"Well, that is a matter of opinion," smiling. "Some people are very fond of pickles; others find them just a little bit too hot and strong."
Rachel was silent for a moment, then she dismissed the subject with a toss of her dark curls. "Father," she said, "do you know I am so glad no one is coming to be healed to-day, so we shall have you all to ourselves, and we can have some round games like Cicely says you had in England."
Mr. St. John's face changed. "Rachel," he inquired, gravely, "how do you know that no one is coming to be healed this morning?"
"Because Seng Mi said so, father. The people are angry about something, I don't know what, but I am so glad. Cicely, why don't you say you're glad, too, instead of looking like St. Cecilia at the piano?"
Cecilia flushed, and the tears came into her eyes. Her father took hold of her hand and pressed it between his own.
"Father, darling," she whispered, "has it come already?"
"God only knows," he replied, sadly, "but we shall be ready, at any rate, darling."
"Yes, father," she said, earnestly, lifting her sweet, grave eyes to his. "Do you know—I have often wished to tell you—Jesus is so precious to me that sometimes I long to suffer for His sake."
"My dearest child, God grant that He may be more exceedingly precious to each one of us every day. God be with you all in the time that is coming, and the dear native Christians. Ah, Cicely, my heart bleeds for them."
"Why, father?" asked Rachel, who had caught the last words.