HIS LAST WORDS.

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that I am allowed to go first. All of you owe me nothing but forgiveness. I have not even done what was my bare duty. What there was to love in me was but the reflection of the light of Christ to whose love I now leave you, Whom I shall see this night. If you love me don't cry because I am going home. Every one of you do your best to overcome the sin that is in you, and live for the Glory of God and for the good of our dear earthly home which I never shall see again. Then nothing can make you unhappy; and we shall be sure to meet again. I am too good-for-nothing to talk any more. Come one by one and say good-bye.'

"Then with a smile and a word of encouragement for every one of us—he was the only one that didn't cry-and with a tender kiss for those who had been with him the longest and who loved him the best, he parted from us; but I stayed by to see the end.

"In the afternoon he beckoned me to him by a faint raising of his eyes. Putting his arms round me he whispered, 'Arthur, I believe I love you too well. You make me wish to stay. Don't think I'm crying after all-I'm losing the mastery. Arthur, be strong, stronger than I have been. If a thing be right, do it, in spite of the world. If a thing be wrong, leave it undone in spite of pain and death and hell. I leave Pombuana to you and Percy'

"Here his voice failed altogether and his head sank upon my shoulder-the place where it had loved to rest—where it lay at last in the heaviness of death.

"I called Mr. Carter-I like the old name best-and we laid him down upon the bed, at rest.

"Next day, all who wished to do so went in to take a last look at the well-known face; and Henry Lolomaran whispered to me as he passed, 'Like the face of an angel praying.' And so it was."

The Chapel bell recalled us, and reminded us that it was

dark and late. We crossed the valley and entered the Chapel.

I took his place at the harmonium, and we tried to sing his favourite evening hymn, but instead of singing there was sobbing. How unworthy of us! I felt as if we were making him unhappy with our foolish weakness.

Arthur and I upon our knees that night resolved to quench our tears, and show our love and fidelity neither in word nor in tongue, but in deed and in truth.

Unfortunately, as it seemed at the time, my bodily strength gave way, and I grew quite thin and weak, in spite of food and physic.

While my kind friends were puzzling what to do with me, the difficulty was solved in a most unexpected way.

THE sad news had reached England, and a letter came from Bishop Curwen, saying that Herbert Wakefield, a younger brother of Percy's, wished to come out at once and give what help he could. This letter also said that a place was ready for Percy Pomo, or any other scholar they might send as a future candidate for Holy Orders; Bishop Curwen thinking that the presence of such a student would help the others to realize and take a greater interest in their work.

Our three new friends from England were so useful that Mr. Selby was persuaded to take a trip home, after fourteen years absence and hard work. Mrs. Selby was to go too, and a certain P.P. was also to be of the party. It was pleasant to be going to his home.

Three happy profitable years I spent at the English Missionary

College of St. Stephen, under my dear old friend and father, Bishop Curwen, who knew exactly how to teach and take care of me, and who made me feel at home.

We arrived in the summer, and if Sydney astonished me, how much more did England!

The winters pinched me a little, so did my first pair of boots, but the kindness and encouragement I met with, and a feeling that as Percy's friend I had a portion in England, kept the cold out-not to mention eight or nine blankets, nor a greatcoat fit for a polar bear.

Herbert was making farewell visits to his friends, and came at last to say good-bye to Bishop Curwen and St. Stephen's. He gave me a letter inviting me to spend my vacations with Percy's mother and sisters. He was very like his brother, but looked stronger, and was a little less gentle in his He had his brother's eyes.

manner.

Now, as you probably know as much about English college life as I do, I shall only tell you of one or two remarkable things that happened during that time. But it may interest you to know that I was not the only black man at St. Stephen's. There were others from Africa and India, and they were trying to get some Chinese students too. One thing worthy of note is a little trip I took into Yorkshire with a college chum of mine who lived in that county.

We found ourselves one quiet Sunday afternoon at the side door of a little grocer's shop in the village of Bolton. The door was opened by a very nice young woman, who, to our inquiry if Mrs. Dinnit was at home-we had read the name over the shop door-answered, "Yes; will you walk in ?"

In the back parlour by a small round table sat a fine old lady with smooth grey hair under her neat cap, who rose to meet us as we came in, and asked us to be seated. On the small round table at her elbow was a large brown Bible with a pair of spectacles on the open page.

My companion explained that I had been her son George's friend in the far off seas, where he had met his death, and that I wished to come and see her and tell her all I could about his last days. The tears came into her eyes as she looked earnestly into my face and clasped my hard, saying:

"So you were kind to my son-bless you!"

"No madam," said I, "it was George who was so kind to us." "He was always kind to the humblest animal," said his mother proudly, "and only to think of my Gentle George, as we used to call our dear boy-being roughly handled and beat to death. That cruel blow struck here! His poor father was never the same man afterwards, and grew solemn and sad like, and moped and died. He was our only child was-George."

"That blow struck us too, dear madam. He was so tender to the children-there wasn't a dry eye in Rota when they heard he had been killed. I am ashamed that men of the same island where I live did this wicked deed; but they never knew him. They only knew he was a White Man, and that was enough for them-for at that time a White Man represented all that they most feared and hated—when White Men appeared they knew that their children, wives, and homes were in danger-and they fought for them. Some of your people call it treachery, but I think your people would do the same."

"They would! They would! and so you were with our George just before he died? and he was good and kind—and true? He would sooner die any time than tell a lie—would my George. He never deceived you?"

"Never; we trusted him as we did the Bishop. We know our friends and they know us. We are bad enough; but not so bad as we are made out to be."

"I believe it my dear young friend, I believe it especially now that I have seen you. What was your name? I'm hard of hearing."

WITH GEORGE'S MOTHER.

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I told her. She then went to an old work-box and took out some letters.

"This here is the last letter my son ever wrote to me—that fetched, that is. And he tells me about you and another young man-Di-he was no great hand at these names--that was a perfect gentleman, he says"

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My dear brother, madam-Diara-who was murdered by White Men-thrown overboard alive."

"God forgive them for it!" she exclaimed earnestly. They are dead.”

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Why didn't they die before they did us this mischief? But this Book here forbids me to talk so. Ah, Mr. Pomo, this Book is the friend of the poor and sorrowful. I can bear anything after reading a verse or two here. 'Blessed are they that mourn,' don't it say? for they shall be comforted.' And that's come true this day. Wasn't I mourning and thinking of our lost George this very morning-to have him die by violence, and be hacked and torn and bleeding, as if he was no more than so much vermin-and me not there to speak the mother's word, nor lay the mother's hand-that's what makes it come hard-wasn't I picturing it all to myself and Jenny there, and seeing no comfort-when your knock came, and lo! you come direct from George to comfort me. Ah, dear gentlemen, the Lord is merciful! But, tell me, how did you find me out?"

"George told me all about his home, as we sat together on board ship of an evening, and I wrote down the names and learned them perfectly; and then I told my kind English friends that I wanted to come-and here I am."

She blessed us, and wanted us to let Jenny make us a cup of tea; but we thanked her and went away. I was so sorry that the few relics of George, in the shape of leaves of his books, which I had bought or found, had been lost in my wanderings.