ne of the cleverest weavers in the
factory, and she began to do extra work, thus earning a bigger wage and
saving more money. She studied very hard. She practised speaking at
meetings until she learned how to put her thoughts into clear and simple
words.

But it was a weary, weary time, for she spent fourteen years within the
walls of the factory. Thousands of other girls, of course, were doing
the same, and sometimes they got very tired, but had just to go bravely
on. In one of her poems Mrs. Browning tells us what it was like: how the
revolving wheels seemed to make everything turn too--the heads and
hearts of the girls, the walls, the sky seen out of the high windows,
even the black flies on the ceiling--

All day, the iron wheels are droning,
And sometimes we could pray,
"O ye wheels," (breaking out in a mad moaning)
"Stop! be silent for to-day!"

But they never did stop, and the girls had only their hopes and dreams
to make them patient and brave.

One day there flashed through the land a telegram which caused much
excitement and sorrow. Africa was then an unknown country, vast and
mysterious, and haunted by all the horrors of slavery and heathenism.
For a long time there had been tramping through it a white man, a
Scotsman, David Livingstone, hero of heroes, who had been gradually
finding out the secrets of its lakes and rivers and peoples. Sometimes
he was lost for years. The telegram which came told of his lonely death
in a hut in the heart of the continent. Every one asked, What is to be
done now? who is to take up the work of the great pioneer and help to
save the natives from misery and death? Amongst those whose hearts leapt
at the call was Mary Slessor. She went to her mother.

"Mother," she said, "I am going to offer myself as a missionary. But do
not fret. I will be able to give you part of my salary, and that, with
the earnings of Susan and Janie, will keep the home in comfort."

"My lassie," was the reply, "I'll willingly let you go. You'll make a
fine missionary, and I'm sure God will be with you."

Some of her friends wondered at her. They knew she was not specially
brave; indeed, was not her timidity a joke amongst them? "Why," they
said, "she is even afraid of dogs. When she sees one coming down the
street she goes into a passage until it is past!" This was true, but
they forgot that love can cast out all fear.

Tremblingly she waited for the answer to her letter to