e until Mr. Mitry enters and takes his place at
a small table in the center of the room. A half hour or more is spent
in smoking cigarettes--almost every native smokes. Here it seems that
the habit is in no sense considered a vice. Indeed, the missionary
himself, not only smokes, but assists in making cigarettes for the
others. They smoke and smoke until the room is so darkened that we see
each other but dimly through the haze. I am surprised that I can endure
it. The tobacco must be different from that used in America, for
ordinarily a single cigarette is more offensive to me than was the
smoke of nearly fifty on that evening--for some of the men smoked two
or three apiece in that close room.

After the smoking was over black coffee was served in small cups
holding about one-fourth as much as the average teacup. They sip this
slowly and talk. I note that frequently they are saying something about
"hawadje," and then they fix their eyes upon me. My dragoman tells me
that he has been explaining our hard trip to Gerasa, that they were
skeptical about it, but that he has convinced them of its verity.

But now it is time for the service. Mr. Mitry opens his Bible and reads
in Arabic the story of Moses' invitation to Hobab. Then he expounds the
Scripture for some time while the men listen with rapt attention. There
are some questions and answers. I understand only a word now and then,
but it is a picture of more than ordinary interest to me to look upon
the expectant, and then the satisfied faces of these natives.

When the lesson was over a request came from the men for me to speak to
them. Through my dragoman as interpreter I spoke a little while on the
theme of the evening, which meant much to me there where the migration
of Moses was in a measure felt by the early inhabitants. They listened
attentively, and when I had finished they told my guide to say to
"hawadje" that they wanted him to stay and make his home with them.
Then, the meeting over, they moved out into the darkness with graceful
"salaams," and with the promise of one of their number to accompany us
on the morrow. They said we must not go on alone.

The service-room is now to be my bed-room. A pallet is brought to me,
and on it I am soon trying to sleep. But the beautiful sunset, the
vision of the past of this region, the mission-service, the stillness
of the night--so still that the very silence seems audible--keep me
awake for some time. I am lying by th