, who wore
robes of purple and white lace.

The music of the blue and gold organ was subdued to a velvet
whisper. Suddenly a boy arose behind the carved benches of the
choir. He sang in a voice as clear as a bird's:

"Come, Holy Spirit, Come."

It was Fil who was singing. The censers were swinging. The organ began
to drown even Fil's clear voice. Then all the singers in the choir
arose and filled the great dome, the long cathedral aisles, and even
the palm grove outside the windows, with a great burst of sacred music:

"Holy, Holy is the Lord."

It was all very solemn and very sweet. Far richer than in the homeland,
seemed the music, because of the greater natural beauty of the tropics.

Then our good friend, the Padre, arose, and spoke to his people,
about charity and missions and peace and the stranger within the
doors. He spoke so kindly that we all regretted war, and even hated
the name of war. He asked us to give gifts for the wounded and the
poor in other sad, colder, harder lands of hate and evil.

Then he extended his hands. A great blessing seemed to flow down from
the pulpit and even from the walls of the holy temple of peace, where
the white altar, the golden cross, and the colored windows shone out
as signs of purity and love.

When the service was dismissed, we all walked home together.

"When are you going to be a Christian, little Moro?" inquired the
kind Padre.

"I am a Mohammedan. My people come from the southern Philippines. We
worship one God, and Mohammed is his prophet. We make converts by
the sword of force, rather than by preaching," replied Moro, his eyes
looking strange and brave.

"Tell me more about your religion. I have heard it is peculiar,"
said Filippa.

"When we pray, we face Mecca, instead of Jerusalem or Rome. At Mecca
in Arabia is the Holy Book, which we call the Koran. There, also,
is the birthplace of Mohammed, our prophet. We believe in troops of
angels above, as well as in 'jinns,' or spirits, on earth, who are
ready to help us. We have no altars in our mosques or churches.

"Our mosques are immense, plain structures, with only large Arabic
letters of texts, painted on the walls and ceiling. Five times a day,
the Muezzin priest mounts the outside of the mosque tower, and calls
the faithful to prayer. Each Mohammedan carries his own praying
mat. After placing it on the tile floor beneath the thin pillars,
he kneels and bows upon his mat, facing Mecca