I HAVE opened one more school, a mile from the road. I had to walk that distance. Those burning days it was pretty severe, as the road lay over sand hills and plowed fields. The school was so nice, the children so happy, one could not remember the discomfort.

An old Mohammedan priest tried to break it up, and did compel some to withdraw their children, but the school is secure.

Several women came in to see Miss Sohiba and watch the school. The Bible lesson began from a picture of the Prodigal Son, hung on the wall. An old lady listened; her face sobered, tears filled her eyes; finally, amid broken sobs, she declared—

“O, Miss Sohiba, that is my boy! That is my boy!”

Most touchingly she told how he had gone, how she had watched and waited for him, but he never came back.—Extract from Miss Pratt’s letter from India.