (save for the barking of dogs) that prevails in these Arab villages. I see no drunkenness, and there is no boisterous rudeness of other sort.

In a little while a score or more of men come quietly to the mission-house, remove their sandals, pass into the room, and seat themselves on the earthen floor against the walls. Mrs. Mitry beckons to me to come to the door; she wanted me to see that row of forty sandals. She said in her broken way that it was interesting to her, and she thought it would interest me.

It is only a little while until Mr. Mitry enters and takes his place at a small table in the center of the room. A half hour or more is spent in smoking cigarettes—almost every native smokes. Here it seems that the habit is in no sense considered a vice. Indeed, the missionary himself, not only smokes, but assists in making cigarettes for the others. They smoke and smoke until the room is so darkened that we see each other but dimly through the haze. I am surprised that I can endure it. The tobacco must be different from that used in America, for ordinarily a single cigarette is more offensive to me than was the smoke of nearly fifty on that evening—for some of the men smoked two or three apiece in that close room.

After the smoking was over black coffee was served in small cups holding about one-fourth as much as the average teacup. They sip this slowly and talk. I note that frequently they are saying something about "hawadje," and then they fix their eyes upon me. My dragoman tells me that he has been explaining our hard trip to Gerasa, that they were skeptical about it, but that he has convinced them of its verity.

But now it is time for the service. Mr. Mitry opens his Bible and reads in Arabic the story of Moses' invitation to Hobab. Then he expounds the Scripture for some time while the men listen with rapt attention. There are some questions and answers. I understand only a word now and then, but it is a picture of more than ordinary interest to me to look upon the expectant, and then the satisfied faces of these natives.

When the lesson was over a request came from the men for me to speak to them. Through my dragoman as interpreter I spoke a little while on the theme of the evening, which meant much to me there where the migration of Moses was in a measure felt by the early inhabitants. They listened attentively, and when I had finished they told my guide to say to "hawadje" that they wanted him to stay and make his home with them. Then, the meeting over, they moved out into the darkness with graceful "salaams," and with the promise of one of their number to accompany us on the morrow. They said we must not go on alone.

The service-room is now to be my bed-room. A pallet is brought to me, and on it I am soon trying to sleep. But the beautiful sunset, the vision of the past of this region, the mission-service, the stillness of the night—so still that the very silence seems audible—keep me awake for some time. I am lying by the "watch-tower of Gilead." I seem to see the Spirit of Prophecy standing on its broken battlements, wrapped in the shadows of the night, looking hopefully toward the place of sun-rising. I call to him, "Watchman, what of the night?" In sweet tones of assurance comes the answer, "The morning cometh! The story of the Christ will yet transform the darkness that rests here into the brightness of noonday." Then a sweet peace seemed wafted into my soul from out the unseen somewhere,—but certainly from Him who "giveth his beloved sleep."