all the old fighting spirit had gone, and she was very tender and gentle
and sweet. The War troubled her, and she was always thinking of our
brave soldiers in the trenches and praying for them. But she felt she
could do nothing, and was content to leave everything with God. To a
little boy and girl at home she said, "God will work out big things from
the War, for there is no waste with Him." And to Christine she wrote,
"Every blessing be yours in the year that comes. Though it opens in
gloom there is Light on ahead."

Yes, for her, too, there was Light ahead. One night she lay dying in her
mud-room with its cement floor and iron roof. Miss Peacock was with her
and the girls, Janie, Annie, Maggie, Alice, and Whitie. Alice never left
her, and slept on a mat beside her bed. Through the long hours they kept
watch. Ma was restless and very, very tired, and sometimes begged God to
give her rest. Just before dawn death came. God had heard Ma's prayer
and given her rest. She had worked hard and faithfully for Africa, and
now was to rest until Jesus comes again and on the glorious resurrection
morning calls her forth to receive her eternal reward. But her place in
Africa would be hard to fill, and the people wept, saying, "Adiaha
Makara is dead. What shall we do? How shall we live? Our Mother is
dead!"

Once more she voyaged down the Cross River to Duke Town, and there she
was buried on the Mission hill, all Calabar, young and old, turning out
to line the streets and show their deep sorrow. At the head of the grave
sat old Mammy Fuller, a coloured woman from Jamaica, a faithful servant
of the Mission, who had welcomed Ma when she first arrived, a
bright-eyed happy girl, thirty-nine years before, and had loved her ever
since. Ma had been fond of her too, and said it was she who ought to
have had the Royal Cross.

"Do not cry," said Mammy to the women who began to wail. "Praise God
from whom all blessings flow."

There was sadness in many a little heart when the news went across the
ocean that Ma was no more. Ratcliffe missed the letters that used to
flash like rays of sunshine into his quiet life. What of that wonderful
secret which he had kept so closely locked up in his heart? He was told
that it was all right now, and that there would be no harm in telling
what it was. It turned out to be very simple, like many bigger mysteries
and secrets. Ma and he had agreed to pray every day that he might get
better and be able to wa