"If you could see the difference between Dr. MacKay's students, who were with me as nurses and hospital assistants, and their heathen neighbours," replied Sinclair, " you would not say that. I have never seen nurses or medical students in a hospital at home more cleanly, faithful or efficient, or more apt to learn. Their people were just common, ignorant Chinese peasants. I know of no explanation of the difference between these boys and others of their class, except that these were Christians and the others were not."

"I see that you quite agree with my husband in this. But I do not. When we were at home it seemed romantic to hear about foreign missions. But when I came out here, and saw those ignorant natives, and heard some of them called Christians, it quite disgusted me. And Dr. MacKay actually asked us to go to the native church and sit at the Lord's Table with them. I was so surprised at him that I did not know what answer to make. I do not believe that they are real Christians at all. What was it Mr. Carteret called them? Oh, yes! Rice Christians! He said that they were rice Christians.' That means that they were in it for what they could get out of it. Mr. Carteret said that he had never known a real Christian among them."

Sinclair had intended to allow the subject to drop when he saw that for some reason his hostess held very pronounced views on it, different from his own. But her quoting Carteret as an authority on the sincerity or reality of religious beliefs touched him to the quick. He answered very quietly but firmly:

"All over the south of Scotland, from the Atlantic to the North Sea, in churchyard or hillside or lonely

moor, are to be found flat slabs or tall monuments, marking the spots where the Covenanters of two hundred years ago were slain or where their bodies were laid to rest. Some of them were gentlemen of birth. Some were cultured ministers. But the great majority were plain people, sometimes ignorant people; just ordinary hard-working, unlearned Scottish peasants. Yet the places where they died are sacred to-day. Monuments are erected to them. Books are written about them. They are held up before us as the martyrs and heroes of our Church. Why? Because they died rather than deny their faith.

"Less than a month ago and less than twenty miles from here, some plain people-merchants, farmers, artisans were asked to deny their faith. They refused. They were beaten. They were tortured. They were hanged by the hair of the head. Two of them were drowned. Their religion was the same as that of the Scottish Covenanters. They died for it just as willingly as the Covenanters did. They were Chinese. If we say that the Scottish sufferers were martyrs and heroes, I do not know how we can refuse to say the same of the Chinese."

He had spoken quietly, in a low tone of voice. But the very quietness of his manner had deepened the impression of tense feeling, of emotion kept under firm control. His words had grown eloquent in spite of himself.

When he ceased there was perfect silence for some minutes. Miss MacAllister was looking wonderingly at him. He had always seemed so good-humoured, so easy-going that she had sometimes asked herself if he was really capable of deep, passionate feeling. At an unexpected moment she had got her answer.

There was no mistaking the passion of admiration for a heroic deed which possessed him, the indignant protest against an injustice. It was all the more impressive because it was so restrained. For reasons which perhaps she could not explain to herself she felt a thrill of pleasure at recognizing this note of passion in his voice.

Mrs. MacAllister also sat silent for a time. Then she said in a very different tone from that which she had used before:

"Perhaps you are right, Dr. Sinclair. I had not looked at it in that light."

"It is not easy for any one of us to be entirely just to peoples so unlike us as are the Chinese," said her husband. "Yet, when we get down to the mainsprings of their conduct, we find that they are pretty much the same as our own."

W

XXI

THE LANGUAGE OF SONG

WHEN dinner was over, Sinclair asked Miss MacAllister if she would play and sing for them. "I have not heard a song," he said, 66 nor the sound of a civilized instrument since the evening at the consulate, just after we landed."

For a moment her eyes danced mischievously. A question about that Indian song of his trembled upon her lips. But she thought better of it, deciding not to say anything which might mar the evening by any misunderstanding. So she replied:

"I am afraid that you will hardly call this piano a civilized instrument after you have heard it. It has almost ceased to be an instrument at all. Its age, the climate, and the lack of a tuner have combined to make it a mere caricature of a piano. But, if you'll try to imagine that the weird sounds it produces are music, I shall do my best."

"Your voice will more than compensate for any deficiencies in the instrument," he said as he conducted her to the piano.

“Dr. Sinclair, I am surprised at you. I didn't think that you would flatter."

"I am not flattering. I mean it.'

She bent over the music; but he could see the warm colour flow up the side of her neck and face. He wondered if he had been too bold. Had he displeased her? She kept her head bent down and slowly turned the leaves of a song folio which rested on the keys.

He could see little of her face. Had he by his rashness annoyed her and brought discord into that delightful evening?

Presently she seemed to have made a choice. She gave him one quick, shy glance, and he saw her face. The blush still lingered there, but there was no trace of displeasure.

"Would you like me to sing this?"

She laid the folio open on the piano. Sinclair's heart gave a leap. She had chosen a love song. It was not indeed a maiden's tale of love, but the love of a man for a maid. Nevertheless, it was a woman's song, and a woman's tenderness breathed through both words and melody of immortal "Annie Laurie."

"You could not have chosen anything I should have liked better. Annie Laurie' will never grow old." She sang the first verse alone. Then she said:

“I thought that you were going to sing with me. Will you not put in a bass?" And a little mischievously: "It will at least help to drown the discords of this old instrument."

"I was enjoying your voice so much," he replied, "that I did not wish to spoil the pleasure by adding mine. But, if you wish it, I'll join you."

Other songs, mostly old Scotch favourites, followed. Sinclair noted that she did not choose war-songs as when she sang at the consulate. Her mood was different, and she chose those into which the singers of her race had poured all their pathos and their tenderness.

As they talked in the intervals, and sometimes prolonged the selection of a song, the hesitation and mutual reserve wore off and soon they found themselves conversing with the quiet confidence of those who had