A slave appeared once and said, "I have a mistress: she's very old, isn't she?"
"Yes," said the missionary.
"She doesn't enjoy life now much, does she?"
"No, I don't think she does much."
"Would she enjoy being with the Lord much more than living on like this?"
"Yes," said the missionary, "she would be far happier with the Lord."
"Then," said the slave, "give me some poison to send her to Him."
Meanwhile, Miss Banks looked at her patient, who might or might not have had his life tampered with; but there was little she could do then. We left that house and walked on into the poorest part of the city, down a little alley which was hard to find, in search of a certain door which was still harder. After two or three mistakes, we hit upon the right one, and knocked at an old, battered, rat-eaten entrance falling to pieces.
"Anna. Tabiba," called Miss Banks; and the door was opened by a countryman, a Riffi, rough-looking, only a coarse jellab over him, but with a kind expression on his face. The space inside was something like a chicken-pen. We stooped under a very low doorway in the farther wall, and went into a little shed-like lean-to, where the inhabitants evidently lived entirely. A boy of thirteen was lying on the ground, covered with a piece of sacking. The father squatted down beside him. Two girls were grinding beans close to them in a hand-mill—the old mill of . . . "the one shall be taken, and the other left."