e all-important one: that more knowledge should be
given to Mohammedans--scientific knowledge; that they should be fired to
improve their own condition and that of their country, making themselves
capable of mixing as equals with men who stand for the highest products
of civilization the world so far knows.

Then, educated and self-educating, their creed, whatever it is, will be
the outcome of their secular training. It matters little what the belief,
so long as the individual is free as air to adopt it or not at his own
discretion.

It would appear, then, that Morocco needs schools, colleges, and men of
unusual calibre to deal with them. The doctor-missionaries do a vast
amount of good; but it would seem that effort directed in fresh channels
should meet with better results, and that so far there has been a
tendency to "begin at the wrong end."

It is easy to sit down and criticise; it is easy to map out new paths,
the difficulties connected with which, few critics can realize. While we
see that many of the old by-ways are tortuous and lead to error, and that
many of them only result in waste of energy, let us at the same time not
forget to give all honour to those who set out to dig them, for even
"defeat, is great."

One afternoon I walked round with Miss Banks, visiting patients. We
started from the Mission House with a basket of medicines, ointment,
thermometer, paint-brush, etc., and dived into the little, narrow,
crowded streets of countless windowless houses. The first call we paid
was at the house of a Moor in the capacity of "gentleman farmer": of
course he was out. Miss Banks knocked; there was a movement on the other
side, but no answer. She called through the keyhole, "Anna. Tabiba" (I.
Doctor); and a discreet slave, trained by a jealous and distrustful
master, opened at the sound of her voice. We walked into a
three-cornered, tiled patio: the lady of the house came to meet us in a
pink jellab, shook Miss Banks's hand and kissed her own, shook mine and
again carried hers to her lips; then led us into a room opening on to the
courtyard, with divans, in white, all round upon the tiled floor next the
wall.

We all three sat down cross-legged on the cushions, and our hostess
related her symptoms to Miss Banks. She had a bad cough, and seemed glad
to have her chest painted with iodine. She was the daughter of her
husband's cowman; and if, according to English ideas, somewhat below him
in rank, was no worse