WHO FOLLOWS 
 IN THEIR TRAIN?" 
 
 MARY CAROL NE HOLMES
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train ?" 
 A Syrian Romance
 
 We were cantering down the sands."
 
 jo 
 
 Syrian Romance 
 
 !r 
 
 Caroline holmes 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 New York Chicago Toronto 
 
 Fleming H. Revell Company 
 
 London and Edinburgh
 
 Copyright, 1917, by 
 FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 
 
 New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
 Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. 
 Toronto: 75 Richmond Street, W. 
 London: 21 Paternoster Square 
 Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street
 
 To THE DEAR MEMORY 
 OP
 
 The world is a passage way, not a 
 house to dwell in. Arab Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 Leaving Constantinople, March 25, 190- 
 
 The cleavage is so sharp between the part of my 
 life marked by the twenty-four years left behind 
 me on the White Star dock eleven days ago, and 
 that upon which I am entering, that I am beginning 
 the record at once of the opening chapter of the 
 second instalment of my life story in the Russia- 
 leather blank book you gave me, mother dear. I 
 warn you it won t be a diary, but as near a one-sided 
 talk with you as I can make it. 
 
 I do not have the sense of your absence as strong 
 here on this ship moving past the domes and min 
 arets of the old city of Constantine, as I did when 
 you stood on the dock in New York and I on the 
 steamer, unable to touch you although I could see 
 your dear face. I feel somehow that you have come 
 along too, and will help me live this new life. What 
 is the record going to be? Anything worth while? 
 Up to Constantinople you know. We have been 
 over it all together more than once. The last time 
 we were here, do you remember? how we looked 
 from the windows of the hotel out over the Bospho- 
 rus to the Asiatic shore and wondered what it would 
 mean to live there? And here I am to-day on a 
 
 9
 
 10 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 Messagerie steamer, moving not too rapidly toward 
 the oldest part of Asia. And not as a tourist, but 
 the secretary-to-be to the President of the S. and S. 
 Company of Trablus. 
 
 Sailing under Cyprus. 
 
 I will have to confess to you dear Intimate Book, 
 that I have been dreadfully seasick since leaving 
 Constantinople. The Dardanelles, Smyrna, Rhodes 
 are all a blur. Some day perhaps, I ll come this way 
 again, and then can see somewhat more of these 
 places than the little speck framed by my porthole. 
 
 To-day has been glorious. I have been out on 
 deck watching the bare, bleak mountains of the 
 Island of Cyprus, wondrously beautiful, ever chang 
 ing, revealing now a dark gorge with its dry water 
 course, here a ruined town and there a fishing hamlet 
 nestling on the seashore. It looks hoary and ancient, 
 as though having passed through the stone age and 
 the bronze age and all the rest, the land had left 
 behind it the tree age too. How bare it is ! There 
 are scraps of green here and there, which the Cap 
 tain tells me are wheat fields, or perhaps stumpy 
 mulberry trees and vines, for silk and grapes are 
 raised here. But how little, how small it all 
 seems. 
 
 To-morrow we shall get in and my journey end. 
 Think of writing Trablus, Syria, Turkey in Asia, 
 at the head of my letters!
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 11 
 
 Trabhis, Syria, Asia. 
 
 Mother dear, I was up before daylight and out 
 on deck with the scrubbers, to get the first glimpse of 
 my new home land. Away to the south lie Nazareth 
 and Bethlehem of Judaea and Jerusalem with a hill 
 without the wall whereon once a Cross was set. Ah, 
 and I ll see those places which are only names, per 
 haps. 
 
 As I stood wrapped in my sea-cloak, watching 
 the day dawn against a sky of dissolving night, the 
 snow-capped Lebanon mountains gradually came 
 into view. We seemed to be heading straight for 
 them as though to match our impotent strength of 
 steam and steel with their rocks and crags and 
 towering crests glistening and glowing with the 
 colour bearers of the coming day. One peak stood 
 up majestic and serene above the others, Mt. Sunnin, 
 some one said it was, while somewhat lower and to 
 the south, Keniseh lifted its head as though mar 
 shalling the tumbled, crowding lesser peaks and foot 
 hills which fell away clear to the sea edge. 
 
 Everywhere were signs of life. Numberless vil 
 lages and towns showed on shore and sloping hill, 
 while the metropolis of this T art of the world, Bey- 
 rout, stretched itself out into the sea on a low plateau 
 like a crouching giant, Beyrout with its fine houses, 
 French harbour and railway, automobiles, foreign 
 consulates, golf courses, electric tramway and lights. 
 What a revelation! 
 
 As we drew nearer and swung closer in shore, I
 
 12 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 could see the buildings of the great American Col 
 lege standing out in the morning light, a determining 
 factor, a fellow passenger told me in the new day 
 dawning for Turkey. I caught a glimpse of the 
 tower of a church in among some trees, which my 
 kind informant said was also American. It looked 
 home-like and reminded me a bit of the one we 
 love on lower Fifth Avenue. But why so much 
 America away out here? 
 
 At last we steamed slowly through the narrow 
 opening into the harbour, and as I heard the anchor 
 slip into the water, I realized that the old was to be 
 to me the new, and that I had arrived in the Land of 
 Promise. / in the Land of Canaan ! Fascinated, I 
 watched the crowding boats, the insistent, calling, 
 sweating, barefooted boatmen clambering up the 
 sides of our ship: the colour of the red fezes, the 
 blue Turkish trousers, the gay rugs in the stern and 
 the white awnings over the more pretentious fluc- 
 cias mingled with the khaki uniforms of the harbour 
 police. From the stern of one trim, white boat 
 whose cushions were covered with linen cool and 
 neat, there blazed the blessed Stars and Stripes, and 
 my heart throbbed and my eyes blurred as I caught 
 sight of it and the wave of a welcoming pith helmet 
 in the hand of cousin David Hackett It was good 
 to see a kinsman at the end of the long journey, 
 and I was glad of the flag and the welcome, and to 
 be put in a fine touring car and taken to a really 
 good hotel for breakfast, before starting for the
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 13 
 
 fifty-mile spin to Trablus. The French steamers 
 from Constantinople do not call at any Syrian port 
 before reaching Beyrout. So David ran down to 
 meet me. He says it is not so very long since the 
 last stretch of carriage road was finished over a 
 treacherous, sliding promontory by the sea. Form 
 erly it took two days to reach Beyrout which he did 
 in not more than four hours. Beyrout will keep. 
 Anyway, I did not see much of it excepting the 
 streets we passed through getting out of it. But 
 everywhere the same wonderful colouring, blue 
 and red predominating, contrasted with the white 
 houses and turbans. 
 
 I am too excited to describe the drive up here, 
 and I could not if I tried. I know we whizzed 
 along following the general shore line, past great 
 stretches of mulberry orchards, orange groves, high- 
 arched bridges, the kind you always see in pictures 
 of the Holy Land, caught glimpses of market gar 
 dens through half -opened gates, saw the pumping 
 station of the Beyrout waterworks before sweeping 
 over a fine modern bridge just above the mouth of 
 the Dog River where the road was flanked by cof 
 feehouses, jessamine embowered with the lure of 
 the flowing, tumbling water from the spillway, 
 crossing and recrossing a little railway, ever on 
 skirting the beautiful Junieh Bay and through the 
 town of the same name which is full of bustle and 
 energy, passing the Tuberculosis Sanatorium one 
 wise American woman doctor has built, following
 
 14 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 the way the Romans went, through towns whose 
 antiquity made me gasp, one of which was the cap 
 ital of a nation which was old when Joshua crossed 
 the Jordan with the children of Israel, and where 
 Cousin David says was found recently a rude clay 
 Ashtaroth which was worshipped one thousand 
 years before Abraham s time. 
 
 I can never forget two phases of that ride, the 
 part of the road through the Mesailaha Pass David 
 says that means little arsenal cut out of the solid 
 rock right over the sea. The promontory was liter 
 ally pared off some three hundred feet did he say ? 
 and on a splendid roadway we actually hung over 
 the sea dashing and fuming some hundreds of feet 
 below. 
 
 The second sight I ll remember as long as life 
 lasts, is that of the great olive groves of the Kura, 
 a broad, fertile plateau which stretches for miles and 
 miles and everywhere silvery grey, twisted olive 
 trees. But oh, the approach to Trablus! We got 
 the intoxicating scent of the orange blossoms long 
 before we could see the city. Mother dear, does 
 Paradise itself hold anything fairer than a grove 
 of orange trees, white with bloom, exhaling odours 
 as though from the gardens of Allah, close by a 
 graceful, arched bridge, commanding a long avenue 
 edged with ancient, silvery olive trees, leading into 
 the city of one s desire? 
 
 Dear Intimate Book, I am surfeited with beauty, 
 awed by the towering mountains thrusting their
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 15 
 
 shoulders up against the sky, and am fairly bewil 
 dered by this old Phoenician town girdled with 
 orange and apricot trees in full bloom. To-morrow 
 I will write more. What is this old world beauty I 
 have come into? 
 
 The next day. 
 
 I fell asleep last night with the feeling of having 
 at last attained ! If water has any sensation it must 
 be satisfaction at finding its own level. That is my 
 state of mind now. 
 
 Cousin Betty s welcome consisted after the usual 
 preliminaries of talk and dinner, in conducting me 
 to a corner room with four French windows, mind 
 you, after dark. For we talked so much and the 
 dinner was so good after three weeks of steamer 
 fare I did eat disgracefully much that I did not 
 really see this charming nest of mine until bedtime. 
 But this morning! Off there sunrise way is the 
 great frowning castle of Raymond of Toulouse 
 it is all there flanked miles in the rear by the 10,500 
 feet-high Lebanon range, glistening and scintillating 
 in the sunlight as far as I can see. And out there 
 across a stretch of olive, mulberry and orange trees 
 and sparkling yellow sands is the sea, dimpled and 
 wavy, like a boundless, shining sheet of molten 
 silver which had not cooled evenly. What a com 
 bination, mountains, castle, and the Mediterranean 
 Sea! I shall take a spiritual bath every morning 
 when I look at them. Oh smell the orange blossoms.
 
 16 "Who Follows in Their Train? * 
 
 A Saturday. 
 
 I shall not attempt to keep account of the days in 
 this record for you, mother. It will be past history 
 when you read it anyway. So what matter whether 
 it was on a Monday or a Friday the things 
 happened I tell you of. It is simply a record of 
 some of the things I do and see and feel. For a 
 whole week nearly I have been finding myself. It 
 must have been in some former incarnation I was 
 an Arab, for I love everything here, even the pink 
 and blue houses and the solemn, slow-pacing Moslem 
 men whose way I have to get out of or be shoved out 
 in passing them in the street. They are oblivious of 
 being discourteous. It is simply the age-long cus 
 tom which has given men the right of way. 
 
 Cousin David thought it well that I get my bear 
 ings before beginning work, and I have made the 
 most of my opportunities, going about with Betty 
 seeing things. The city of Trablus lies two miles 
 or so from the sea and is connected with the port, 
 el Mina, by a quaint, mule-drawn tram line. The 
 cars are double decked and divided inside that there 
 be seclusion for the hare em. I wish I could picture 
 to you the view we get from the top of the cars. 
 On either side of the roadway are orange gardens 
 exhaling nectar, fenced off by cactus hedges and 
 tall reeds which later on will be topped with feathery 
 plumes shaken by every wind that blows. One of 
 the silk factories Cousin David has to do with is 
 near el Mina, and we are going to see the swiftly
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 17 
 
 revolving reels winding the cobwebby yellow silk 
 threads from the cocoons as soon as the new crop 
 is ready. 
 
 I have not told you that although Cousin David s 
 Company is known as the Soap and Silk Commis 
 sion Company, they are exporters of all sorts of 
 commodities, doing a large business in oranges, 
 lemons, eggs, olives and olive oil and licorice root, 
 aside from producing raw silk and pure olive oil 
 soap. (The cook washes her dishes and the laun 
 dress the clothes in this same olive oil soap.) Each 
 week, at least one steamer leaves the port freighted 
 with their products, only. It looks as though I might 
 be busy in that office in el Mina. 
 
 Another day. 
 
 Fortunately Betty needed something from the 
 market to-day and took me with her. Women are 
 not supposed to go in person to shop in this land. 
 If we want something Selim, Betty s factotum, tells 
 the merchant and he comes to the house with half 
 his shop on the back of a hammed, for us to select 
 from. But we are foreign women, and do things 
 the Syrian ladies hesitate to do. We went in state 
 this morning, Selim walking gravely ahead to shoo 
 plodding donkeys and laden camels out of the way, 
 and to prevent the inquisitive children from being 
 too inquiring. What bright eyes they have, and 
 some we met were skipping along, books under their
 
 18 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 arms, to the American schools which they tell me 
 are somewhere here. 
 
 Oh, dear Intimate Book, I never did love mission 
 aries, mother knows I never did. There is enough 
 of the foreign element right in New York and 
 Brooklyn if one wants to proselyte. But why come 
 so far to do it? and change all this poetic beauty 
 one sees everywhere. 
 
 We peeped into the big mosque wherein repose 
 two hairs from Mohammed s beard, but could not 
 enter without taking off our shoes, and unfortu 
 nately we do not carry shoehorns in our pockets. 
 So we did not see much. The streets are narrow, 
 but well paved with the gutter in the middle, now 
 passing under a darkish arched place like a small 
 tunnel, and now blossoming into a space where the 
 little shops blaze with exquisite oriental things. Once 
 we passed through a lane of flaming red shoes, into 
 another of yellow ones, which was followed by the 
 black and tan sections. Next we strayed into the 
 resounding copper suq (market) where the cooking 
 utensils are hammered into shape and whitened for 
 use. But the silk suq was bewilderingly beautiful 
 and where we found the yellows, blues and pinks 
 predominating and always harmonizing. Horns 
 the old Emesa of the Romans before which Aurelian 
 defeated Zenobia, queen of Palmyra together with 
 Hamath and Damascus are famous for their silks, 
 all hand woven. Cousin Betty has the most fascinat 
 ing things like dcileys, towels and table covers, the
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 19 
 
 like of which we never see at home, and all made 
 here. 
 
 As we were threading our way through the 
 crowded, narrow streets making for the bridge with 
 its shops like the one in Lucerne, we saw a long 
 string of camels coming. If I am afraid of anything 
 on earth along with snakes, it is a growly, foaming 
 camel. As the head one with its floppy under lip 
 covered with froth came near, it swerved towards 
 me, reaching out its long, bell-bedecked and blue- 
 beaded neck, making that blood-curdling noise in its 
 throat, and I thought my time had come. I jumped 
 back and screamed, yes, mother, I did looking 
 wildly about for a Don Quixote, and there one stood, 
 smiling! "Don t be afraid," he said, doffing his hel 
 met, and reining in his white horse, stood between 
 me and that long line of monsters. I was so fright 
 ened that I scarcely noticed when the last one had 
 gone by nor that my knight too passed on with a bow 
 to Betty. 
 
 "Who is he?" I asked when I had found my 
 breath. 
 
 "I don t know. I never saw him before," she 
 replied. 
 
 "He does not look like a missionary, does he ?" I 
 queried. 
 
 Betty laughed. "Wait till you see one," she said.
 
 20 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 The very next day. 
 
 To-day we have been busy at home. It seemed 
 a bit odd to hear Betty say this morning, 
 
 "This is my day at home, Rachel." 
 
 "And must we observe conventions out here?" I 
 groaned. 
 
 "Why not?" she answered. "All the foreign 
 ladies have a set time to receive formal visits, and 
 I think our Syrian friends like it too, for some of 
 them are adopting the custom. We will have a good 
 many calls I expect, for every one will be curious 
 to see the new lady, and her clothes in the latest 
 style. Besides, all of David s business acquaintances 
 will feel constrained to pay their respects to his 
 cousin." 
 
 And they began to come before three o clock. 
 Oh, mother, I wish you could have seen them. The 
 first caller was what Betty calls "dear Um Fuad," 
 a round, roly-poly Moslem woman, who came in all 
 wrapped in a beautiful, brocaded, black silk robe, 
 with a thick veil over her face, and who kissed Betty 
 on both cheeks and me also, and asked how I liked 
 Syria and if I could speak Arabic yet! 
 
 Presently I saw her pulling up her dress skirt and 
 fumbling in a pocket hidden away somewhere under 
 neath, from which she extracted a bunch of jessa 
 mine and roses on inch-long stems, which she pre 
 sented to me in a shy, formal manner, saying, "Wel 
 come, welcome to our land." This was followed 
 by an orange for me and one for Betty. It seems
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 21 
 
 she never comes without some little gift. The Arabs 
 have a proverb, "An empty hand is unclean," and 
 that capacious pocket contains an unfailing supply 
 of rose water for Betty s bottle, apples, nuts, sweets 
 and fragrant posies. 
 
 Another curious thing is that both the father and 
 mother of a son lose their own names, excepting for 
 formal occasions, and are known as Abu and Um 
 Fuad,ior instance, "the father and mother of Fuad." 
 Um Fuad would not stay long lest she encounter 
 strange men, and the next one who came was a man 
 whose massive head, with its crown of white hair 
 and flowing beard, made me half believe him to be 
 one of the prophets right out of the Bible. He 
 greeted me with "Thanks be to Allah, thou hast 
 come in peace," and looked at me with such kind, 
 fatherly eyes. Cousin David tells me he is a fine 
 Arabic scholar. I am going to see if he will not 
 teach me Arabic. I simply cannot be tongue-tied, 
 if I am to live out here any length of time, I like to 
 talk too much. Several of the Syrian ladies and 
 men spoke English and French very well, but I wish 
 to talk to everybody the porters and donkey boys. 
 Who knows? Perhaps I ll want to be a missionary 
 yet ! Nay, not I. All the same, I am going to 
 learn how to read and speak Arabic, and find out for 
 myself if the strange sounds I hear on all sides, are 
 blessings or curses. They sound suspiciously like 
 the latter. 
 
 At last I have seen a missionary. They all called,
 
 22 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 and I was surprised to find them cultivated, well 
 bred, well-dressed people. I lost my heart to one or 
 two of the men, such splendid, dignified specimens 
 of the kind America produces, and I ll have to con 
 fess I do not see how the belief that only the failures 
 at home go to convert non-Christian people tallies 
 with these men I have seen to-day, who are clearly 
 successes. And as for the women, but wait until 
 I know them better. My own sex is always prob 
 lematical, you know. 
 
 The grand climax to the day was when Cousin 
 David came in for tea, something he never does, but 
 this time to bring my knight and defender from 
 growly, frothing camels. And now what do you 
 think of that? as the boys in my Sunday School class 
 used to say. John Denise Whitelaw, LL.D., F.R.S., 
 F.R.G.S., etc., etc., (I have supplied the labels. He 
 looks them anyway) he proved to be. An English 
 archaeologist on his way to excavate some sup 
 posedly Hittite mounds up in Asia Minor some 
 where. Observe the ease with which I use these 
 wonderful names, mother of me. 
 
 "An almost very tall man, wasn t he, cousin 
 Rachel?" little Caryl quaintly said, Cousin David s 
 seven-year-old son, of whom I have not had time to 
 tell you, but he deserves more than honourable men 
 tion. Tall, yes, with the breeding of a well-born 
 Briton, the kind one meets at the week-end parties 
 at country houses in England. 
 
 Betty and I did not count at all, after polite in-
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 23 
 
 quiries as to a complete recovery from the fright 
 of yesterday, other than the pourer and carrier of 
 cups of tea he and Cousin David consumed between 
 the display and examination of some broken, dusty 
 bits of pottery which the archaeologist pronounced 
 unlike any he had seen before. David has a liking 
 for odd bits, without knowing their historic value, 
 and had picked up odd pieces because they were 
 queer and ancient. There is a sizable cabinet full 
 of them, and Mr. Whitelaw became so interested in 
 them that he asked if he might examine them care 
 fully some time. He told Cousin David he had al 
 ready seen in a hasty glance, a larger variety of pre 
 historic pottery than contained in any museum in 
 Europe. Mind you, mother, these are only frag 
 ments of jars, but the vast, limitless past before 
 man began to build houses or wear clothes, and 
 whose tools and weapons were only sharp pieces of 
 stones, can be visualized and made real by these 
 broken bits of sun-baked clay and a flint axe or 
 knife. I foresee my leaning towards the ancients. 
 Before I realized it, I had drawn near the window 
 where they stood talking and was drinking in all 
 that this wise digger into the hidden past was saying. 
 I really went to fetch his empty cup, and found he 
 had not tasted it yet. Then I lifted up my voice, 
 "Cousin David, don t you expect any more days to 
 follow this one? And must all this be decided this 
 minute? Those pre-historics won t get a whit more
 
 24 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 modern if you allow Mr. Whitelaw to drink this cup 
 of hot tea." 
 
 They both laughed and came to the tea table, and 
 the Briton, with a grave smile and bow said, "Miss 
 Locke, you must know that a treasure hunter has 
 great exultation when he uncovers that which he 
 seeks. In that cabinet yonder are treasures of great 
 value to science, and some of them I doubt are 
 known to the men at the British Museum. So you 
 will forgive the slight upon your excellent cup of 
 tea, won t you?" said with an easy grace and smile 
 which somehow lit up his dark, deep-set eyes, but 
 made me feel about ten years old. It ended by Betty 
 asking him to stay to dinner, and he and David were 
 still talking when we went to our rooms at ten 
 o clock, and the train he is to leave by to-morrow 
 for Aleppo starts at 4 A. M ! 
 
 I am sleepy, I have written long to-night, but 
 somehow life looks big and grand, with a wider 
 horizon than I have ever known before, and in New 
 York I used to pity Cousin David and Betty in this 
 commercial self-exile ! 
 
 Sunday, April 2$th. 
 
 Here is a real date for you. I am sitting in my 
 "upper room" how easy it comes to speak with the 
 tongues of ancient types out here watching the lazy 
 clouds drift about the mountain tops, now throwing 
 a veil over them as if to hide their glories, now 
 sweeping majestically along and dragging it away
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 25 
 
 with a dissolving touch as the Syrian sun shines 
 forth in strength. I like Sunday to be a mountain 
 day, a day of vision of the highest, whether it be the 
 everlasting hills with the strength of the Creator 
 holding them in their places, or the everlasting Gos 
 pel sustaining the soul. 
 
 I have to make a confession. I am going to take 
 back what I said about not liking missionaries. 
 Betty has told me another Arab proverb, "Never 
 blame the absent until he is present." And here I 
 have squeaked my criticism of these self-expatriated 
 people without one bit of knowledge other than what 
 one reads in newspapers about their interference in 
 political matters, and mediocrity and being failures 
 at home and the like. 
 
 I did not finish this writing this morning for I 
 suspected I would have more of interest to relate 
 before the day ended. We went to an English ser 
 vice this afternoon at the mission church, and it 
 nearly bowled me over. The church building for 
 one thing was a surprise with its simple stateliness 
 and good architectural lines. Then the organ was 
 more than well played by one of the missionaries. 
 Think of hearing the "Parsifal" Good Friday music 
 away out here! And what a sermon we had, 
 a great, spiritual, uplifting throb of love and devo 
 tion by the president of the college in Beyrout, who 
 is up here for some sort of conference with the mis 
 sionaries. 
 
 Oh, but they were all so kind to me. The head of
 
 26 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 the girls boarding school, a tall, fine-featured wo 
 man, who speaks with the sweetest intonation, car 
 ried me off to her splendid school building for a 
 cup of tea. 
 
 When we emerged through a green lattice gate 
 into the adjoining school grounds, my breath fairly 
 stopped from the loveliness confronting me. Imag 
 ine, first of all, a number of tall, tapering cypress 
 trees, like great sentinels on guard, with plane trees 
 taller still against the outside wall which served to 
 accentuate the drooping pepper trees, their feathery 
 branches adorned with clusters of red berries. And 
 can you picture oleanders grown to be really trees 
 covered with pink and white bloom? 
 
 In the centre of the garden was a kiosk over which 
 a purple Japanese paper vine flamed with colour. 
 There was a bewildering hedge of calla lilies reach 
 ing up to God hundreds of white chalices filled 
 with golden perfume, another of rose geranium and 
 everywhere roses, roses. They clambered away up 
 the side of the building almost to the tower. I 
 could have gathered my arms full of La Frances, 
 and a wonderful white, semi-climbing kind with a 
 scent like honey and a greenish tinge as you looked 
 into its heart. And there were Madame Falcoes 
 and Marechal Niels and Mermets in the greatest 
 profusion. When we turned to go up the stately 
 winding steps into the building, there was a display 
 of pendulous wistaria blossoms, which surpassed 
 anything I ever saw in the shape of flowers. They
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 27 
 
 clambered on both sides of the railings to hang 
 myriads of their lavender lanterns: up the side of 
 the house to the top of the tower where hungry bees 
 gorged riotously: reached out and caught the near 
 by trees and festooned them with the same lavish 
 hand, and kept on bridging the street to intrude 
 their beauty on the neighbours, who gave them a 
 royal welcome and in turn passed on their loveliness 
 and sweetness to their neighbours. Does this de 
 scription give you any conception of it, mother dear? 
 I turned to Miss Delight, (that is my name for her. 
 You can look in the Board s reports for her real 
 name), and said, "Is this how you pave your way 
 into Syrian hearts, through an avenue of riotous 
 colour and intoxicating scents ? No wonder they call 
 you the most successful missionary out here." 
 
 "My dear," and I wish you could have seen her 
 deprecatory smile as she spoke, "the soul is reached 
 through the gates of delight and joy as well as 
 through the intellect. And besides, one must have 
 something outside of actual work in this far-away 
 land as a stabilizer. Why, child," and the smile was 
 tremulous, "there is not an hour in the day there 
 does not come crowding in on me some vision of 
 green fields and maple woods and winding rivers and 
 full brooks, and my childhood s home on the farm in 
 New England. Did you ever sing America with 
 the tears rolling down your cheeks from sheer home 
 sickness for your native land? Ah, my flowers are 
 my consolers." How the light of that woman s
 
 28 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 soul shone in her fine eyes as she went on, for I 
 could not speak. "But, Miss Locke, what is it all 
 compared with one young heart started out rightly 
 equipped to fight life s battles simply the privilege 
 of giving to my sisters here from the fullness we 
 American women have in unstinted, overflowing 
 measure, is compensation enough, and I would not 
 change my lot with any other woman on earth." 
 
 We were seated in her plainly furnished sitting 
 room by now, drinking tea brought by a bright-faced 
 maid, whom Miss Delight told me she had taken to 
 bring up. 
 
 "Will you tell me," I queried, "wherein lies your 
 motive power for all this work? I can understand 
 the desire to give people a chance to learn to read 
 and write and to get some of our Western culture, 
 the depth of which I sometimes question, but why 
 is there not enough of this same foreign element at 
 home ? Why come so far to do it ?" 
 
 She was silent for a minute, her eyes cast down 
 a way she has when thinking then raising them 
 aflood with inner fire and purpose said softly, her 
 hand on mine, "Dear unbeliever in missionaries, 
 there is only one answer to that because I believe 
 that Whose I am and Whom I serve, wants me to 
 do it, and do it in this way and in this place." I 
 was dumb in the presence of such sublime faith 
 even though I could not understand it. After I 
 could command my voice I asked, 
 
 "And how long have you been doing it?"
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 29 
 
 "Thirty-six years and more." 
 
 "And you have been home how many times?" 
 
 "Three," she said simply. There came a knock 
 just then, and rising, she explained, 
 
 "I must be rude and dismiss you now, as this is the 
 hour when my helpers come to me and we talk over 
 problems in the work and take counsel of our Lord. 
 Will you come and see me again?" 
 
 Mother Locke, did you know how small a soul 
 your child has, and how dwarfed her conception of 
 life is compared with that saint s in the big, brown 
 schoolhouse? To-morrow I begin my work, type 
 writing, bookkeeping, etc. May I do my job as well 
 as she does hers. 
 
 And here ends the first chapter of my life away 
 from you under Syrian skies. The Russia-leather 
 book is full it is not very large, and I am sending 
 it by the first mail, on Tuesday. Mother, mother, 
 am I going to be of any real use here ?
 
 He who teacheth that which is good 
 and doeth not accordingly, is likened 
 unto a blind man carrying a lamp. He 
 lighteneth others, but not himself. 
 Arabic Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 Early one morning. 
 
 Cousin David s office is in el Mina el means the 
 and Mina, harbour or port, and the window near my 
 desk gives me a view of the sea limitless, with the 
 farther shore no nearer than Sandy Hook. I close 
 my eyes sometimes and see the steamer I shall come 
 home by swinging through the Narrows and up the 
 Bay, with all the sky-scrapers waving welcoming, 
 beckoning hands from every window. Then Cousin 
 David s buzzer buzzes and I fly into his room to take 
 orders for the making out and filing of invoices for 
 bales of raw silk consigned to France or licorice 
 root or something else to some other country. His 
 windows command the mountains and I always try 
 to get a peep at them before going back to do his 
 bidding with neatness and despatch. 
 
 Mother dearest, I have been so engrossed with 
 getting my hand in, that I have neglected to make 
 other than the above small beginning in Volume 
 Two of the plum-coloured Russia-leather edition of 
 the oriental part of my history. Cousin David s ill 
 ness was it not lucky I had been here a couple of 
 months when he elected to have typhoid? is keep- 
 
 33
 
 34, "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 ing me more than busy with all I have had to do. 
 Fortunately he isn t very ill, and from behind the 
 carbolic-sheet-hung door in his isolation camp in the 
 prophet s chamber on the roof, can send down in 
 structions to me whenever I get stuck. I haven t 
 made many mistakes that amount to anything, ex 
 cepting one, and that was big enough to last for 
 some time. I consigned some hundreds of kilos of 
 licorice root to a silk factory in Lyons, France, and 
 the same number of bales. of raw silk to a drug firm 
 in London, and actually shipped them, too! We 
 only learned to-day that through the kindness of the 
 respective firms the two commodities finally reached 
 their rightful destinations. 
 
 It has been impossible to get a nurse for David, 
 and poor Betty has had everything to do for her 
 husband. There is only one foreign trained nurse in 
 the country, and she, of course, was busy on a case. 
 When I get back to America, I am going to see that 
 some adequate provision is made for sick foreigners. 
 Everything seems to be done for "the people." 
 
 We were beginning the fourth week of Cousin 
 David s illness when a letter came from Mr. White- 
 law asking if it would be a convenient time for him 
 to accept Betty s oft-repeated invitation to stop with 
 us for a few days, while he cleared from the cus 
 toms some supplies which had arrived from Eng 
 land. He has been back and forth several times 
 during the past months, always dropping in for a 
 cup of tea and an envious look at the pre-historics
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 35 
 
 in the case. Betty brought his letter to me for a 
 reply, and I wrote him a very nice note asking him 
 to postpone his visit till such time as we could show 
 him a clean bill of health. Instead, what did the 
 man do, but come on at once and take charge of us 
 all, David included, and has been the greatest pos 
 sible comfort and help. Everybody out here is so 
 human and mutually helpful. Little Caryl was taken 
 at once into one of the missionary homes where 
 there is a houseful of children, the Winthrops, and 
 is having the time of his life, he says. 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw is interesting in a way, now that 
 one has him at close range, full of lore, specializing 
 of course, in Hittites, but once or twice has shown 
 such human interest in other things, that I d like 
 to know what lies under the surface of his rather 
 austere manner. I was making tea the afternoon 
 he came and had lighted the brass kettle in the draw 
 ing-room, and stood listening to him describe the 
 finding of a Hittite palace up at his diggings, when 
 I happened to glance down and saw my clean white 
 dimity frock blazing, the flames creeping, running 
 up towards my face. I gave a frightened gasp, I 
 suppose, for he cried, "Don t move," and the next 
 thing I knew his hands gripped me and he was 
 wrapping something around me. I must have lost 
 consciousness for a moment in that silly way I have 
 when frightened, for his voice came to me from 
 so far away that it seemed to shake and to be with 
 out that calmness it usually has.
 
 36 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 "That was a close call, child," he said, and his 
 voice was low and very gentle. Child! That re 
 called my scattered senses, and I found myself 
 again, and that I was standing steadied by his 
 strong arms, and wrapped in his coat. The front 
 of my dress was a black mass. 
 
 "Come over to the chaise longue and rest, won t 
 you? And I ll call Mrs. Hackett." 
 
 "No, please, I ll be quite myself in a minute. I 
 am so sorry," I tried to say. Oh, mother darling, 
 if you had been here you would have understood. 
 He looked at me as though deciding what to do next, 
 and then did it he picked me up and placed me on 
 the lounge and threw the afghan over my charred 
 skirt. 
 
 "You are not burned at all I think, Miss Locke, 
 but" and with one of those rare, reluctant smiles 
 lighting his grave face, "it is my turn now," and 
 proceeded to make the tea, for the kettle was boiling 
 over. 
 
 "I ll show you how I have learned to do things 
 at the diggings." Then Betty came running into 
 the room exclaiming, "I smell something burning. 
 Is it here? Rachel, what is it? Why are you lying 
 down? Why, Rachel dear," as I began to cry. 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw was bringing me a cup of tea, and 
 stood beside me, his hand on my trembling arm with 
 a steady pressure and said quietly, "She tried to 
 burn herself up, Mrs. Hackett. Fortunately I was 
 in the room, but she will need a new frock I fear."
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 37 
 
 Dear Betty, how she comforted and petted me, and 
 even cried a little herself, and when she seized Mr. 
 Whitelaw s hand to thank him, I saw him wince. 
 
 "Come here," I commanded, suddenly stronger. 
 "You a,re the one who is burned. Oh, Betty, look 
 at the palm of his hand," holding it between both 
 mine. "He saved my life," I sobbed quite un 
 nerved. 
 
 He gently withdrew his smarting hand and looked 
 at me with that newborn smile of his, and for the 
 second time said child. "It is nothing, my child. 
 But promise that you will extinguish your match 
 another time, especially if no one is in the room 
 with you, will you?" Afterwards he seemed to 
 lapse into his cold, dignified manner, but once or 
 twice I have caught him looking at me as though 
 to make sure he had thoroughly done his work of 
 rescue. 
 
 I had not hitherto taken enough interest in Mr. 
 W. to tell you what he looks like. Until he came to 
 be in the house with us, I really had not paid much 
 attention to him, excepting to note that he was tall 
 and had dark, deep-set eyes. His hair, I have dis 
 covered, is fair and waves a little, and his hands are 
 shapely and well cared for, the hands of a musician 
 rather than those of a grubber in the ashes of the 
 past. His dress is always correct, and by the way 
 the shoulders set up, I should think nothing less than 
 the work of a tailor not far from Bond Street. His 
 personality is rather pleasing when one gets to know
 
 38 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 him, but it has taken a long time to get a little teeny 
 way under his austere surface manners. And how 
 old is he? Perhaps thirty, perhaps forty, I don t 
 know. You see I am busy at the office during the 
 day, and he insists that Betty shall sleep at night and 
 let him care for David, who is rapidly regaining his 
 health. He is kindness itself to both Betty and me, 
 and I fancy is the kind who makes friends slowly, 
 but once made, they last as long as life. 
 
 That episode of nearly burning to death has 
 shaken me more than I care to admit, even to you, 
 my intimate book, mother is to see. The horror of 
 it seems to haunt me especially at night when a flame 
 enveloped me holds back my slumbers, and I watch 
 in my disordered fancy those creeping, running rin 
 gers of fire. I somehow feel Mr. Whitelaw is aware 
 of this abnormal state of my nerves, for he is so 
 very watchful of my comfort, an indefinable some 
 thing, an unobtrusive taking care, which seems to 
 enwrap me, especially when I come home from the 
 office, quite tired out with carrying the whole re 
 sponsibility of Cousin David s business. 
 
 The missionaries were so lovingly kind when they 
 heard of all our troubles, and not a day passes but 
 some token of their sympathy and thoughtfulness 
 reaches us. My Miss Delight came running in to 
 day the girls school is quite near and insisted 
 on my going home with her for over Sunday. I 
 am in the quiet chamber next hers now, and must 
 go to bed lest I keep her awake.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 39 
 
 Morning. 
 
 The guest room faces the sunset, with a view em 
 bracing orange gardens, mulberry groves and the 
 yellow, sand-fringed sea, stretching out into the 
 west and America on its farther shore. There is a 
 small flat-roofed house over the garden wall, which 
 has a veranda embowered with yellow jessamine 
 which sends its delicate odours through the open 
 windows (I did not tell you there is a tall spine of 
 tuberoses on my dressing table), and a woman, her 
 hair in two long braids, is seated on the floor sewing, 
 her Singer hand machine on a low table beside her. 
 A fat, chubby boy is playing there too, taking bites 
 now and then from a flat loaf of bread he has in one 
 hand. Around the ledge of the veranda are tins 
 the kind kerosene oil comes in, in which various 
 plants are growing. I noticed egg shells on sticks 
 in some of them, in others the shine of blue beads 
 tied on the branches. Miss Delight tells me these 
 are fetishes to keep off the evil eye ! And that must 
 explain why the horses and mules wear necklaces of 
 blue beads. 
 
 I was going to say I could understand a little why 
 they need some one to tell them a better way about 
 some things, when I remembered that we Westerns 
 are not devoid of superstition and the outward ex 
 pression of it. There is knocking on wood, for in 
 stance, and an old shoe some horse cast to be picked 
 up and nailed over a gate or front door, and the 
 rabbit s foot, and father always carried a horse-
 
 40 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 chestnut, you know, in his pocket to ward off rheu 
 matism, and the four-leaf clover, etc. There must 
 be some other reason why the people here need mis 
 sionaries. While the service in Arabic was going 
 on, I wandered about in the garden, the garden of 
 delights, its beauty changing with the seasons. Just 
 now it is aglow with chrysanthemums, and to my 
 joy I found the little clustered hearts of gold arte- 
 misias, and other autumnal flowers of the far-away 
 home gardens, gardens of memory now, wherein is 
 the smell of white grapes and Northern Spy apples. 
 Do you remember in heavenly Deanston? 
 
 To-night. 
 
 Last night, or this morning rather, I had a new 
 sensation. Do you recall the muezzin s cry in old 
 Stambul? We listened to it that first time with 
 amused curiosity, thinking rather contemptuously 
 perhaps, of human energy being employed when re 
 sounding bronze might be substituted and would be 
 heard farther. That has been my mental attitude 
 ever since I came here to dwell for these three years, 
 but this morning, above my dreams, just as the won 
 der of the waking day showed in the east, I heard 
 stealing along with the dawn, a voice, pulsating, 
 floating like a thing with wings, which other voices 
 answered, echoing, repeating, now in chorus now in 
 antiphones, till they seemed to circle round and 
 round the slender minarets and whitened domes, 
 everywhere, winged, palpitating voices calling, call-
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 41 
 
 ing "Come to prayer, come to prayer, prayer is bet 
 ter than sleep," and the mystery and compelling 
 power of the floating, spoken, human word, a per 
 sonal invitation to the sleeping thousands, became 
 something alive and pregnant with a new meaning, 
 so that I shall wait and listen for the Adan, each 
 time of the five every day. Here is something which 
 cannot be improved, and I am wondering if from 
 church towers and spires at home, there should re 
 sound a worship proclamation instead of iron- 
 throated bells, what would be the effect. I know 
 one thing, mosques are always full, while the re 
 verse is true of churches in America. Who knows, 
 if this seventh-century way of telling men there 
 are stated times to repair to their several places of 
 worship were employed, they might not go to church 
 more. What do you think? 
 
 And I have an idea that the human touch, the 
 personality of the calling voice on the little, narrow 
 stone balcony, high up above the street noises, is a 
 factor more or less potent, in the assembling process. 
 I have learned that what the world wants is not a 
 dead, historic Christ, nor a buried Mohammed, but 
 a living, personal voice and touch, "a hand like to 
 my hand" to quote our friend and teacher Browning. 
 I am beginning to see, also, that there is a place for 
 the missionaries here. We have a message to give 
 to the whole world, we Americans, and I think it 
 must be rather a joyful thing to be big enough and 
 great enough in one s self to be asked to be a mes-
 
 42 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 senger. I want you to know these splendid people 
 out here, the Americans I mean, big souled, broad 
 visioned, deep thinking, who have given up much 
 for "His dear sake," as they love to sing. One of 
 them could have been Ambassador to a land not very 
 far off, if he had chosen to accept, the President 
 asked him to, and a certain college wanted him for 
 the chair of, I have forgotten what, but he declined. 
 "This one thing I do," he said, "preach the unsearch 
 able riches of Christ to the people to whom I have 
 been sent of God." And yet not one of them 
 will own it is any hardship to live these lives of self- 
 sacrifice and expatriation. I think they are the hap 
 piest people on earth, I do really. 
 
 I am not giving you events in chronological order, 
 but as I have time to jot them down for you, you 
 dear, far-away mother. I feel like telling you to 
 night of a conversation I had recently with Doctor 
 Saleeby, who cared for David in his illness, and who 
 has an English wife, a very charming sort of person 
 she is, too. We were talking about the rumours afloat 
 as to an uprising against the Christians in certain 
 parts of Asia Minor an omnipresent dread, which 
 has become an actuality all too often. The scars of 
 one terrible massacre are still to be seen. There are 
 many now living who were eyewitnesses to the 
 butchery and savagery of the carnage and pillage. 
 I denounced to Dr. Saleeby such an awful state of 
 affairs. "How can such a government live?" I ex 
 claimed. "Why in my country "
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 43 
 
 "Pardon me," my Syrian doctor said, "I am no 
 lover of the Turk. Neither is the Moslem of Arab 
 blood. But you must know there are Moslems and 
 Moslems, just as there are Americans and Ameri 
 cans. According to the newspapers, even in your 
 country, which boasts as its basic principle of gov 
 ernment that all men are created equal, you have 
 lynchings and race riots sometimes, which appear to 
 outsiders strange anomalies in a land where good 
 government obtains. We have iniquitous massacres. 
 But as I see it, the spirit which animates ten or 
 twelve men to lead in the execution of mob law upon 
 a suspected or condemned black man, and that of an 
 infuriated Kurdish horde is one and the same. The 
 immeasurable difference between the two acts is this 
 our Kurd knows no law but his own inflamed pas 
 sionate hate and lust, your American knows better, 
 has ample law and justice to control and punish his 
 victim. He who received most is the worst offender, 
 is he not, in God s sight?" 
 
 "I must admit your argument is good," I replied. 
 "All the same, the lynching of one person cannot be 
 such a crime against civilization as the indiscrimi 
 nate killing of unoffending masses of the population 
 simply because you do not like their religion." 
 
 "All true, perhaps," the Syrian replied, "and yet 
 you must acknowledge that the motive which 
 prompts both massacre and lynching is one and the 
 same hate, in the one case of a man s colour and 
 race, in the other of his race and religion."
 
 44 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 I was loath to admit that I had been beaten in the 
 argument, but to be frank with you, such was the 
 case, and so I changed the subject. 
 
 "Dr. Saleeby, where did you study medicine?" I 
 queried. 
 
 "At the American College in Beyrout, after I had 
 taken the arts course there. * 
 
 "Have you ever been in Europe?" I next asked. 
 He smiled as he made answer. 
 
 "I studied in Vienna for a year after a post-grad 
 uate course at Johns Hopkins." 
 
 "No wonder you speak English so well," I ex 
 claimed in amazement. 
 
 "My mother was an English woman, Miss Locke, 
 and knew little Arabic, and of course, I have rela 
 tives in England whom I see frequently. Besides 
 my father was descended from Crusading stock. 
 That is what Saleeby means, crusader." 
 
 "Then why," I began eagerly. He smiled at me 
 again. 
 
 "I have asked myself that many times why not 
 live in a more civilized country?" There were 
 tempting offers in America, but the lure of the 
 Lebanon was in my blood. If you ve card the 
 East a callin , you won t never eed naught else, you 
 know. And besides, if my country is ever to rise, to 
 attain to greater things, it must be from within, and 
 by the efforts of her sons. I have no sympathy with 
 those who desire one of the European Powers to
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 45 
 
 take Syria. My vision is of a Syria for the Syrians, 
 a self-governing State." 
 
 "Do you see any indications of such a thing com 
 ing to pass?" 
 
 "Many," he quietly replied. "The great deter 
 mining factor at present is education. It is to the 
 various mission schools we owe much of the light 
 we now have. The College in Beyrout is one of 
 the most potent, perhaps I should say, the greatest 
 influence for the good of the community in all Syria 
 to-day." 
 
 This began to be more than interesting. I was 
 finding out things. 
 
 "In what way," I asked, "does the teaching of 
 the College make for progress? It surely cannot 
 inculcate insurrection and rebellion against the gov 
 ernment, however bad, which allows it to carry on 
 its work." 
 
 "Quite the contrary," he asserted. "The College 
 is teaching patriotism, something unexpressed in 
 the Turkish language." 
 
 "Tell me, is all this progress due to the efforts of 
 American Missionaries?" 
 
 "No, not all, but in large measure. The College 
 while not connected with any Board of Missions, was 
 created by the American missionaries, who had a 
 vision broad enough to hand it over to a separate 
 board of trustees, that it be not hampered in its 
 expansion. The American missionaries have the 
 best equipped plant, and most up-to-date, and their
 
 46 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 schools are more numerous than those of other na 
 tionalities. Did you know that the Turkish Empire 
 contains an even dozen of colleges, founded by your 
 compatriots, not to mention the numbers of sec 
 ondary boarding and day schools, as well as innu 
 merable village schools. The English have some good 
 schools, one or two of superior excellence. In Pal 
 estine proper, the Americans have held aloof, for 
 the most part." 
 
 "What are the Roman Catholics doing, any 
 thing?" 
 
 "Much. They have schools and convents every 
 where. This land has been the refuge of monastic 
 orders driven from other lands. The Friars are 
 great educators, as are the Jesuits. The latter have 
 a finely equipped university in .Beyrout, which is 
 connected with the University of Paris. The Rus 
 sians, too, have splendid schools, and the Germans, 
 with a few hospitals and orphanages, are doing 
 much good. Even the Danes have pushed out next 
 the desert where no one else has gone. Now, Miss 
 Locke, do you not see towards what all this is trend 
 ing? An educated, self-respecting people, and please 
 God, in time a self-governing one." 
 
 "Dr. Saleeby, is it not true that Islam has re 
 mained wholly untouched by Christianity?" 
 
 "Quite untrue," was his earnest rejoinder. "Prot 
 estant Christianity is vitally affecting Mohammed 
 anism. Their leaders know this and are more than 
 anxious. Since the Bible was put into the majestic
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 47 
 
 Arabic of the Koran, it has been circulated widely 
 among the studious and thoughtful, with results 
 which will bear unexpected fruit one day. I could 
 name many who are devout believers in the teach 
 ings of Jesus, and who accept Him as their Saviour. 
 Besides, there is a large number, especially men, who 
 have lost their grip on Mohammed s teachings, and 
 are drifting, they care not whither. But there will 
 come a day when there will be an upheaval and an 
 overturning, and it will come from within. What 
 has been accomplished has not been the work of 
 missionaries. It has come through reading the 
 Bible. It is the call of Almighty God to a people 
 in part a remnant of Israel mayhap, all children 
 of Abraham at any rate, and it will be heard." 
 
 "But surely, the Turkish Government has some 
 system of education. How is it they tolerate the 
 presence of numberless schools conducted by for 
 eigners, who cannot but inculcate ideas alien to 
 Eastern thought." 
 
 "The policy of the Turkish Government has re 
 sulted in keeping the people in ignorance. But re 
 member, please, that learning is indigenous among 
 the Arab peoples, who are in subjection to the Oth- 
 man Turks, a clever, astute race, just beginning to 
 emerge from its mediaeval dimness of perception. 
 Given time and non-interference from the grabbing 
 European Powers, Christian so-called, I have faith 
 to believe they have it in them to rise to a worthy 
 place among the nations of the earth, and given
 
 48 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 also the opportunity, I would like to be one of the 
 many Christians who are like minded, to help my 
 native land awake." 
 
 "But I thought," I objected, "that you were 
 anxious to be under Christian rule." 
 
 "We are, but with religious freedom, an open 
 uncensored press, educated officials ruling after 
 modern methods and a representative government 
 in which we Christians shall have a part, I believe 
 we may have a stable national government irrespec 
 tive of creed." I have tried to give you as near 
 a verbatim report of this extraordinary conversation 
 as possible, for it shows how little outsiders know of 
 actual conditions in the Near East. 
 
 One Day. 
 
 A few days ago there came an invitation from 
 Doctor Otis, the one who opened the only Sanato 
 rium for tuberculosis in this part of the world. We 
 were all asked, Mr. Whitelaw included, that we 
 might meet the new American Consul General. I 
 was keen about going, as Doctor Rahmy, as every 
 one affectionately calls her, has done a unique work, 
 quite alone, and being in the process of remaking 
 my ideas and opinions, I was desirous of seeing if 
 things and conditions were as I had been told. I 
 should say that Dr. Otis s name is Mercy, as 
 though her mother had an intuition of the future 
 calling of her child when she named her, and the 
 quick-witted people out here learned that Mercy
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 49 
 
 meant their word Rahmy, so she is never known 
 here by any other name than Dr. Rahmy. Is it not 
 beautiful, when you know what she is doing? Her 
 house is about ten or fifteen miles this side of Bey- 
 rout, and as we had been asked to come early that 
 we might inspect the Sanatorium before the one 
 o clock dinner, we started betimes. 
 
 The drive in the inverse direction over the same 
 road I came to Trablus by in the spring, seven 
 months ago, was as full of enjoyment as though I 
 had never passed that way before. Everywhere na 
 ture had rehabilitated herself after the parched, 
 dry summer when not a drop of rain fell from the 
 1 2th of April until nearly the first of October, which 
 explains why there are so many dry watercourses. 
 
 The hard rains had eliminated the thick coat of 
 dust worn by the olive trees all summer and polished 
 up each shining silver-grey leaf, while the wayside 
 grasses and flowers already look up expectantly. I 
 saw the mottled leaves of the cyclamens peeping 
 from the crannies and spreading themselves around 
 their clinging places in the clefts of the rocks. In 
 this land there are rocks and rocks and rocks, as 
 though the surplus of creation had been dumped 
 here. A pretty bit of Syrian folk lore says, that 
 when God created the world, He sifted the sand 
 over the desert, but the stones one sees everywhere 
 were too coarse to go through His sieve, so He 
 threw them out over Syria. You would believe it, 
 too, if you could see the fells terraces where they
 
 50 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 sow wheat, and which we saw being ploughed. The 
 soil is covered thick in most places with small stones 
 the size of my fist, and one wonders how anything 
 can grow under such conditions. And yet they tell 
 me fair crops of wheat, barley and millet are raised. 
 
 One view to-day was enchanting. We wound 
 down the wonderful road with its corners and curves 
 after leaving the Kura and its olive trees, through 
 the growing town of Shikka, passing for perhaps a 
 mile through a straight avenue between splendid 
 market gardens and orchards, to the beautiful bay 
 at the foot of the promontory over which the car 
 riage road passes. How blue the sea looked, in which 
 the white sails of the fishing boats just come to 
 anchor were reflected as in a mirror. Away to the 
 north the coast stretched to el Mina and far beyond, 
 showing old, bald, seamy Mt. Turbul rising seem 
 ingly from the water s edge, as though to defy man 
 to attempt to enter its territory, and to protest 
 against the invading railroad which skirts its base 
 to push eastward towards the desert. Cousin David 
 says it is only a matter of a very few years ere 
 that same railroad arrives at for the present, an un 
 named terminus, and then one will be able to take 
 a train marked Bombay, via Horns, Palmyra, Bag 
 dad and Karatchi. But before that happens it will 
 be possible to entrain at Trablus and get out at 
 Paris or Vladivostock ! 
 
 Once more we traversed that wonder of a road 
 carved on the side of the mountainous cliff over the
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 51 
 
 sea, down the other side through a progressive town 
 called el Batrun, with a Crusader castle and attrac 
 tive modern houses with red tile roofs. At one 
 point we passed many fig orchards, with their mis 
 shapen trees looking as though the wind never blew 
 but from one direction. Then over a splendid 
 sweep of road showing the beautiful town of. Ams- 
 hit, where the sister of Ernest Renan is buried, while 
 away before us sprawled Jebail, the Byblos of the 
 Greeks and Gebal of the Bible. It too, has a 
 wonderful castle as well as a fine cathedral church 
 built by the Crusaders. 
 
 As we had been but an hour or so coming thus 
 far, Cousin David said he would like to stop and see 
 a man with whom he has dealings in silk. And 
 here I had the surprise of my life. We had left 
 the car with Deebna, the chauffeur, and strolled 
 down a road leading to the sea, when we came upon 
 a most splendid house, quite the finest I have seen 
 out here. It plainly was somebody s home, for 
 there was a high picket fence in front of a gorgeous 
 garden of flowers, with a mosaic walk through the 
 middle leading up to a green front door. Betty and 
 I stopped and poked our faces between the pickets 
 and gazed and looked at the exquisite flowers and 
 feathery, towering pepper trees. While we were thus 
 occupied that green door opened and a lady came 
 out with a basket and garden shears. She did not 
 see us at first, but when she came towards a splendid 
 bush of La France roses near the fence, she spied
 
 52 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 us and said, "May I give you a rose?" I did not 
 answer but tore into that garden crying, "It is Kate 
 Morgan! Where under the sun?" And she, 
 "Rachel Locke! Have the skies fallen?" Mother, 
 imagine it, my room-mate at college out here. I 
 knew it all the time, but had somehow got it into 
 my head that she had gone to India. Well, we did 
 not go any farther, but sat on a balcony where we 
 could watch for Cousin David, and at the same 
 time see almost the rest of God s world spread out 
 like an immense picture, with Beyrout from across 
 a wide bay, stretching its lazy length into the sea. 
 And what is Kate doing here? As near as I 
 could find out, whatever her hand finds to do, and 
 that seems to be many things. We saw her schools, 
 and industrial work and then Cousin David came 
 and we had to go, but not till she had my promise 
 for a week-end visit very soon. 
 
 When we got to Aintain we found the guests as 
 sembled, and it was a joy to see that doctor woman, 
 Mercy personified, going from bed to bed greeting 
 the poor, dying consumptives. It seems some of 
 the people are dreadfully afraid of tuberculosis, 
 and it is a terrible thing, and in their terror lest the 
 others of the household get it, they isolate those 
 so afflicted, making them comfortable enough, but 
 alone sometimes to meet the last awful moment. 
 They are often placed in a small tent in a pine grove, 
 if one is at hand, and there left, where frequently 
 they improve in the pure air. But Doctor Mercy
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 53 
 
 could not have that go on, and all such are sought 
 out by this good woman, brought here and lovingly 
 cared for and made comfortable, while more than 
 one has been restored and quite cured. One of the 
 guests asked the doctor how she came to found the 
 Sanatorium, and she held us spellbound as she nar 
 rated a wonderful tale, although heart-breaking. 
 
 Near her own house is a cave inhabited by a half 
 demented woman, who implicitly believes in the 
 protection of St. John the Baptist. The floor of her 
 cave she has divided into rooms as a child marks 
 off his garden with white pebbles. There is a sitting 
 room and bedroom and tiny kitchen and a guest 
 room, in which she placed her best bed, a poor 
 enough mattress, on the ground. 
 
 "Then I prayed to St. John Baptist to send me a 
 guest because I was so lonely," the poor old thing 
 said. "And one day a man came carrying a sick 
 woman on his back, whom he placed on the ground 
 and departed. Oh, welcome, welcome, I said and 
 knew that my prayers had been answered. But my 
 guest did not heed me, but wept and wailed, Ya 
 ibny, ya ibny, how canst thou leave thy mother 
 thus? I soon found she v;as far gone with the 
 dreadful sill and tried to comfort her. She was 
 very weak, and I made her sit on the bed In my 
 guest room and drink some of the soup I had for 
 my supper. But she could only weep and say, Ya 
 ibny, ya ibny, oh, my son. And then I told her 
 about the Good Shepherd I had heard of from the
 
 54 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 doctor lady, and how He said, I shall not want. 
 But my guest was too far gone to listen much, I 
 thought. Just before the dawning of the morning, 
 she turned her face to the wall, and listening I heard 
 her say, I shall not want, and with a sigh gave 
 back her spirit to God." "Why did I open this 
 place?" the doctor added. "The need and desolation 
 of that one woman built this sanatorium." 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw, who had been standing near me 
 during this recital, which left us choked and silent, 
 said, as if to himself, "And you and I have no part 
 nor lot in these stupendous undertakings," and 
 turned abruptly to the window, from which the sea 
 could be seen rolling in great billows, which roared 
 and dashed and fumed on the rocks below. 
 
 I plucked at his sleeve, "Why should you mind 
 being left out of this? You are not a doctor; you 
 have other work in the world." 
 
 "And though I am but a digger, may I not feel 
 a throb of pity for suffering and sorrow, and long 
 to alleviate it if I can?" he gravely inquired. 
 
 "Yes, and I too am sad over such conditions, but 
 I love my native land where there is sorrow and suf 
 fering also, and sick foreigners and all the rest. One 
 may work along these same lines there," I weakly 
 answered. 
 
 "Miss Locke, responsibility is a solemn word, and 
 I very much fear you nor I have a right to say we 
 have yet found it in our dictionaries. This is life, 
 this work, don t you see it? I have had a lesson
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 55 
 
 set me to-day, which I must con well, and you 
 too," he added softly with that hidden smile as he 
 looked at me. 
 
 Fortunately Doctor Mercy led the way back to 
 her house before I could frame a reply which fit 
 ted the occasion, and the walk was a silent one. I 
 wonder, wonder about so many things out here. 
 
 The dinner was sumptuous which was awaiting 
 us. The piece de resistance was a lamb cooked 
 whole, stuffed with chopped meat, rice and nuts and 
 raisins. The man servant dissected it without knife 
 or fork, a la arab, a most curious sight, tearing the 
 flesh with much skill. The meat was delicious as 
 was a preparation of rice rolled up in grape leaf 
 jackets and served with lebin, the "curds" every 
 one eats out here. 
 
 After we had eaten all we thought possible, there 
 was brought in the national dish without which no 
 feast is complete, kibbie, wheat and meat pounded 
 for hours in a great stone mortar and then placed 
 in copper trays, layer-cake fashion, the filling being 
 chopped meat, onions and pine seeds, with quanti 
 ties of semin, the native butter, after which it is 
 baked in a public oven. You cannot think how 
 good it is. And mother, as I ate this dish they told 
 me that for ages the people of this land have eaten 
 it. King Solomon did, for he speaks of it in his 
 words of wisdom, "Though thou shouldst bray a 
 fool in a mortar among wheat with a pestle, yet will
 
 56 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 not his foolishness depart from him." Look it up 
 in Proverbs, 27:22. 
 
 Speaking of food, I have eaten the kind of pot 
 tage Esau sold his birthright for, and really, it is 
 so good that if one were very hungry, "hungry as 
 a hunter," which was poor Esau s state, and where 
 that saying probably originated, such a vague thing 
 as who was the elder of a pair of twins, might easily 
 give place to so satisfying a dish as majeddra, made 
 of lentils mainly, cooked in this pure olive oil, with 
 onion rags on top, onions sliced across and quite 
 thin and fried crisp and brown. This eaten with 
 a salad with fresh mint in it is worth a twin s 
 primogeniture. 
 
 These people know how to cook, their sweets 
 especially, are amazingly delicious. The most de 
 lectable kind is a sort of layer cake with cream 
 filling baked between two fires, as its name indicates, 
 kenaifeh b naraln. I also like very much biiqlaweh. 
 (When you see a q in a word transliterated from the 
 Arabic it means you are to start to pronounce it k, 
 and somehow manage to swallow it in the process of 
 enunciation, calling it koff.) This latter sweet is 
 another sort of layer cake, as many as thirty layers 
 of tissue-paper thin pastry, with a thick one at the 
 bottom of chopped nuts and things. It is most 
 delicious. We had some to-day. I wish I could 
 send you a piece. 
 
 The other day Um Fuad came to call and out of 
 that capacious pocket of hers drew a glass jar of
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 57 
 
 what must have dropped down from the angels 
 pantry, for I am sure mortals never thought of tak 
 ing orange petals to make preserves. You cannot 
 imagine anything nearer nectar than these eaten hot, 
 with cream. 
 
 There is just room left in my second Russia- 
 leather book to write finis.
 
 The world knowcth the ignorance of 
 the ignorant, but the ignorant knoweth 
 not that the wise is wise. Arab Prov 
 erb.
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 Thanksgiving Night. 
 
 How did I ever get the courage to put myself 
 where I could not get home for Thanksgiving? I 
 did not reckon on the holidays when I bound myself 
 for three years out here. There are just twenty- 
 seven more months before I sail away for HOME 
 and YOU. Yes, I am as homesick as I ever want 
 to be. Oh, how I have missed you to-day. It seems 
 so far to America. We have had a celebration and 
 it is time to go to bed, and you have not yet had 
 dinner. We observed the day in the dear home way, 
 as near as we could, but it wasn t home no matter 
 how hard we tried to make it seem so. We all knew 
 we were aliens in a land which had never kept 
 Thanksgiving, because it has no reason to be very 
 thankful for much of anything, so far as one can 
 see, when our point of view is taken. 
 
 The Americans take turns having the dinner, and 
 this year it was at the Winthrops , where we went 
 after a service in the chapel. The Winthrop house 
 is like all houses here, a big central court with the 
 rooms opening out of it. There were so many of 
 us that the table was laid in the court, and when 
 we marched in, small Ted Winthrop leading with 
 
 61
 
 62 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 his drum, it was as though we had stepped into, oh, 
 that blessed America where you are and I wish I 
 was this minute. There was a runner down the 
 centre of the table of Dennison crepe paper with 
 flags and shields on it, a doily at each plate to match, 
 and standing at attention in the glasses was a ser 
 viette folded to display the flag. 
 
 When we reached our places and stood for the 
 blessing, some one started "My Country Tis of 
 Thee." I glanced up after swallowing hard two or 
 three times, and if I had not been so busy trying to 
 make my voice less wobbly so as to carry the tune, 
 at the same time mopping away the salt, homesick 
 tears, I could have laughed, the grown-ups looked so 
 tragic. The men mostly gazed ceilingward, and the 
 women at their plates with an air of determination 
 to somehow get through without breaking down, for 
 every one was furtively wiping away tears. Those 
 blessed folk, home lovers every one, but humanity 
 lovers and Jesus lovers a thousandfold more. The 
 last word sung, no one stirred until Dr. Winthrop 
 had talked with God about our home land in a very 
 tender, longing voice, asking blessings for "all in 
 authority," not forgetting "His Majesty, the King 
 of Great Britain," for Mr. Whitelaw s sake, and the 
 Sultan "of the land in which we live." 
 
 Have I told you about Mrs. Winthrop? She is 
 most charming, with a swarm of children, the eldest 
 only twelve. She is a graduate of Vassar, too, was 
 valedictorian of her class, I believe, and has acquired
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 63 
 
 the Arabic in a remarkable way they tell me. Her 
 housekeeping is something beautiful, and her cook 
 ery delicious and toothsome. The dinner was ex 
 cellent to-day. Let me tell you about it. There was 
 a big fowl she raised herself and cranberry jelly 
 (tinned), sweet potatoes (tinned), corn (tinned), 
 and salad out of her garden. She had made with 
 her own hands mince and pumpkin (tinned) pies, 
 and when her man servant was bringing them to the 
 table he tripped on the steps leading from the kitchen 
 and dropped both of them and they were irrevo 
 cably smashed ! You should have heard the men 
 groan when she came running back after investigat 
 ing the crash, and announced the awful news. Then 
 she as quickly disappeared again and after we had 
 waited a quarter of an hour, she slipped into her 
 place and in came the man, with a flaming plum 
 pudding (tinned), which she had kept in her store 
 room against an emergency. We all cheered and 
 enjoyed the Huntly and Palmer production to the 
 limit of the last crumb. 
 
 Dinner over, we played games, the old home 
 kind, and had an uproarious time. Fancy playing 
 "Going to Jerusalem," with the real Jerusalem just 
 around the corner. I never realized before what a 
 purely American feast Tranksgiving is until to-day. 
 Coming home, Mr. Whitelaw said, "I like the way 
 you Americans do things. We feel thankful too, in 
 England, but somehow we never do as you have 
 done to-day."
 
 64 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 "Yes, I know," I answered him. "But when 
 our forefathers, who were English you remember, 
 inaugurated this custom, there was great reason to 
 give thanks. The men who made our nation were 
 not cradled in soft beds." 
 
 "Is that the reason these Americans out here are 
 made of such unusual stuff?" 
 
 "Perhaps. They are certainly rare, and holy," 
 under my breath. 
 
 Night. 
 
 I am always interested in coming home from the 
 office in watching the men at the half-way place 
 where the tram cars pass on the switch, prepare for 
 sunset prayers. Islam, whatever defects we may 
 find in it, is certainly not ashamed of itself. To 
 pray is not only a duty, but a part of its being. 
 There is a wide platform under some Pride of India 
 trees, a solidly built thing, with a tank of running 
 water for the obligatory ablutions, without which 
 no man presents himself before his God. And I 
 see how they clean out their mouths, too, before be 
 ginning to pray. Then, shoes left behind, they stand 
 or kneel on their coat or girdle in lieu of a rug, 
 their faces toward Mecca, quite regardless of on 
 lookers. It is always impressive, this strict observ 
 ance of the times of prayer. 
 
 And speaking of water, I have not yet told you 
 about that of Trablus, which seems to me more or 
 less of a joke, it is so unreasonably impure. No one
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 65 
 
 of the foreign residents dares use it before boiling 
 or at least passing it through a filter. You cannot 
 imagine anything more primitive than the method 
 by which it is introduced into the houses. The foun 
 tain head is pure enough, but that is some hours 
 from the city, and it is allowed to meander in an 
 open aqueduct don t imagine anything canalized 
 like the Rhone in Switzerland, but more as a brook 
 flows through fields and by the roadside, until it 
 nears the city, where it crosses the river by means 
 of an arched aqueduct, very ancient, dating prob 
 ably from Roman times. Once across, it disappears 
 underground to flow through a stone ditch and be 
 distributed in birkeys in the houses into which it 
 flows, in and out. There is always the sound of 
 running water wherever you go. 
 
 There are several openings into the underground 
 water ways called becyara, "wells," and one day 
 when we were out walking back of the castle we 
 found quite a crowd collected around one, which 
 presently passed near us, surrounding a weeping 
 woman carrying her little daughter, who had fallen 
 in and had just been found after hours of search. 
 
 The other day the water was cut off practically 
 all day while they hunted for a donkey which had 
 managed to stumble in. They found it at last, but 
 oh my, think what we drank before the beast was 
 missed, a matter of three days, I believe. But one 
 might as well be philosophical about it, for when a 
 break in the aforesaid ditch occurs, a donkey-load
 
 66 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 of manure is dumped in to seek out and clog up the 
 breach. We can always tell when repairs are on, 
 by the barnyard taste in the water! And New 
 Yorkers eschew Croton water and buy bottled stuff, 
 deeming the former not clean enough! 
 
 An Evening. 
 
 To-day we had a donkey ride, even C. D. (here 
 after C. D. instead of Cousin David, which con 
 sumes time to write out fully) went, and Caryl, who 
 has a beautiful Bagdad donkey, white as milk with 
 a gait as easy as the sway of a rocking chair, was 
 grand marshal and led the way. I rode a mouse- 
 coloured one, the kind with a cross on its back, 
 darker hair along the back bone and across the 
 shoulders making a perfect cross, which tradition 
 says appeared after Joseph took the Virgin Mary 
 and her little Son on one to Egypt. 
 
 There was a long row of us trotting briskly on 
 the broad carriage road making for the Beddaweh, 
 a pool wherein is a great quantity of sacred fish. 
 Just why they are sacred no one seems to know, 
 save that a vow was made in the dim past that the 
 fish in that pool were never to be eaten. It is con 
 sidered a sin to catch them, and if anyone should 
 be so wicked as to purloin one, it would fly out of 
 the frying pan straight to Mohammed ! The result 
 of this belief is there are so many that they crowd 
 each other, and are as fat as butter. We fed them 
 hammus, "pulse," which they almost ate from our
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 67 
 
 hands, they are so tame. We saw many persons go 
 down to the pond and fill little cans with the water 
 to take home to some sick member of the family 
 probably. We watched a woman tie a strip of cloth 
 torn from the garment of her sick baby to an iron 
 bar in the window of the near-by mosque dedicated 
 to the saint who vowed the fish, in hopes that virtue 
 might pass with a healing touch to that tiny sick bed, 
 and then stooping, possess herself of a handful of 
 earth from under the window to carry home in a 
 handkerchief to place near the sick child or to smear 
 its body with it. She was using what knowledge she 
 had to cure her child, poor thing. 
 
 Somehow the sunshine did not seem as bright 
 after she turned away. Her trouble stood between 
 me and its shining. But Miss Delight ran after her 
 and learned where she lived, and promised to send 
 Dr. Saleeby to see her daughter. She will go too, 
 I am sure, before she has her supper, that she may 
 render what service she can to the mother and child. 
 But you should have seen the woman try to kiss 
 Miss Delight s feet, she was so grateful. Am I get 
 ting missionary inoculation? More and more I am 
 finding what their errand is, and it looms large and 
 important, and not a bit is I used to think. 
 
 Entry. 
 
 I am not making records these days. We are so 
 overwhelmed with oil and olive shipments, and
 
 68 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 oranges just beginning, that when night comes I go 
 to bed instead of sitting up to write for you, dearest. 
 
 Christmas Night in Jcbail. 
 
 I must write while the glamour is still upon every 
 thing, of this my first Christmas in the real Christ 
 mas land. Kate Morgan begged so hard for me to 
 spend it with her, pleading loneliness, that I came 
 two days ago, in time for all the festivities. She is 
 a wonderful person, Kate is ; so like a child at heart, 
 and loving and preserving the old traditions which 
 cluster about this joyous occasion. The children 
 have been keyed up for weeks, impatiently waiting 
 the hanging-up-stocking time, experiencing delicious, 
 anticipatory thrills over the mysterious visit of 
 Santa Claus, all the while busily preparing their 
 gifts for each other with much secrecy and whis 
 pered consultations with Kate and their teachers. 
 
 And at last the day came. When I arrived I 
 found a very excited household, and it was with 
 difficulty that supper was eaten by the joyous little 
 folk. Along about seven o clock the great event was 
 ushered in. The children were made ready for bed, 
 when away off dressing-room way we heard singing. 
 Nearer it came, and out went the lights with the 
 entrance of those delightsome children in their 
 nighties, each bearing a lighted candle, stepping 
 softly with slippered feet, and singing that quaint old 
 carol, "I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In." You
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 69 
 
 should have heard the swing of it, the lilt of it in 
 the line "On Christmas day in the morning." 
 
 Around and around they went, singing carol after 
 carol, at last being deflected into their sleeping 
 rooms, but not till each one had paused to hand her 
 stocking to Kate with a courtesy, who pinned it to a 
 line stretched across one corner of the court. 
 
 I wish you could have seen those stockings, each 
 one duly labelled with its owner s name, writ large 
 and in English, for Santa is almost two thousand 
 years old and has poor eyesight, of course! Some 
 of the* names reached the length of the leg, others 
 were ornamented with flowers and leaves done in 
 colour, and some in both Arabic and English. After 
 the last mite was tucked in her little white bed, we 
 grown-ups got busy, and when in the morning the 
 owners explored that collection of hosiery, not a 
 frown was seen, for every one was joyfully glad at 
 what was found therein. 
 
 It was some time near I A. M. when Kate and 
 I crept off to bed. But I did not want to sleep. I 
 could not spare the time. I wanted to be lonesome 
 for you, darling mother, for I know you missed me 
 too. I thought of the ten months spent in this far 
 away land months of work and experience, and 
 yes, growth, I think. I say this last reluctantly, for 
 I seem to have been living in an unreal world, and 
 to have been preparing for an indefinable something. 
 I remembered as I lay awake in the darkness the day 
 when I forgot to blow out the match, and was saved
 
 70 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 from some dreadful fate by Mr. Whitelaw. And 
 then I wondered about him, why he happened to be 
 in that particular spot in a crowded Syrian bazaar 
 the first time I saw him, and if he had been listen 
 ing to the "waits" in England, whither he had gone 
 to spend the holidays and to purchase necessary sup 
 plies, and if he gave any of us out here a thought. 
 He is a nice sort of person to have around, with a 
 way of making every one comfortable without being 
 the least bit obtrusive. 
 
 I had just settled down to sleep when there stole 
 on my ear more carol singing, "Nowel, Nowel, 
 Nowel, Nowel, Born Is the King of Israel," and lo, 
 I was waking and not dropping off to sleep. Those 
 blessed maidens of Kate s were singing before my 
 door, and out on the balconies under the stars, that 
 ever-new old Gospel, "Hark the Herald Angels 
 Sing," that "Christ was born of Mary." Oh, 
 mother, and in this land, this very country is the 
 one where "there were shepherds abiding with their 
 sheep." I cannot realize it, that I myself, am the 
 one who is here. I jumped up to follow to the 
 chapel as soon as possible, for those old familiar 
 melodies floated about me like a new Kyrie, or was 
 I listening to the first one? 
 
 Oh, but the joyous part for the little ones was 
 when we were back upstairs, the children seated on 
 the floor exploring their stockings. No words can 
 picture the delight of those motherless little ones 
 over some dolls some one sent Kate, which arrived
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 71 
 
 in the nick of time. One little six-year-old fastened 
 her eyes on her stocking and the dolly sticking out 
 of the top, speechless at first, then stretching out 
 her arms shaking with eagerness, exclaimed, "Give 
 her to me," her voice quivering with mother love as 
 she clasped the imitation baby to her beating heart. 
 Of course there were sweets and nuts and oranges, 
 and as a very special treat, an apple, imported, for 
 each little tot. And there were pencils and pads and 
 their little gifts to each other, simple and inex 
 pensive, but each little heart was satisfied, and eyes 
 shone and cheeks glowed as one after another called 
 out, "Oh, see," "Look," "Oh my," this last a real 
 squeal of delight. After the excited voices quieted 
 down a little, Kate said: 
 
 "Children, what does this day mean?" One hand 
 waved violently among the others. 
 
 "You may answer, Temam." 
 
 "It s a give and take day, mother." 
 
 "Yes, Temam, but how?" 
 
 "We give because God gave us His most blessed 
 Son to-day, and we take because He gives." Kate 
 glanced across the eager faces to me like a proud 
 mother. 
 
 "And you, little Zehra?" 
 
 "It is the day when Jesus was laid in the manger 
 in Bethlehem." 
 
 "And you, littlest one," indicating fascinating 
 Nebeha.
 
 JT2 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 "It s I love you day," running into Kate s out 
 stretched arms. 
 
 "So it is, you blessed child," which is a good 
 place to stop in my narrative, only what do you 
 suppose I found in my stocking? I brought all my 
 packages with me from Trablus. Your precious 
 face ! How I love it. The nose is almost kissed off 
 already, so be prepared to send a new one every 
 month. Oh yes, I had another Christmas gift. A 
 book, which was postmarked London and contained 
 a bit of pasteboard with John Denise Whitelaw en 
 graved on one side and "Yuletide greetings" written 
 on the other. 
 
 This afternoon Kate took me to see a little new 
 baby, swaddled up like that One down in Bethlehem 
 you used to tell me about. If this one to-day could 
 have talked, this is what she might have said: "It 
 is a queer place I have come to, and most uncom 
 fortable. In the first place no one seemed very glad 
 to see me. They just kept still when some one said 
 I was a girl, whatever that means. I suppose I ll 
 find out if I live long enough. I am all wrapped up 
 in salt I wonder why they did that ? and have been 
 ever since I got here, the day before yesterday. All 
 but my face, which was sponged off with nice cool 
 water, which felt so good. I heard that woman say, 
 who seemed to be the head of the reception com 
 mittee the night I came, she was going to give me 
 a bath to-day. I hope she keeps her word. I seem 
 to be sleepy a great deal of the time. But now and
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 73 
 
 then I need to exercise my lungs, so I cry all I can. 
 Only every time I do that, that woman they call 
 my mother makes me drink some milk, which I like 
 rather well. Sometimes I cry because I have put 
 too much of it in my tummy, and sometimes not 
 enough, or they forgot how long it was since the 
 last time." 
 
 Later. "What do you suppose they have done 
 now? Made me a living mummy. My arms and 
 hands are bound to my sides with a long strip of 
 cloth, and I am laid on my back in a cradle and 
 bound fast in that. I can only move my head a 
 little from side to side. When I cry, my mother 
 kneels on the floor and feeds me milk, and sways 
 my cradle back and forth, after I can hold no more, 
 until I drop off to sleep." 
 
 Don t you feel sorry for the little mite? Swad 
 dling bands instead of soft, orris-scented flannels 
 and darling white robes. Customs do not change 
 here, and it is probable the Bethlehem Boy was sub 
 jected to the same treatment as this one I saw this 
 Christmas day. 
 
 Home Again, and Hard at Work. 
 
 I have been thinking much of late about how good 
 one must be to be a missionary. The standard is 
 high among these I know. Their ideals are lofty. 
 Their devotion unassailable. All this is apparent. 
 What I want next to get at is their deep-down mo 
 tive. Not an obedience to any supposedly binding
 
 74 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 command, not a mere sentimental reason, but why 
 it is possible for these remarkable people to desire 
 to stay as long as life lasts outside their own coun 
 try. What is the compelling force which leads men 
 and women to exile and hard work? What is back 
 of it all? Surely not fame nor riches quite the 
 opposite, even I can see. 
 
 I was given a glimpse to-day, and yes, perhaps my 
 questioning is answered. I ran over to the school 
 this afternoon for a smell of the roses in that garden 
 of delights and found Miss Delight cradling a sick 
 child in her arms. The little one has been and still 
 is quite ill, and Miss D. has been up several nights 
 with her, but never relaxing her tasks during the 
 day in consequence. 
 
 I tried to induce her to let me relieve her for a 
 while, and she go out for a small "smell of the 
 air," as a walk is called. 
 
 "No, Rachel, this is my job. Hanny needs just 
 me until she is well, don t you, dear?" 
 
 "Aiweh, my teacher," reaching up a little hot hand 
 to the dearly beloved face. 
 
 "And do you love your job?" I asked softly. 
 
 "Why child, my job is love, and nothing but love," 
 and I could see her arms strain closer to her breast 
 this little Syrian child, she enwrapped in unstinted 
 affection. 
 
 Do you see, mother? I have found the main 
 spring, the dynamic of missions, which I suppose 
 every one but myself knew long ago. I am afraid
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 75 
 
 I did not want to know very much. "We love 
 because He first loved us." I see now, it is love and 
 only love. Do you suppose I shall ever attain to 
 real heights in Christian experience ? 
 
 I have much to learn, much to unlearn. And 
 where will I land?
 
 Guard faith from doubt, for doubt 
 corrupts faith as salt vitiates honey. 
 Arab Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 I have never told you about some calls I made 
 with Kate Morgan once, when I was spending a 
 week-end with her, and saw the inside of things 
 where there is little of foreign influence. We went 
 to houses not furnished with French tables and 
 American alarm clocks. There was in one place a 
 sweet-voiced, tender-eyed old woman, who could no 
 longer leave her bed, living with her son and his 
 wife in one room, but which was spotlessly clean. 
 
 There was only one thing in that home, the dear 
 old soul we went to see. She was seated on the 
 bed spread on the floor, her face brown from ex 
 posure to the sun and her limbs crippled with rheu 
 matism, but her heart was tender and glad. I no 
 ticed how affectionately she greeted my companion, 
 who seated herself beside her on the floor, which 
 was covered with a coarse rush mat, and saw how 
 her stiff ringers clutched the skirt of Kate s dress 
 as though fearing she might lose her. 
 
 "Fareedeh, do you suffer much?" Kate gently 
 asked. 
 
 "Praise be to Allah, I can bear it, I can bear it," 
 was her reverent reply with uplifted eyes. 
 
 They chatted awhile, Kate telling her all the 
 news about town, and then opened her pocket Testa- 
 
 79
 
 80 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 merit and began to read to her, saying, "Listen now, 
 while I give you a word from the Book." Presently 
 they repeated together the twenty-third Psalm, Fa- 
 reedeh with hands clasped on her breast. Of course 
 we had to drink a tiny cup of the daughter s 
 delicious coffee without which no caller is ever al 
 lowed to depart, and then went to see Um Nimr, 
 followed by M a es salaamy, "go in peace," repeated 
 many times. 
 
 Um Nimr (the mother of Leopard) was at her 
 loom weaving a very pretty cotton fabric. Many 
 women have looms in their houses, and turn out 
 some lovely silk material for underwear for their 
 own use. 
 
 "Welcome, welcome," she exclaimed. "You have 
 come in an acceptable time," advancing to meet us. 
 "May it please God, you are in good health." 
 
 "Thank God, and thou?" 
 
 "HumdiUah, thank God." 
 
 By this time we were seated on cushions on the 
 floor, a surprisingly more comfortable way to sit 
 than on awkward chairs. Then again our hostess 
 began, placing her hand over her heart before touch 
 ing her forehead with her fingers, "Keif hal sahti- 
 kum?" "What is the state of your health?" And 
 again the reply, "HumdiUah, thank God." 
 
 After numberless questions about every one in 
 Kate s establishment, my relatives in America and 
 if I was married or going to be and how old I was, 
 we really began to visit. At least Kate did.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 81 
 
 "Oh, Um Nimr, what is that book on thy loom ?" 
 
 "That is my New Testament. I have just finished 
 reading the Gospel of St. John for the first time," 
 said with much pride. "Think of me ya sitt" 
 (oh lady), turning to me, Kate helping me out 
 when I could not understand, "learning to read 
 when I am a grandmother. But when I became a 
 Christian, I knew I must be able to read my Bible, 
 and while it is slow work, I am getting on." 
 
 Does not that strike you as being something 
 worth while, the helping a woman along in years 
 to learn to read ? And does it not show what splen 
 did material Kate has to expend her energies upon? 
 It made a great impression on me, the sight of a 
 Bible before a woman on her loom. 
 
 Kate also took me to call on some of her Mos 
 lem friends. I had not been in a harem before and 
 was prepared for bolts and winding passages, and 
 screened windows, and a fat eunuch on guard at 
 the entrance. This is what actually happened. But 
 first let me tell you that every house in the land, 
 excepting, of course, in the villages, has a rigidly 
 locked and guarded entrance. If it opens directly 
 on the street, there will be a lock or simple latch 
 which cannot be reached from the outside, but is 
 manipulated by a cord or wire connected with the 
 kitchen, when a would-be guest or member of the 
 family sends a summons to open by means of the 
 resounding knocker. If the house is more preten 
 tious and has ground around it, then you enter
 
 82 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 through a portal in a high wall after announcing 
 your presence to the bowwab (porter) by two or 
 three taps with the knocker. 
 
 In response a voice within cries, "Meen" (who 
 is it?) You reply, "Ana" (I), and hurrying foot 
 steps of sandal-shod feet soon bring the porter to 
 fling wide the door in hearty hospitality. 
 
 The house we went to that day was surrounded 
 by a luxuriant garden of fruits and flowers, and as 
 we approached it through an avenue, mosaic paved, 
 bordered by orange and pomegranate trees, our 
 hostess awaited us on a veranda overrun with roses 
 and yellow jessamine. She was clad in a flowing 
 robe of blue, which colour seems to be a passion 
 with everybody. I fancy it may be because they 
 have such wonderful blue skies so much of the time. 
 They often say samawcy, "heaven s colour" when 
 they mean blue. In this case it was very pretty 
 contrasted with the sheer, snow-white veil of our 
 hostess. 
 
 We sat for a few minutes in the cosy living 
 room, which, from the piles of bedding I observed 
 at one side I imagine, is transformed into a bed 
 chamber at night. Across one side and end of 
 this rather long room was a divan, (pronounce it 
 deewan) with cushions of rare Damascus silk, pro 
 tected by spotless white covers bordered with ex 
 quisite Irish lace. The floor had a first covering of 
 rush mats on which were laid some priceless prayer 
 rugs, not to be bought at Antine s nor Liberty s.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 83 
 
 After a refreshing drink made from the syrup of 
 unripe grapes, and cooled with snow from Lebanon, 
 we adjourned to the more pretentious parlour, or 
 salah, reached by a flight of stairs on the outside of 
 the house, and through a court, from which in pass 
 ing we caught glimpses of a bed-chamber furnished 
 with a lace-bedecked iron bed, and a chair or two 
 of the usual Austrian bent-wood things one sees 
 everywhere. 
 
 Several women relatives came in arrayed in their 
 best, with the graceful, gauzy head scarfs, which 
 they draw across the face if by any chance a strange 
 man appears. I noticed a book or two on the table 
 and some newspapers, which our hostess, a bride 
 of a few months, told me she could read. "Tell 
 me," I asked, "do all of these Moslem women read?" 
 
 "Many of them," she replied in her pretty, broken 
 English (Kate taught her). "Our family, which is 
 so large as to really be called a tribe, has always 
 held woman in high esteem. We have been taught 
 to read and to know our right hands from our 
 left. All the younger women not only read and 
 write, but some have been sent to boarding schools, 
 and both young and old are beginning to think for 
 themselves." 
 
 "How do you feel about the unveiling of 
 women?" I next asked. 
 
 "I am not in favor of it, at least not at present. 
 There are Turkish women who are casting it aside, 
 since the granting of the Constitution, but I feel as
 
 84 "WKo Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 most intelligent Moslem women do, that the time is 
 not yet ripe for such radical changes. Ruyden, ruy- 
 dcn (slowly, slowly), is how I feel about it." Her 
 English was not as perfect as I have made it appear, 
 but with Kate s help when she did not know a word, 
 I got at what she was trying to express. 
 
 "Is it true that polygamy is dying out?" Betty 
 asked. 
 
 "Thank God, yes, although in our family it has 
 never been practised within my memory. And we 
 have love matches quite as frequently as our Chris 
 tian neighbours. Listen while I tell you a tale. There 
 were two children, a boy and girl, who grew up to 
 gether, though distantly connected, and who de 
 clared when quite young they would never be given 
 in marriage excepting to each other. When old 
 enough they were formally betrothed, which with 
 us is as binding as the Christian marriage ceremony. 
 
 One day, one of the older women was laughing 
 at the girl about the devotion of Shikry to her. "I 
 believe if you told him to throw himself into the 
 sea for thee he would do it." 
 
 "I wonder if he would," was her reply. "I ll 
 see," she cried, and running to him said, "Shikry, 
 dost love me enough to throw thyself into the sea ?" 
 
 "Ma aloom" (certainly), he replied. 
 
 "Then do it," she commanded. 
 
 "I am under thy orders," was the instant rejoin 
 der, and off he started on the run for a high cliff. 
 Such a to-do as there was. Shikry s mother shrieked
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 85 
 
 and tore her hair, screaming that she had killed her 
 son, and the little bride herself, frightened at what 
 she had done, ran after him, and held him back as 
 he was about to spring from the brink. 
 
 "Did you know these people?" I asked, much in 
 terested in the pretty story. 
 
 "Ma aloom. They were my father and mother," 
 she laughed, and added, "I often say that though 
 Moslems, our marriage is Christian." 
 
 As we rose to go I asked, "Won t you tell me 
 where the harem of your house is?" 
 
 You should have heard her laugh. "You are in 
 it now. Wherever we Moslem women are, there is 
 the harem." And that explains the absence of locks 
 and eunuchs on guard. 
 
 The End of a Busy Day. 
 
 The silk season is on and the Worm is King. 
 From one end of this land to the other, all is bustle, 
 hard work, aching backs and toil-stained women s 
 hands. Did you know that the silkworms do not 
 just happen along from somewhere at the proper 
 time in the spring, when the mulberry puts forth 
 her leaves, fresh and green? And also that they do 
 not sit around on the trees and eat their fill and at 
 the right time hang up their cocoons on the branches 
 they have eaten bare? I ll confess I had never given 
 a thought to the how of silk production, and I find 
 the price we pay for the most beautiful of all fab 
 rics is not commensurate with the labour necessary
 
 86 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 before it can be sent to the loom, not to mention 
 the luring display in the shops of the world. 
 
 First there are the bizr "seeds," the people call 
 them, the eggs which come from Sardinia, if you 
 want to get the best, and are sold by weight in 
 round, perforated boxes. When the mulberry leaves 
 are large enough in March, these boxes are taken 
 to a place which is kept at the proper temperature 
 until the eggs are hatched, after which the millions 
 of tiny, sluggish worms are placed on large wicker 
 trays, or crude clay ones manufactured at home, and 
 arranged on shelves put up in the houses or tempo 
 rary shelters among the trees. 
 
 Then the incessant work begins. The leaves are 
 picked by the women and fed to the worms, and so 
 fastidious are their majesties when young, they will 
 not eat unless the leaves are carefully arranged and 
 of a certain growth, not too young. 
 
 But gradually as the sightless things did you 
 know they are without eyes? get larger, they are 
 content to eat them any old way and in almost limit 
 less quantities. Four times during their short lives 
 they fast for a space of twenty-four hours, with 
 heads upreared and motionless, and then the poor 
 women have time to wash their clothes and tidy up 
 the house. But towards the last, just before the 
 worms are ready to spin their cocoons, the work is 
 incessant day and night to keep a fresh supply of 
 leaves on the trays. The men have to turn to and 
 help now, for every limb must be cut from the trees
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 87 
 
 and every leaf stripped off, and all decayed spots on 
 the stubby stumps chopped out. Then the bark must 
 be peeled from the limbs, which are really only 
 shoots with which the tree rehabilitates itself im 
 mediately to produce a new crop of leaves. Every 
 year amputation, every season two crops of leaves, 
 one for the worms, one for the cattle in a land 
 where summers are dry and hay is unknown. The 
 tender bark to be fed to the cattle, too, is carefully 
 saved, as are the long, slender shoots as fuel for the 
 pot or mjh on which the delicious paper-thin bread 
 is baked. 
 
 It is a novel sight, the myriads of cocoons, some 
 pure white, some yellow, fastened to bits of dried 
 herbage which had been set conveniently near for 
 the outreachings of the worm, seeking something to 
 fasten to as it enshrouds itself in its silken tomb. 
 
 It is a gala time when the cocoons are picked, the 
 neighbours helping each other, and the simsar, 
 "buyer," comes along. How excited the people get 
 over the price, which is made as low as possible, of 
 course, by the clever buyer. Then for weeks fol 
 lowing there is a steady flow of cocoons in great 
 sacks to factories. The tinkle of the mule-bells on 
 the carriage roads and bridlepaths fills the air, for 
 the moths will eat their way out to the destruction 
 of the silken threads if they are not steamed very 
 soon in a tnukhnukh (that word is interesting, mean 
 ing a choking place), then follows the drying in the 
 open air, a long process.
 
 88 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 C. D. is away most of the time now, going from 
 factory to factory. He is a hard worker, David is. 
 No sooner is the cocoon season over, than the fac 
 tories start up and we ship many precious bales of 
 raw silk each week to France. In the autumn the 
 olives claim our attention, and that means shipments 
 of oil and olives in addition, and soap all the year. 
 The orange market begins in the late autumn, and 
 then we do have to work. We load a steamer each 
 week with oranges alone. 
 
 This was steamer day and I am tired. I would 
 have been more so had not Mr. Whitelaw, who 
 seems to be much in evidence these days, come in 
 and begged for a ride about sunset, after office 
 hours. I have decided to buy the horse I wrote 
 you about in my last letter. Such a beauty; pure 
 white, wavy, flowing tail and as fleet as the wind, but 
 as gentle as yourself, mother dear. I ll tell you what 
 happened to-day, if you won t scold. We were 
 cantering along down on the sands, when in a spirit 
 of fun, I suddenly turned about, but did not calcu 
 late my distance well, for I kept right on, straight 
 on, through the air over Nejmy s head. And then 
 what do you suppose happened? The horse was 
 upon me, but being an Arabian, she will not step 
 on human flesh if it can be avoided. So she reared 
 on her hind feet and side-stepped around me, and 
 never grazed even my habit. 
 
 Of course, Mr. Whitelaw was beside me immedi 
 ately, and when he found I was not hurt he got
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 89 
 
 cross, and really almost scolded me for being reck 
 less. 
 
 "Miss Locke, why did you do that?" and his tone 
 was clearly annoyed. 
 
 "Do what ?" I meekly enquired, as I arranged my 
 disordered hair. 
 
 "Try to do the impossible, turn your horse when 
 cantering as fast as we were. You might have been 
 killed. I wonder if you are not hurt somewhere?" 
 His tone was more anxious than vexed now, as he 
 assisted me to mount again. "Are you sure you 
 are quite all right?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. I am not hurt a bit," I declared. 
 And then I did have the grace to say, "I am sorry 
 if you are annoyed, but truly I am not hurt, and I 
 am quite used to horses, for I always rode in Central 
 Park at home." 
 
 "Do you think Central Park riding is like the 
 wild, free swing of these Arabians, which go like 
 the wind?" and his tone was not exactly concilia 
 tory. 
 
 I expect I will be lame for a day or two, but 
 never mind, I won t try the experiment again, for I 
 did feel rather uncertain as to the outcome of the 
 rapidly approaching thud when I found myself fly 
 ing through space. And I promised Mr. Whitelaw 
 to resist all such impulses in the future, he seemed 
 so troubled about it. And he promised he would 
 not tell on me to C. D.
 
 90 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 Another Day. No Entry of Events. Only a Ques 
 tion. 
 
 If I have found it hard to have sympathy with 
 the missionaries who are here just to live, to love 
 and show what He did with His life, how is it I 
 am here, doing my serious work over books and in 
 voices and letters that this cousin of mine may make 
 money? Conceded. Money, too, may be made in 
 America. 
 
 Off on a Tour. 
 
 Miss Delight is not only the head and brains of 
 the girls school, but she sends out her lines of help 
 into many of the towns and villages which she visits 
 during her vacation. One would think she would 
 be tired enough after continuous work in a large 
 boarding school during a long school year, to want 
 to rest and relax when summer comes. But she 
 only takes a short time to get her clothes in order, 
 and then she is up and away for a month or six 
 weeks tour. And, as if that were not sufficient, if 
 any slightest need arises she spends the fortnight of 
 the Easter recess with "her people." This spring 
 some one "up Hamath way" was in sorrow and she 
 felt constrained to go to this sad heart, and because 
 the new crop of cocoons is not yet in, she took me 
 with her by special, gracious permission. So I am 
 off on a missionary tour ! 
 
 We left Trablus early one morning by the train 
 which crawls around the base of old Turbul, the
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 91 
 
 guardian of Belad Akkar, which territory still re 
 tains its traditions of the Crusaders and of Peter 
 the Hermit, enduring the test of passing through 
 fire, near the village of Minyara. Somehow I had 
 expected that the farther east we went just so much 
 more would life grow primitive. But instead, I 
 found it more abundant, and was amazed when we 
 arrived at Horns to find, not a village, but a city, 
 compactly built and with some 80,000 inhabitants, 
 situated on the Orontes River, full of life and bustle, 
 with through trains on the main line from Beyrout 
 and Damascus to Aleppo, carrying the Western 
 throb and impulse to the interior. 
 
 There was once an imposing castle dominating the 
 town from an artificial mound, and I wandered amid 
 its ruins and looked off into the haze over the desert, 
 which stops not far from the Horns front doors, 
 and pictured heroic Zenobia marshalling her forces, 
 only to be humbled by the Romans and chained in 
 golden fetters, forced to grace the triumphal return 
 of Aurelian to Rome. As we stood there, fronting 
 the widest horizon I think I ever saw, I spied what 
 looked like white beehives, a great cluster of them, 
 away to the north, and was told it was a village 
 whose houses were built in a curious circular 
 fashion. When we passed through it a few days 
 later, it seemed as though the architecture of the 
 North American Indians had been borrowed and 
 their wigwams reproduced in sun-dried, white 
 washed bricks.
 
 92 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 I know now, mother, what "the many mansions" 
 mean, for I have seen some. Imagine a high sur 
 rounding wall with but one street door, opening into 
 a paved court in which there are fruit trees apri 
 cot, orange and pomegranate in full bloom, with 
 double white jessamine, heavy scented, clambering 
 up the side of the house. On the right hand as we 
 entered was the "father s house," a large room with 
 divans on two sides, on which there were covers 
 and cushions of rich silk, while the floor was over 
 laid with thick, beautiful rugs. Here we sat a while 
 and partook of sherbat and sweets, and then were 
 permitted to see the sons "mansions," similar rooms 
 ranged around the great central court, the eldest 
 son s being directly opposite the father s. And to 
 make it seem as though we were living for a while 
 right in the Bible, this father was "preparing a 
 place" for the youngest son, who was expected in 
 the near future to bring home his bride. Yes, these 
 were the "many mansions," within the Father s 
 house, and how homey it makes heaven seem, now 
 that I have seen this. 
 
 In direct contrast to this beautiful picture, was 
 hearing about the celebration of the feast of Bairam 
 by the Moslems, a feast in commemoration of the 
 offering up of Ishmael, not Isaac. They have what is 
 called the da asy, "the stepping," when men literally 
 pave the street with their bodies, face downward, 
 while the sheikh rides over them on his Arabian 
 steed. I was invited to witness it, but declined!
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 93 
 
 They claim no one is ever injured, but what a 
 dreadful manifestation of religious fervour! 
 
 The missionaries have been very successful in 
 Horns. There are two churches, a number of day 
 schools and a large boys boarding school, all sup 
 ported by the church members. By that I mean, if 
 they do not themselves give all the money necessary, 
 they see that it is raised. They were early taught 
 that God s tenth must be religiously kept for His 
 work, hence for all ordinary drafts upon the treas 
 ury, they have an abundance. On Sunday the men 
 go out two and two to neighbouring villages, preach 
 ing and teaching the Gospel and are achieving 
 marvellous results. 
 
 We stayed in Horns several days and then took a 
 carriage for Hamath, as we wished to stop at some 
 villages en route. Resten, the beehive town was one. 
 It is situated near the Orontes, and we ate our lunch 
 near where it be ids in among the trees. Some 
 women, clad in their flowing blue garments with 
 long black veils, left their work woman s work 
 that of moulding manure into flat cakes which the 
 sun bakes, for their fuel they have no other to 
 gaze at the foreign women. I was wearing black, 
 of course, for dear father, and they looked me over 
 in silent, unbounded curiosity. Finally one ven 
 tured the remark, "Hast thou any hair?" I as 
 sured her I had an abundance, and removed my hat 
 to make good my words. 
 
 They all giggled like school girls at the sight of
 
 94 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 my locks pinned to my crown. Then presently an 
 other found her voice and pointing to my com 
 panion, timidly remarked, "That sitt is all ashes 
 colour, hat, dress, even her hands, and thou art all 
 black. Why?" Miss Delight explained that she 
 was dressed that way because she liked the colour, 
 and that I was in mourning. The word she used 
 for mourning was not familiar and they did not 
 understand. So she said that a friend of mine had 
 died. They looked at me with the quick sympathy 
 one meets with everywhere out here, and one re 
 marked, "Oh, my little sister, thou art sorrowful. 
 Did all thy friends die that thou wearest only 
 asived?" Was not that a rebuke? Do you know 
 what she would have done, had her very dearest 
 died? She would have bound her head in a pure 
 white veil, while we Christians who have a lively 
 hope in the blessed resurrection and reunion, swathe 
 ourselves in black of deepest dye. 
 
 The Old City of Hamath. 
 
 Such queer experiences as I am having. I am 
 sure I ll be black and blue pinching myself to see if 
 it is really I, myself, going about in this old city, 
 so old that it long ago forgot to count the centuries 
 of its existence. 
 
 How would you have enjoyed seeing me envel 
 oped in the ezar, the covering garment all women 
 wear in the street, my face hidden behind a hideous 
 bright-coloured veil, even my hands covered by a
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 95 
 
 fold of the ezar. I revelled in it, because I wended 
 my way in and out of the bazaars along with Miss 
 Delight, and not a soul knew I was not a "daughter 
 of the Arabs." Of course we left off our hats, for 
 there is a sort of cape part which is drawn up over 
 the head. When we got back this afternoon from 
 paying that call of condolence we had come so far 
 to make, poor Miss Delight s hat was nowhere to 
 be found. It had been stolen. Some inquisitive 
 boys had climbed the wall and got into her room 
 over the iron bars in the window, and were so taken 
 with its beauty (she got it in America some four 
 years ago), that they decamped with it. She re 
 covered it later, none the worse for having been 
 exhibited all about the neighbourhood as the head 
 covering of the foreign woman. 
 
 This city it is as large as Horns is "watered" 
 from the Orontes by means of huge water wheels 
 with primitive bucket attachments, which lift the 
 water to conduits, whence it is distributed in all 
 directions. But the process of elevation is ap 
 parently not only painful to the wheels, but appall 
 ingly so to the ears of him who must perforce 
 listen to their protests by day and night. It beggars 
 description, the perpetual groaning, scolding, 
 screaming, slow-moving wheels, as though protesting 
 that it is time their age-long services were discon 
 tinued and modern methods adopted. They domi 
 nate the town as the tall buildings do in New York. 
 They scream at you to look at them, something to be
 
 96 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 seen nowhere else on earth. One wonders who in 
 vented them, and why some one has not had the 
 inspiration to grease them. 
 
 I would have been glad to stay here longer, but 
 Miss Delight s time is limited, and to-morrow we 
 go on to our last place before turning our faces 
 homeward, but I managed to see some Hittite writ 
 ing on a wall and several rock-cut tombs. Perhaps 
 Mr. Whitelaw will yet find that bilingual inscription 
 he is seeking and then all the queer Hittite seals and 
 letters will be deciphered perhaps. Did I tell 
 you that this same gentleman came as far as Horns 
 with us ? He was returning to his excavations, and 
 went right on the next day. 
 
 My Next Day. 
 
 I was as proud as Punch of our picturesque 
 cavalcade when we started for Mahardee this morn 
 ing, where is a wonderful group of Christians and 
 a more wonderful preacher, a man who obtained 
 his first Bible by exchanging his sword for it. The 
 Hamath pastor, Qussees Yaqub, regal in kefeyeh 
 and abeyeh, "head shawl and dust robe," rode his 
 superb black mare, which has a pedigree half a 
 yard long, literally. Miss Delight and I were on 
 beautiful Bagdad donkeys, and the cook, who always 
 goes along on tours, brought up the rear with the 
 commissariat. 
 
 As we rode along, away off to the left was the 
 great Hamath plain covered with tall grain, which
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 97 
 
 as yet shows no suspicion of the coming harvest, 
 a sea of gently undulating green billows, the farther 
 shore of which was the range of Nuseireh Moun 
 tains. Indeed, the people here, many of whom have 
 never been from home, call this plain with its un 
 broken expanse of wheat fields, el Bahr, likening it 
 in their imagination to the sea, they have heard of 
 but never seen. 
 
 Mahardee, our objective, a large village, is unique. 
 It is surrounded by dunghills, which have assumed 
 proportions, as stable products are carefully hoarded 
 for fuel. You never get away from the odour, nor 
 the fleas and mosquitoes which breed therein. Be 
 fore reaching the village, we passed the holdings of 
 the people, community land, which is divided each 
 year or two. "The lines have fallen to me in pleas 
 ant places," means that the "measuring line" was 
 kind to the Psalmist in the dividing by lot of the 
 common land among the villagers. And from the 
 blackness of the soil we saw the men working, I 
 should think everybody in Mahardee had a "goodly 
 heritage." 
 
 A second unique thing is that the horses are kept 
 underground, in real, truly cellars. The town is on 
 the edge of the desert, and marauding bands of rov 
 ing Arabs have a liking for horse-flesh. So the clever 
 people dig under their dooryards and hide their 
 stables, and so sleep peacefully o nights. It was 
 something to see the horses which had been worked 
 all day in the fields, soberly trot down the stairs
 
 98 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 to their supper of barley (no oats are raised out 
 here), and after a while come racing up again for 
 a drink of water before being locked in for the 
 night. And the water always a question of great 
 moment in this dry and thirsty land, is brought 
 from the beneficent Orontes River a good half- 
 hour s walk, in great copper jars on the heads of 
 the women, which accounts for their erect carriage 
 and stately steppings. 
 
 We ate our supper seated on the floor on which 
 our hostess had spread a beautiful blue and white 
 sheet of silk and cotton, Hamath weave, and never 
 did fried eggs taste so good. Perhaps it was owing 
 to the flat bread baked in an oven heated with 
 manure fuel! On it Sitt Sara poured thick cream. 
 We topped off with olives and a cup of Arab coffee. 
 Supper over, the church members gathered for the 
 service Qussees Yciqub had come to conduct. And 
 they kept coming, men and women, some bringing 
 children to be baptised, until there were more than 
 two hundred reverent, devout worshippers seated 
 close together on the floor. There was a little table, 
 not overly strong nor well made, which served as 
 pulpit and reading desk and altar, with room for 
 a lamp, which was neither large nor very bright. 
 But the Bible was there and apostolic fervour, such 
 as we look with disfavour upon in our old Western 
 land. There was soberness, earnestness and more 
 real religiousness, the this-one-thing-I-do-kind, than
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 99 
 
 I have ever seen before. What matter if they did 
 start the second verse of a hymn to a different 
 tune than the one they started out with, and had 
 to be reminded by the Qussees that the first was the 
 right one ere they essayed the third verse. Their 
 hearts made melody, I know, and more acceptable 
 to God than that of our choirs of paid singers. How 
 their faces shone as they sang. 
 
 But when the Sacrament of the Holy Communion 
 was celebrated I felt I had never before known what 
 it meant. The flat bread, "this is my body broken 
 for you," joyfully received with hands which shook 
 with emotion, and the poured out wine from hand to 
 hand passing in memory of Him they devotedly 
 loved. 
 
 This journey has been very much worth while 
 for me. I have learned what religion should be 
 a matter of heart-consciousness, the pace setter for 
 the daily walk and conduct because of knowing the 
 indwelling Christ. Mother, I have learned to sing, 
 "Jesus, lover of my soul" ; I never knew how before. 
 Those people here to-night taught me when they 
 lost the tune and found it again. 
 
 Very few of the elder women can read and not 
 all of the men. But there is a dignity and a zest 
 of living which at first puzzled me, until I discovered 
 that, according to their ideas, a person s "life consist- 
 eth not in the things he possesseth," but in how he 
 measures up to a certain standard set by a Man
 
 100 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 brought up in this very land, down in Galilee, in 
 a city called Nazareth. I am feeling my way, oh 
 mother of me, with very stumbling steps, to higher 
 ground. Mayhap some day I ll too measure up.
 
 Load not upon to-day the burdens 
 of the years, for each day shall bring 
 thee its portion. Arab Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 The Second Summer. The Month of July. 
 
 The four volumes which have gone to you had 
 more or less of Mr. Whitelaw in them, and here I 
 am beginning the fifth one with his name. It is 
 something I cannot help, as he and C. D. have 
 struck up a real David and Jonathan brotherhood, 
 and it is the regular thing now when Jonathan 
 comes to town to stop with us. Some supplies for 
 his diggings are expected, and as the steamers are 
 sometimes irregular he came on several days be 
 fore the time, to watch, I suppose, for the smoke 
 of the ship bringing them over the Enfeh Point, 
 a consignment of tinned things to eat, along with 
 picks and shovels and wheelbarrows. And while 
 waiting, time seems to hang heavily on his hands, 
 for after a period of longer or shorter duration, he 
 is apt to turn up at the office and wait for closing 
 time. 
 
 Yesterday, above the clatter of the typewriter, I 
 heard him in C. D. s room, talking, I supposed, of 
 pre-historics, and when I went in with some letters 
 to be signed, C. D. was saying, "I can t get away, 
 Whitelaw. Nussar is coming about new machinery 
 in the Tell factory. I m sorry. Here is Rachel, she 
 will go with you." 
 
 103
 
 104. "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 "Yes indeed, I ll go anywhere with anybody this 
 wonderful day," I laughed. 
 
 "You don t know what all this means," Mr. 
 Whitelaw said, smiling. "I want to go to Jebail and 
 see the site of that pre-historic village I have heard 
 about. Hackett says he cannot go, but will send you 
 as his substitute," and he looked questioningly into 
 my eyes as though not quite sure of my answer. 
 
 "And I am a joyful, willing substitute," I ex 
 claimed, to his evident pleasure. "And besides, Kate 
 lives there. When do we start?" 
 
 "You had better go at once if you are to get back 
 to-night," C. D. said. Now, mother, don t shake 
 your dear head and think I am always shirking. 
 But the prospect of a run in the car together with 
 a glimpse of Kate was too alluring, and besides, was 
 I not sent of C. D. ? I rushed out, caught that 
 beastly tram which is usually so exasperatingly slow, 
 and burst in on Betty, who, while I dressed for the 
 ride, put up some lunch, and away we went, Mr. 
 Whitelaw acting as chauffeur. Oh, the joy of it, 
 going in and out among the gnarled, twisted olives 
 in the Kura, with the background of the towering 
 mountains, majestic, grim and silent, as though 
 saying, "In quietness and confidence shall be your 
 strength." 
 
 "Don t you feel so?" I suddenly asked. 
 
 "I suppose I do if you do," my companion replied, 
 and I surprised that reluctant smile in his eyes as 
 he glanced at me. "But what about?"
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 105 
 
 I was a bit confused, for he had caught me at 
 that trick I have of thinking out loud. "I was think 
 ing of the strength of those everlasting mountains, 
 and how they speak peace to us mortals in our rest 
 lessness." 
 
 " Round our restlessness His rest ? Yes, the 
 mountains do that I think, as does the flow of a 
 river and the wideness of the sea." 
 
 We rounded the corner and sped up the splendid 
 road along the Mesailaha headland. After we had 
 dashed through the first tunnel, the car slowed down 
 and stopped beside an opening in the parapet which 
 keeps us from dropping off the edge into the water 
 below. 
 
 "What is the matter?" I inquired as Mr. White- 
 law jumped out and disappeared through the open 
 ing. 
 
 "In a moment," he called back, and realizing he 
 was a grown man, and not a child like Caryl, I set 
 tled back in my seat and waited, feasting my eyes 
 on the ravishing view of old Turbul to the north 
 and the limitless sea to the west. I suddenly realized 
 oh, mother, that I loved those mountains and rocks 
 and the great and wide sea/ mysterious because of 
 its wideness and lovable because of its moods. The 
 wonder is that I do not become more interested in 
 the human product, whose rugged lives are moulded 
 and shaped by all this bigness and wideness. 
 
 Betty has grown very fond of them, and I dis 
 covered the other day that the engagement she has
 
 106 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 every Friday afternoon, is to teach singing in Miss 
 Delight s school. I asked her why she did that, and 
 she said, "Rachel, I seemed so useless beside those 
 splendid women missionaries, and one day I went 
 to the school to ask Miss Delight something and 
 found her trying to teach the girls singing, when she 
 had had no training in music, and I with my musical 
 education thrown away, so to speak, I begged her to 
 let me tell the girls how to sing that particular song. 
 When I found how much it relieved her, I kept right 
 on." 
 
 I remembered all this as I sat in the car awaiting 
 the reappearance of Mr. Whitelaw. He came back 
 in due time, flushed and panting. 
 
 "It is as I thought. There is a path which leads 
 down to a spring of cold water. Do you feel in 
 clined to essay the feat of scrambling down there 
 *nd have lunch? The climb up is stiff, and not 
 easy." 
 
 "By all means, if " and I hesitated, ashamed 
 
 to confess it, "if there are no snakes. Are there?" 
 
 "I did not see any," he replied, and did not even 
 smile at my childish inquiry. "I am deadly afraid 
 of snakes, and I am told there are very poisonous 
 ones in this land. Thank you for not laughing at 
 me," I added. 
 
 "I am ready," displaying a stout stick he carried, 
 md led the way down a narrow, uncertain path, 
 steadying me over the steep places of which there 
 were so many, that he held my hand most of the
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 107 
 
 way. And I liked it ! He has nice, cool, dry hands, 
 not the clammy and sticky kind to which one 
 adheres. 
 
 In a cleft of the towering rock was a bit of fairy 
 land. The water did not bubble up from below, but 
 trickled down from above, and nourished into being 
 myriads of feathery ferns which clung to the sides 
 of the chasm, beaded and glistening with the mois 
 ture constantly and lavishly showered upon them. 
 
 We turned our backs to the sea, and revelled in 
 the greenness and coolness, and ate Betty s sand 
 wiches and olives with hot tea from the thermos 
 bottles in great content. Mr. Whitelaw was in a 
 silent mood, and I have learned this much about a 
 man through working with C. D., to respect the 
 mood, unless I wish to bring something not exactly 
 er welcome in the way of a polite rebuff or a 
 downright snub. When there was not even a crumb 
 left for the ants to carry off, I arose, "And what is 
 the conclusion of the whole matter, to quote a wise 
 man who once lived in this land?" I laughingly 
 asked, while I stowed away plates and things in the 
 basket. 
 
 My companion had been fingering a frail maiden 
 hair fern, quite to its death, I observed, when he 
 turned with that smile hidden in back of his eyes, 
 and coming towards me said, "That that I love 
 you," with the same ease he might have said, Good 
 morning. 
 
 "Good gracious," I ejaculated, nearly dropping a
 
 108 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 thermos bottle. "What makes you do that?" step 
 ping back out of reach of a stretched-out hand. "I 
 wouldn t if I were you." 
 
 "Yes? And why not?" 
 
 "Why because why I don t know," I answered 
 slowly, "unless because I don t have a particle of 
 that emotion for you." 
 
 "Really ?" and I was surprised to see his lips trem 
 ble a little. "I have been so busy loving you since 
 that episode with the match, that you have seemed 
 to belong to me. Why couldn t you care for me, 
 my Miss Locke?" 
 
 "I do that," I frankly averred. "But I don t 
 it never occurred to me to do that other." 
 
 "Now that it has been suggested to you," and 
 that smile crept into his eyes again, "does it seem 
 so impossible?" Then after a silence, "Rachel 
 you will let me call you that here alone with only the 
 sea and the rocks to hear ? Will you set yourself the 
 task of learning the primer of love? I ll be your 
 teacher, if you ll let me," he pleaded. 
 
 "Mr. Whitelaw," I began, but the words would 
 not come. Something seemed to stir in my heart, 
 a new emotion and unfamiliar, but I stood silent, 
 afraid somehow to look at him. The sails of the 
 fishing boats stood taut against the wind. I counted 
 them reflected in the blue water, one, two, three, 
 four, one, two, three, four, tongue-tied, while he 
 waited for permission to teach me to to love him. 
 
 "Mr. Whitelaw " at last finding my voice and
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 109 
 
 summoning my fugitive eyes from those glittering 
 patches of cloth at sea, "please do not think I am 
 indifferent or sceptical as to what you have done 
 me the honour to say. But really, while I have liked 
 you, that is I do not dislike it when you come to 
 my cousin s house, I do not know that I wish to 
 employ a teacher in the subject you mentioned, at 
 least not in the immediate future," I hastily con 
 cluded. "And now, shall we start for Jebail ?" and 
 I sped up that path I had found so hard a short time 
 ago, like a thing with winged feet, until, oh, until I 
 saw not a yard away right where I would have to 
 step, a grey, mottled snake, waiting, waiting! 
 
 I am sure C. D. in his office heard the shriek I 
 sent up. Certainly Mr. Whitelaw did, for with a 
 leap or two of his long legs he overtook me, and 
 thrusting me aside, exclaimed, "Don t be fright 
 ened," and I closed my eyes and knew his stick 
 was being wielded with force, for I heard the blows, 
 and then, that disgusting blackness began to shroud 
 me which always follows a fright. I did not faint, 
 but I clung clutched Mr. Whitelaw s hand, which 
 happened to be within reach somehow, until we were 
 in that car where he found C. D. s emergency flask 
 and came to me with a thimbleful. "Rachel, won t 
 you try and swallow this? That is it. You are all 
 right now, are you not?" His hand had gathered 
 both my cold, trembling ones into his. "Dearest, 
 forgive me. I did not realize how selfish I have 
 been," and his face was drawn and anxious.
 
 110 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 I tried to smile and give him the assurance that 
 there was nothing to forgive, but my nerves played 
 me false and off I went into miserable, drivelling 
 tears. And I am sure the poor man wished he had 
 never seen a woman. He made no comment, simply 
 waited silently a moment, then plunged into the car 
 beside me, and off we shot up the road, with no 
 more attention bestowed on a foolish, silly girl like 
 me. And it was not long before I found the rush 
 of air acting as a medicine for my ruffled spirits. 
 
 Not a word did we speak as the car rolled along 
 eating up the miles until we were going down the 
 bumpy road to Kate Morgan s house. Just as we 
 slowed down before the picket fence, Mr. Whitelaw 
 turned to me and said quizzically, "And are we to 
 be friends, Miss Locke?" holding out his hand, 
 smiling frankly, his old familiar self. 
 
 "Oh, if we may," I said, yielding my hand to him, 
 which he held closely between both of his until 
 Kate came running out, his eyes never leaving my 
 face. 
 
 "Rachel, this is so good of you. Why, I know 
 Mr. Whitelaw," as in my confusion I began a 
 formal presentation. Then addressing him, "I have 
 such a lot of new specimens to show you, and very 
 different to any we have seen." 
 
 "I am eager to see them," he replied as he ran 
 the car inside the big gate and Kate and I went up 
 stairs. 
 
 "Rachel, somehow you look tired. But Trablus
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" Ill 
 
 is a long way from here, is it not?" she inquired 
 affectionately. 
 
 "Ah, yes," I sighed, "a very long way." 
 
 The Next Day. One A. M. 
 
 Sleep will not come to-night (small wonder), and 
 I have lighted my candle and rummaged in the desk 
 for paper and pencil that I may go on with my tale. 
 Kate would not listen to my returning with Mr. 
 Whitelaw, and here I am in her pretty guest cham 
 ber, trying to forget the look he gave me when I 
 announced I was going to spend Sunday here. There 
 was pain in it I think and, now Rachel Locke, 
 you and I will have it out. 
 
 I wonder if Mr. Whitelaw is asleep. He and 
 Kate seem great friends, and I really felt almost de 
 rop, when they became so absorbed over pre-his- 
 torics and things. Why did he not fall in love with 
 her instead of me, I wonder. She is much more 
 brainy and attractive, and besides has bigger piles 
 of money. 
 
 Mother dear, did you feel as I do when father 
 proposed to you ? And did you say "yes" and learn 
 to love him afterward? I wish I could talk with 
 you to-night. I know you would like him. He is 
 manly and kind and very wise and learned. He 
 would make you a good son, too, and take tender 
 care of the woman he marries, which won t be 
 me! He has nice hands, and I like his voice 
 and the beautiful English he uses, and when he
 
 112 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 smiles, my smile, away in back in his eyes, he is 
 adorable. Only, I don t want to marry him not 
 now, anyway. And yet I like him, and if he had 
 had wooed me before he spoke, as I have dreamed 
 the man I am to marry would do, I might have lis 
 tened, just a little. The gift of a man s love is not 
 a small thing, and for an instant, when he bade me 
 good-bye in leaving, I felt queer ! Kate was down in 
 the garden gathering roses to send to Betty when 
 he said two or three words which I d write just to 
 keep them always, if you were not to see them. I ll 
 write them anyway, because you are my precious 
 mother, and you can skip them if you want to. 
 Coming close to me he said in a low, grave tone, his 
 hands holding mine closely, his eyes full of unspeak 
 able things, "Take it or leave it, Rachel, but the love 
 of my life is yours, to-day, and to-morrow, and al 
 ways," and saying this he brought his lips to my 
 hands for a long second, or two perhaps, and then 
 turned and ran down the stairs. Oh, dear! I did 
 not come out here to fall in love, nor have a man 
 love me like that. His kisses burned. 
 
 Sunday Night. 
 
 I did not waken early, or rather it was quite day 
 light before I dropped off to sleep, but when I did 
 open my eyes, the children were singing grace, their 
 childish voices ringing true and sweet as they stood 
 around the breakfast table :
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 113 
 
 "God is great and God is good, 
 And we thank Him for this food ; 
 By His hand must all be fed, 
 Give us, Lord, our daily Bread." 
 
 You should see how quaint and attractive they 
 look in their caps, kerchiefs and aprons, the every 
 day uniform. On Sunday they are in white wash 
 dresses, with flowing white veils. On each little 
 left arm is an old-fashioned black silk bag with a 
 draw-string, in which like our grandmothers, is 
 carried a pocket-handkerchief, and if going to 
 church, a small prayer-book and hymnal, for Kate 
 is an Episcopalian, you remember. 
 
 When they filed into the chapel this morning sing 
 ing, "Rejoice Ye Pure in Heart," in English, I quite 
 forgot I was in a foreign land. 
 
 Kate has a wonderful work here. Her ideas are 
 very practical and wholesome. I really believe she 
 feels that these orphans are her own flesh and blood, 
 for there is not a bit of the institutional atmosphere 
 about the place, although the discipline is strict. 
 Every one remarks the evidences of constructive 
 work, of character building. She has no use for 
 idleness any more than she believes that mentality 
 is the sum and substance of life. The industrial 
 part has attained a high degree of excellence. She 
 aims to develop the native industries rather than in 
 troduce new ones from the West. These children 
 make the most exquisite Turkish rugs. Kate learned
 
 114 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 how to weave them herself, sitting on the floor, like 
 the Syrians, so that she no longer needs an expert 
 to tell her if things are going right, although she 
 has several instructors for the children. Crocheting 
 is another big factor. She imports her thread from 
 Ireland, and employs women and girls in their 
 homes to make Irish lace. Never, even in Ireland, 
 have I seen more perfect work. They also make 
 those wonderful blouses of nothing but Irish lace. 
 You should see the little folks gardens, too, and 
 what is better, eat the vegetables and fruits thereof. 
 I must tell you about the beautiful evening worship 
 Kate conducts. After supper somewhere near seven 
 o clock, Kate sits down at the piano and strikes a 
 chord or two, giving a leading strain of a familiar 
 hymn, which after a second, off in the distance, 
 sweet voices will be heard singing. To-night it was, 
 "I Think When I Read that Sweet Story of Old," 
 coming nearer and nearer, as the white-robed maid 
 ens slowly paced a beautifully directed march, weav 
 ing geometrical figures as they approached their 
 places on one side of the large court. Kate then began 
 to recite softly, the one hundred and fourth Psalm, 
 which those children carried through to the end 
 without a mistake. Then more hymns in English 
 and Arabic, followed by a recitation of that wonder 
 ful statement of Christian doctrine, the Westminster 
 catechism, which Kate uses because its grandeur be 
 longs, she says, to the majesty of the land wherein 
 Christianity was cradled, and because it suits the
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 115 
 
 people better than the one of her own church. Now, 
 isn t that being broad-minded? 
 
 But the most touching part of this service was 
 when they knelt in prayer and all recited, "Our 
 Father," ending with, "Now I lay me." 
 
 As soon as they got up from their knees, each 
 one came up to Kate and threw her arms around 
 her neck for a good-night kiss and hug. That over, 
 they stopped short in leaving their beloved "mother" 
 as they call her, and dropped an old-fashioned 
 courtesy before scampering away to bed. 
 
 It has been a queer day at least my emotions 
 have not been normal. I heard the wonderful sing 
 ing, but underneath, like the throb of a great organ, 
 there raced through my brain, "the love of my life 
 is yours, to-day and to-morrow and always," and 
 
 A Week Later. 
 
 How shall I begin to transcribe the history of the 
 past week ? I seem to have lived years since I wrote 
 that "and" at the close of my last entry in this book. 
 Kate, so capable and strong, has been snatched away 
 from this work, which needs her so much, and to 
 night lies in that little graveyard in Beyrout near 
 the church, where all the American dead are. 
 
 She was not well when I came that day with Mr. 
 Whitelaw. "Only a cold," she insisted, but which 
 seemed to tighten its hold upon her all day Sunday, 
 and while I was writing after going to my room for 
 the night, I heard her call. Running in, I found her
 
 116 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 in great distress. "In front," she gasped, pointing 
 to her chest. 
 
 We got a doctor, who from the moment he saw 
 her considered her condition grave. It was pneu 
 monia, with the heart going all wrong. The morn 
 ing found her no better, worse rather, and in re 
 sponse to a telegram to C. D. for which I paid 
 three times the usual charge that it be delivered im 
 mediately, within three hours he and Betty were 
 here and Dr. Saleeby with them. How thankful I 
 was when I saw the car coming down the road. 
 
 Kate greeted Dr. Saleeby with, "I know I am 
 very ill. Is there time? Oh, my work, my chil 
 dren," said, in agonized whispers, for every breath 
 was torture. Oh mother, I cannot tell it in de 
 tail for my tears, only the facts, bare and cold. 
 We summoned the Consul from Beyrout another 
 thrice paid telegram followed by C. D/s car at top 
 speed, and all the while Kate kept saying, "Please, 
 Rachel, my work, my work, you will? Promise 
 me," repeated over and over again. 
 
 It seems Kate had made a will which the Consul 
 held and brought with him. In this will she had left 
 her entire fortune to finance the work she had begun 
 and made such a success. We did not know the 
 situation, nor her resources, still less what to do. 
 But she did, sick as she was and dying, she knew. 
 
 When the Consul came in she whispered, "alone," 
 and I left them together. Presently David and 
 Betty were called in to witness her signature on a
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 117 
 
 piece of paper. At sunset her life suddenly went 
 out, and all night long the weeping, mourning people 
 of the town came and went in silent, loving sym 
 pathy. At nine o clock the next morning we 
 shrouded her in her coffin and followed by those 
 heart-broken children she had mothered, carried her 
 to the chapel where the funeral was held. All the 
 shops were closed and the entire town, it seemed, 
 came to do her honour. My heart nearly broke as 
 they wrapped the blessed Stars and Stripes about the 
 coffin. She was so young and so far from the home 
 land. 
 
 The funeral over we started for Beyrout and the 
 American Cemetery, the casket still covered with 
 the flag. At the Beyrout River bridge, we were met 
 by a good many carriages containing Americans and 
 Syrians who knew and loved her, and when we 
 reached the beautiful American church, it was al 
 most full, where a second service in English was 
 held. 
 
 Ah, me, how sad it was when, to the strains of 
 "I Know That My Redeemer Liveth," two young 
 American men from the College, with Cousin David 
 and Mr. Whitelaw, lifted Kate s coffin to their 
 shoulders for the last stage in her earthly journey, 
 the cypress-bordered path leading to her resting- 
 place. At the grave, which somebody s loving hand 
 had lined with pink roses, the enfolding flag was 
 removed, and just before the coffin began to sink, 
 the Consul stepped forward and spread a small
 
 118 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 American flag right over her stilled heart. And I 
 knew she would not feel so lonely in her Turkish 
 grave, because her covering was the symbol of her 
 home land she so passionately loved. 
 
 I have not told you of the blessed white-haired 
 missionary saint who conducted the service with 
 such large sympathy and tenderness, nor of the 
 wonderful choir which one of the professors in the 
 College conducts with much skill. They sang, "Be 
 neath the Cross of Jesus," her favourite hymn, and 
 beside her open grave these verses of Rutherford s: 
 
 "With mercy and with judgment 
 My web of life He wove, 
 And aye the dews of sorrows 
 Were lustred by His love. 
 I ll bless the hand that guided, 
 I ll bless the heart that planned, 
 When throned where glory reigneth 
 In Immanuel s land. 
 
 "The bride eyes not her garments, 
 But her dear bridegroom s face. 
 I will not gaze on glory, 
 But on my King of grace ; 
 Not on the crown He giveth, 
 But on His pierced hand. 
 The Lamb is all the glory 
 
 Of Immanuel s land." 
 * * # * *
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 119 
 
 It is another day. I could not write more. And 
 now all I can find to say is, who am I to be asked 
 to do this thing? Unfitted, unwilling, unready. 
 That is how I feel, and I know you will think I 
 have summed up the situation accurately. The pa 
 per Kate signed just before she died contained these 
 few words : "I give absolutely and without reserve 
 : o my beloved friend and college mate, Rachel 
 Locke, such moneys as may be on deposit in the 
 Imperial Ottoman Bank in Beyrout, and the Chem 
 ical Bank in New York, that she may draw upon 
 them at once, and I beg her in the name of our 
 friendship, to care for my orphaned children in 
 person, or make such provision for their future as 
 she in consultation with David Hackett, her cousin, 
 and John Denise Whitelaw, my friend, together 
 with Robert Fellowes Mardin, American Consul 
 General in Beyrout, may deem wise and expedient. 
 
 "I lay upon her this sacred trust, together with the 
 administration of my estate, giving her one-half of 
 the same outright, the rest she will hold in trust for 
 the work here in Jebail, Syria. This is my last will 
 and testament." I can see now the Consul s orifice 
 in which we sat while the will was read. The stiff, 
 upholstered furniture, the Damascus draperies and 
 inlaid tables, the soft-footed Kawass bringing coffee, 
 while through the open casement, away to the north 
 stretched the coast line ending in the Masailaha 
 Point. I was acutely sensible of my surroundings, 
 as I listened to words which may completely change
 
 120 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 the conduct of my life and set my feet in strange, 
 untried paths. 
 
 What do I know about orphans and their up 
 bringing, who never even had a sister ? The money 
 was well spent in the long cable to you explaining 
 the situation, and your answer has just come, that 
 you are sailing soon. I will hold on until you get 
 here. You will know what I ought to do. 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw seemed reluctant to have me as 
 sume the responsibility of this large work, while 
 acknowledging the present necessity as well as the 
 opportunity. I imagine he thought, and rightly, that 
 I was not sufficient thereunto. Of course, some one 
 had to be here ad interim, and C. D., who has that 
 ligh sense of honour and sacredness of a trust all the 
 Hacketts have, said at once that my place was here 
 until we could arrive at some satisfactory solution of 
 the matter. When you are once here, we will decide 
 everything. Meanwhile, I am alone, the only 
 foreign woman in town, and counting off the days 
 until you come. 
 
 We have no idea of the amount of Kate s estate, 
 but the Consul thinks it is somewhere in six figures. 
 It appears if she had not made her wishes known 
 in this formal manner by appointing me to take 
 charge, the Consul would have been obliged to take 
 possession of everything, and seal it up until her 
 will had been probated.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 121 
 
 One Day. 
 
 I get up early every morning and am out on my 
 rounds by 6:30, following Kate s custom, although 
 the head assistant is quite capable of taking charge 
 of all house details. I never saw such shining 
 lamps, kerosene, of course, and Russian oil at that. 
 Remember that the girls are not large, but under 
 her direction they do amazingly good work. She 
 sees that the sleeping rooms and all details of sweep 
 ing and dustings are carried out with great thor 
 oughness. She has a passion for neatness and order. 
 Her name in Arabic means "dear," so I named her 
 straight Miss Dear, which I think she likes. 
 
 My Second Month. 
 
 I did not know that humans could be so wonder 
 fully good. I never dreamed that such helpful 
 kindness constructive kindness existed, as I have 
 experienced since I was picked up bodily and made 
 to be a missionary. Here is a sample which came 
 to-day: 
 
 Dear, brave Rachel: 
 
 You did not elect to enrol under our banner 
 of loving service, you poor child, and I would 
 that I were free to go to you and help you set 
 your household in order. And yet, I am not sure 
 that it is not better for you to work out your 
 own problems. But you ll get stuck often 
 and when you cannot see any way out, and need
 
 122 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 the advice of some one who has been through 
 the business of learning a little to demonstrate 
 to this people, "how He lived, how He loved 
 and what He did among men," write out your 
 difficulties and mail them to me, and if I can I ll 
 help. 
 
 Only, dear, the One who is wiser than I and 
 who, I believe, lives right with you, He is a 
 very present help. Do you know the little verse ? 
 
 "Speak to Him thou, for He hears, 
 And spirit with spirit may meet, 
 Closer is He than breathing, 
 And nearer than hands and feet." 
 
 Affectionately your friend, 
 
 "Miss Delight." 
 
 I have found one sure task laid out for me, the 
 study of Arabic. The little I had picked up in Trab- 
 lus has been of immeasurable service to me, but it is 
 too meagre. 
 
 Hence I have started to study m earnest. Whether 
 I am to remain here the rest of my days, I do not 
 know, but this I see clearly, my present duty is to 
 be able to speak the language of the people I live 
 among now. Fortunately I speak French, which 
 has been a great help, for that is a second language 
 in this part of Syria. Every educated person speaks 
 it well. I received a second letter to-day which I 
 want you to see.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 123 
 
 Dear, 
 
 You know that to-morrow has not come yet, 
 so do not try to fit its perplexities in with to 
 day s. Heed what the Arabs say, "Load not 
 upon to-day the burdens of the years, for each 
 day shall bring thee its portion." 
 
 Perhaps you suspect that I appreciate in some 
 measure your bewilderment at being thrust into 
 real mission work, and that I also have a dim 
 perception of the enormity of your task, while 
 (you don t know this) I have a fine sort of envy 
 that you have been chosen to step into the place 
 left vacant by your friend s death. 
 
 I am not so sure but that this work of help 
 ing a nation to its rebirth through the training 
 of individuals, is not among the greatest efforts 
 of civilized man. It is assuredly greater than 
 turning over ancient dustheaps, and perhaps 
 means more than recording sales of soap and 
 silk, or even writing letters. 
 
 Why should I feel the throb of envy at being 
 left out, when there is not the slightest reason 
 for my being counted in? I wonder if you can 
 guess why? 
 
 Give your opportunity a fair trial, and re 
 member I am one of those designated to help 
 you, and, besides, am most desirous that you 
 lean a trifle harder upon my arm than you do 
 upon the others. Will you? It is strong and
 
 124 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 anxious to serve and guard you most of all. 
 Herein I am selfish again, nevertheless, am 
 Faithfully your friend, 
 
 John Denise Whitelaw. 
 
 I cannot but be glad some one thought me worth 
 being counted in on something big and tremendous. 
 Was it Kate s extremity or God s opportunity? 
 There has lurked in that secret, sealed place in my 
 heart of hearts, where I keep all my good impulses 
 and highest aspirations, a wish that I, too, might 
 some time be found alongside such women as Miss 
 Delight and Dr. Mercy, doing real, tangible, con 
 structive work of some sort. I had thought it 
 might be perhaps in one of our great, needy cities 
 at home, New York possibly, that I could find an 
 outlet for what I have felt I could do, after my 
 three years are ended out here. My preparatory 
 work has begun, and whether I will measure up or 
 not, time will reveal. I only know I ll try.
 
 Never blame the absent until he is 
 present. Arab Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER SIX 
 
 Another Day. 
 
 The whole world is akin, is it not? And every 
 body has some sort of a good heart if you know 
 how to find it. I saw a little child standing at the 
 ain the other day. Oh, of course, I have not ex 
 plained that ain is the Arabic for fountain. 
 
 There is one near our house, and mother, what 
 do you think that little girl was wearing? A 
 woman s discarded blouse, and she was so tiny that 
 it almost dragged on the ground, while her little 
 arms and hands were quite engulfed in the sleeves. 
 She had on no other garment, poor little mite. I 
 sent and questioned the mother, and learned that 
 she was so poor she had no clothing for the child. 
 Our new Dorcas Society is the result of the need of 
 that little Moslem girl. 
 
 I asked the women, Moslem and Christian, I had 
 come to know in town, to meet here and sew for 
 her, I providing the materials. In one afternoon 
 we made all she needed for the present. And then 
 we sent for little Rahmey (mercy), and our good 
 Ferrud gave her a bath in the kitchen before the fire, 
 and when we had clothed her in the new garments, 
 
 127
 
 128 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 she was so sweet and kissable. The mother was 
 quite too grateful, for the next day she appeared 
 with a bundle of faggots on her head just little 
 pieces of wood she had picked up on the beach and 
 by the roadside, which she presented to me, saying 
 in a shy, formal manner, "I have nothing to offer 
 thee, ya sitt, but with these bits thou canst mend 
 thy fire." There is joy in service like this. I won 
 der if one might not call it the "in-as-much-service" ? 
 I am learning a little each day of a new kind of joy. 
 Kate left the work well organized and I am try 
 ing to carry it along as near her model as I can. 
 My advisers, C. D., Mr. Whitelaw and the Consul, 
 advised finishing the upper story to the house Kate 
 had already begun, for we are much cramped for 
 room. Then we can put the drawing and dining- 
 rooms to their proper uses. As it is, the children 
 occupy them as dormitories, and the court is their 
 dining-room. 
 
 And a Night. 
 
 Ah, how still it is. The only sound is the crunch 
 of the heel of a belated employee at the silk factory 
 below us, and the eternal lap, lap, of the waves on 
 the shore. A storm is brewing, for the sea has been 
 "giving the news" all day and now is become a dull, 
 mufHed roar. 
 
 How the days have lagged since your cable saying 
 you were coming. I had counted each one off as on 
 a rosary, and now I have come to the end, where
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 129 
 
 I have found a cross. Your letter came to-day. 
 Dearest mother, how did it happen? You were 
 never careless in your life, and to think you were 
 so near me as to be going on the steamer and then 
 to trip and break your hip, and have to be ignomin- 
 iously carted back to a hospital in an ambulance! 
 Mother, mother ! And I cannot be with you I am 
 tied fast here. I am glad you went to St. Luke s. 
 I shall do my bead counting all over again, until you 
 are quite well, only I ll slip them along by minutes 
 and hours instead of days, with prayers, darling. 
 But I wish you had not said you had quite aban 
 doned the idea of coming. I suppose the doctor 
 knows, but he need not have said you were not as 
 young as you were once, and that the journey even 
 after you are well again, must be postponed indefi 
 nitely. 
 
 A Brand-new Day. 
 
 I sometimes pinch myself, I do really, to see if it 
 is I, and if I am awake and actually in Asia, or if 
 I am seeing all this strangeness and newness in a 
 dream from which I shall presently waken in my 
 bed at home. 
 
 Some one has characterized the domain of the 
 Turk as the Land of Yesterday. To me it is a land 
 of pure delight. I am not one of those Westerners 
 who are impatient with the slow-moving East, for 
 after living here a while one suddenly begins to ex 
 perience things: that there are no elevated trains or
 
 130 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 electric-surface cars with harsh clang of bell, no 
 restless, hurrying throngs upon whose tense faces 
 competition has been using its graving tool. I revel 
 in the absence of hurry and strenuous living. One 
 goes for a walk, for instance, and does not attempt 
 to do stunts in sprinting, but saunters along to "smell 
 the air," looking at the changing, moodful sea, the 
 clouds drifting along the mountain crests, and the 
 ever-changing lights on sea and shore, turning home 
 at last, with hands o erflowing with cyclamens and 
 poppies, narcissi and flaming anemones, to a late 
 dinner, eaten perhaps seated on cushions on your 
 flat housetop, with a skemla inlaid with mother-of- 
 pearl before you, on which a soft-eyed maid places 
 relays of food cooked to your taste, until your appe 
 tite is satisfied. After you have cleansed your hands 
 and mouth of any trace of food in the scented water 
 the sana ah pours slowly over your fingers from a 
 brass ewer covered with wonderful hammered-in de 
 signs, you settle down among your cushions to en 
 joy your evening in a contentment the Western 
 world might well be envious of and imitate, too, to 
 some extent. Then, if you are so blessed (if you 
 are a man), while you "drink" your nargeeleh your 
 wife, in flowing garments, with a rose in her hair, 
 fetches her a ude and fingers the strings in your 
 favourite airs, singing them softly the while. Over 
 head the stars drift silently by, and night deepens 
 on mountains and sea, amid a calm and quiet we 
 know little of in our busy, Occidental life. Not a
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 131 
 
 sound breaks the perfect stillness save a passing 
 footfall now and then or the intoning of camel bells 
 away up on the carriage road, mingled with the om 
 nipresent sigh of the sea. Delectable odours from 
 your garden of pleasant fruits and flowers seem to 
 have form and being as they are presented to you 
 by the gentlest of breezes. 
 
 This perfection of quiet one grows to love, and 
 strange as it may seem to you, I am becoming more 
 and more enamoured of it, and this town in partic 
 ular as a place to live in. 
 
 After the house was quiet for the night, I took 
 my chair out on the balcony and watched the moon 
 rise out of a notch in the mountains and wondered 
 how I happen to be here. I am getting wonted, as 
 you are apt to say, and find life full and not unat 
 tractive in many ways. The children are so lovable, 
 and I assure you they keep me guessing what they 
 will do next. We had an entertainment the other 
 day, at the end of the term, wherein some of them 
 took part in little pieces recited and sung. Tiny Ne- 
 beeha was the star performer. She is four years 
 old and quite the most original of all the children. 
 Her little piece was to be a surprise for me. She is 
 so small that Miss Dear stood her up on a chair 
 that she might be seen, and she began: "I am little 
 Nabeeha, I can do many things, compliments I do 
 not know how to make, but I can hand you this 
 bouquet," and she was supposed to present me a 
 nosegay, and I was to kiss her hand, but what did
 
 132 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 she do but coldly pass me by without a glance, and 
 present it to C. D., who with Betty had come on 
 for the occasion. Mightily flattered, he lifted her 
 high in his arms and kissed her rosy lips. But she, 
 once on her feet again, grasped his hand and kissed 
 it before raising it to her forehead, in token of 
 respect Was it not pretty? 
 
 The innate dignity of life here is impressive. 
 Courtesy is as natural as breathing, and none so low 
 in the social scale, but knows the amenities of life 
 as thoroughly as the aristocrat. The salutations most 
 employed contain such words as "peace," "blessed," 
 "praise," "good," and all coupled with the name of 
 Allah. They greet each other in the morning a 
 passing stranger or friend, it matters not whom, 
 with, "May thy morning be good," or, "May thy 
 day be blessed," which brings the reply, "Greater 
 happiness to thy morning," or, "And thy day be 
 blessed." They inquire after your health, "May it 
 be God s will that thy health is good." How they 
 live in Him. "In Him we live and move and have 
 our being." You offer refreshments to a guest, who 
 partakes, and then with hand on his heart, he says, 
 "Mayst thou long be spared to dispense hospitality," 
 to which you respond, "May thy life be prolonged." 
 
 The departing guest, after asking permission to 
 go, is furthered on his way with "Go in peace," or, 
 "Make it a custom to visit us." One starts on a 
 journey with one s friends praying, "Allah go with 
 thee," and, "Allah make it smooth." And to those
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 133 
 
 left behind they say, "As thou hast sent forth, so 
 mayst thou receive again." 
 
 You ask a mother, not of her children, but "the 
 blesseds," and add, "Allah preserve them to thee," 
 especially if they are sons. The most beautiful of 
 all is the way they say good-night, "Mayst thou 
 witness the morning with good," to which you re 
 spond, "And thou upon the good." It is so diffi 
 cult to put into cold English idioms this wonderful 
 Oriental imagery of speech so warm and full of 
 ripened sentiment. And when all compliments fail, 
 they fall back upon, "May He prolong thy years," 
 or, "May God give thee peace," and, oh, yes, they 
 do not say thank you either as we do, but, "May 
 thy good be increased," or, "Peace to thy mouth," 
 or, "Peace to thy hands," as the occasion may re 
 quire. 
 
 Inshallah, and bismallah, "May it be the will of 
 God," and, "In the name of God," are two very com 
 mon expressions, tokens of how they link every act 
 with God. 
 
 It is curious to see a cook begin to dish up the 
 dinner in the name of the blessed Trinity, and the 
 sewing woman never thinks of putting shears into 
 a new garment without first saying, Umbarak, "a 
 blessing to the wearer." If I could I would clothe 
 my descriptions in rhyme as the only fitting way to 
 adequately express the great beauty of words one 
 hears many times daily.
 
 134 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 Some Experiences for You. 
 
 One day I am going to write a whole tome on 
 the pests of the East, not smallpox, or malaria, or 
 typhoid fever, or even bubonic plague, but about 
 those things which creep and crawl and bite and 
 sting. I ll have one chapter on snakes. There are 
 some harmless ones which are just as good to 
 frighten one to death as the vipers which launch 
 you into eternity in twenty minutes after a nip at 
 you. We found one in the kitchen this afternoon! 
 
 Another will tell the secret of how to catch and 
 disable fleas, so that their jump and tickle will be 
 put permanently out of commission. And as to flies, 
 there are uncounted millions for the one who shall 
 introduce the newest effective swatter to combat the 
 trillions and quadrillions of the lineal descendants 
 of one of the plagues which one was it? of 
 Egypt. 
 
 The third plague is still with us, and I would be 
 willing to give a sum commensurate with my relief 
 incident thereupon, to the one who shall tell how 
 adequately to deal with that particular legacy of 
 Aaron s rod. Can t someone discover how to in 
 duce race suicide among them? 
 
 The heading of one chapter will read, "What I 
 know about B-flats, their habitats, etc. Also mos- 
 quitos, both of which are sleep banishers and night 
 prowlers." I might add a word or two regarding 
 scorpions and centipedes, and big, hairy spiders 
 (harmless), not forgetting the lizard, which scam-
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 135 
 
 pers up the side of the house, and the solemn, 
 bulging-eyed chameleon on the wall and wayside 
 rock, both of which are harmless, but interesting 
 because respectful and keep their distance, as is the 
 white Abu Brice, which frequents the inside of the 
 house and hides behind pictures and books. 
 
 Twice lately I nearly came into collision with 
 scorpions. I reached out for a book and found 
 one crawling over it, and the other time, a specially 
 large one disputed with me for possession of my 
 hairbrush, and won, I assure you. The sting is not 
 very poisonous, but is exquisite agony for twenty- 
 four hours. 
 
 The Victor Day. 
 
 What a mother you are. You have never out 
 grown your delight in making people unexpectedly 
 happy. I have many lovely memories of the unan 
 ticipated with which you delighted to crowd my 
 young life. Shall I tell you one? Once, when we 
 were living in Deanston, and I was quite a small 
 child. I came home from school, ravenously hungry. 
 You had gone out, but on the dining-room table I 
 found a bowl of bread and creamy milk ready for 
 me, and covering it was a piece of paper on which 
 you had printed, "Mother has gone to see a sick 
 baby." The paper has disappeared, but not the 
 memory that mother knew I would be hungry that 
 long-ago afternoon. 
 
 Well, to-day I heard the honk of a car near the
 
 136 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 house, and there was C. D. s coming down the road 
 with only Deebna in it, and a great packing box in 
 the tonneau. By the time Deebna had slowed down 
 at the gate I was there. "El Khawajah, say you 
 like this box. We get from custom house this day," 
 was his greeting in his lovely, quaint English. 
 "What is in it? Who sent it?" 
 "Khawajah say she come from America." 
 I could hardly wait for our man to get the cover 
 off, I was so excited. One board was ripped loose, 
 and I got a glimpse of mahogany. "A table ! Just 
 what I need between the drawing-room windows," 
 I exclaimed. But when another and yet another 
 was removed, I was sure it was a Martha Washing 
 ton sewing table. A wee bit of disappointment crept 
 into my heart, as Kate s is here and in my room. 
 But no! When all the papers were off, it was a 
 Victrola! Oh, you dear. I just cried for joy, and 
 then rang the big emergency bell and everybody 
 came running, children, teachers and servants and 
 icarby neighbours who have learned our ways. The 
 children dropped on the floor and we found seats for 
 the grown-ups, and then I started it. By blessed 
 good luck the first record I unwrapped was that of 
 the Music Lovers Choral Union singing "America." 
 A patriotic Arabic hymn has been set to that tune, 
 and as the opening bars poured out of that box, I 
 jumped to my feet and so did every one else, for 
 they recognized the tune, and we all began to sing, 
 I in English, the others in Arabic, and with that
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 137 
 
 wonder instrument leading we sang all four verses 
 as though at a Fourth of July celebration. 
 
 "What is it?" "Where did you get it?" "Who 
 made it ?" "Where did you get it ?" "How did they 
 get inside of it ?" "Mashallah, how clever you Ameri 
 cans are," were some of the remarks which rained 
 upon me. Wee Zehra went up to it, patted it with 
 her little fat hand, then came to me and said, "Ba ad, 
 ba ad," "more, more." And we had more and more, 
 and I shut my eyes and saw the Metropolitan Opera 
 House with Caruso and Schumann-Heinck and 
 Melba and all the rest on the stage, singing for me 
 alone. How the Pilgrims Chorus rang out, and 
 who was it sang Elizabeth s prayer? But perhaps 
 the one I loved the best was Schumann-Heinck sing 
 ing "Stille Nacht." I am so pleased you sent some 
 hymns. We wound up with the Doxology, sung 
 with Arabic words. 
 
 Thank you, thank you for this newest thought for 
 me and the unanticipated pleasure which will last 
 for many a day, and be solace for lonesome hours. 
 And the Volga Boat song. You did not forget my 
 love for Russian music, and the Hallelujah Chorus ! 
 But the most wonderful of all was the nightingale 
 song. I can well believe your elucidation on the 
 record, that a hundred records were spoiled before 
 a perfect one was secured. I am so grateful and 
 surprised that I am incoherent, but I am simply 
 overwhelmed, you blessed mother.
 
 138 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 Roll Call for You. 
 
 I have been intending to give you the roster of 
 our household, for put into English it has a strange 
 sound to Western ears. 
 
 Teachers. 
 
 Miss Dear Miss Enough 
 
 Miss Emerald Miss Jessamine 
 
 Children. 
 
 Flower Sun Aristocracy 
 
 Diamond Darling Pearl 
 
 The Last Happiness Rose 
 
 Merciful Peace India 
 
 Queen Full Moon Violette 
 
 Meekness Kindness Beautiful 
 
 Apple Carnation Joy 
 
 Lily Russia Clever 
 
 Spain France Lady of the House 
 
 The servants are: Servant of God, Little Dear, 
 only she is a great big blessed one. The Mother of 
 Jacob has charge of the nursery, and Good is the 
 housemaid. 
 
 I have succeeded in memorizing all these names in 
 Arabic, and am able to say my Bible verse at supper 
 with the rest. You should have heard them exclaim 
 the first time I tried to say one, Sellim timmik, 
 "Peace to thy mouth," and I felt very proud when 
 they added, "Now thou canst speak our language." 
 I can also say the Lord s Prayer quite rapidly and
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 139 
 
 carry on a conversation all alone if the theme be not 
 too lofty. 
 
 The Edge of the Day. 
 
 The mellowness of the Arabic is what makes it 
 different from any other language spoken in this 
 part of the world. There is nothing young about it. 
 There has been plenty of time for it to ripen, for 
 nothing is ever done in a hurry in this land of leis 
 ure. The idioms are especially rich and beautiful. 
 I am minded of this by the heading I have put for 
 you. When evening approaches we say, not the 
 close of day, but the edge of it, or the last of it, an 
 expression probably due to the way the sun sinks 
 below the western sea. When there remains but the 
 edge visible, it is indeed, the edge of the day, for 
 directly it disappears below the horizon, the night is 
 nigh. 
 
 Here is another age-long idiom. This afternoon 
 I saw a Bedouin woman on the road, and to be po 
 lite, asked her where she was going. Her quaint 
 reply was, "My face is set towards Trablus." 
 Wasn t there Someone whose face was set towards 
 Jerusalem once? In spite of the centuries, the 
 speech of the people is cast in the same mould as 
 when He walked these Syrian ways, and loved and 
 healed the poor and sick. 
 
 It is the edge of my day, and the time I love best. 
 Supper is over and in the old porch chair with the 
 high back, I am sitting on the balcony to watch the
 
 140 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 evening deepen and the daylight fade away and be 
 lost in the darkness. Presently I shall hear a soft 
 footfall, and there will be Ferrud bringing my lovely 
 Damascus carved table to place beside me. And I 
 shall know what is coming. I shall know she has 
 slipped down to my rose geranium hedge and 
 plucked a leaf, to be dropped in the water already 
 on the fire for my cup of coffee. The water will 
 have been duly sweetened and now she will add 
 the leaf, and when it comes to a boil, the pulverized 
 Mocha will be as carefully dropped in, and as care 
 fully manipulated three times it may boil quite up 
 to the top of the pot, and form a mendil "veil" of 
 foam and three times gently lifted off by the 
 straight-out handle, and softly tapped on the range 
 before being poured into my hammered brass coffee 
 pot, like the table from Damascus. Then in the 
 centre of a tray adorned with peacocks and things 
 graven on it, and flanked by the tiny cups and 
 saucers, it will be placed. Again I hear steps, and 
 get a whiff of coming joy. I shall drink the con 
 coction, and think I am smelling the rose geranium 
 hedge, instead of drinking coffee. 
 
 Ah, there comes the moon, and it is so bright, I 
 can see to write without the aid of candle or lamp. 
 Down in the wady of the brook in which never a 
 drop of water is seen, the startling cry of the jack 
 als sounded but now, weird and plaintive like the 
 wail of a lost child. Over at our neighbour s by the 
 sea I hear the beat on a deirbecker, accompanied by
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 141 
 
 the soft clapping of hands marking the rhythm. 
 Someone is dancing, one of the seven daughters, 
 probably. A wheeling, blundering bat sailed by 
 close to my face a minute ago, and the cicadas in 
 the eucalyptus tree shrill out their note, while faintly 
 borne on the breeze I hear the muezzin s call from 
 the market place. The lights have gone out across 
 the way and up on the hillside. Far off in the di 
 rection of the Nahr Ibrahim River Adonis I see 
 the moving lights of two carriages coming down the 
 road, bringing passengers from the last train, which 
 does not return to Beyrout, but "sleeps" at Aintain, 
 the terminus. I ll wait until they get to the carob 
 tree just beyond the old mill, and watch them 
 twinkle in and out of sight, until at last they roll 
 across the bridge. Then I will go to bed myself. 
 The edge of the day is swallowed up of night, al 
 beit is as light as day. Good-night, ya umwy, "oh, 
 my mother." 
 
 There have been long silences wide gaps in this 
 volume. I have had everything to learn from the 
 beginning, language, how to take up the dropped 
 stitches of Kate s work, and go on from where she 
 left off. It has been Ignorance attempting the part 
 of Experience, and everything was so strange and 
 unknown, that the physical part has been a new 
 trying endeavour to simply keep going and trying to 
 catch up. It is nearly a year since dear Kate went
 
 142 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 away, and my hands are tired holding on while I 
 have been learning a new trade. 
 
 The almond trees have bloomed and faded, the 
 oranges have wafted their luscious perfume up from 
 the garden and begun to form the tiny round but 
 tons which give promise of golden fulfilment later 
 on, and this book is still unfinished. I did not have 
 the time nor energy to write once a month, even. 
 But you have had letters to tell of my well being. 
 But now I am beginning to breathe more freely, and 
 I hope this intimate book will not remain full of 
 blank pages as at present. 
 
 The Syrian Flower Year. 
 
 It is springtime, when the bulbul nests and the 
 hussun lights for a brief space on the tip of a 
 swaying branch, and trills and chirps because the 
 winter is over and gone. The almond trees usher 
 this beautiful season in early in February, Shabot 
 the Fitful, which "opens an eye and shuts an eye," 
 frowns darkly one minute and smiles blandly the 
 next. "No matter how much of a rumpus it kicks 
 up, the smell of summer is in it," the weather-wise 
 say, eyen when the winds in their fury tear the tiles 
 from your roof and the rains descend and beat, and 
 thunder roars. The storm never brings back the 
 winter, and by the time the almond harbingers 
 drop their white petals, the orange trees radiate 
 sweetness and loveliness, and the peach and apricots 
 not to be outdone, are clad in pink and white along
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 143 
 
 with the plums. Later on the pomegranates blaze 
 with scarlet bells, which somehow must belong to 
 the fairies and be rung at night, when mortals sleep. 
 And they hold on to their colour, too, even in the 
 perfected fruit. Underfoot in the fields vivid with 
 the green of growing grain, by the roadside and in 
 the crannies of the plentiful rocks, are myriads and 
 millions of cyclamens, gaudy scarlet poppies, and 
 purple, red and white anemones the Rose of Sha 
 ron. Up by the Castle are quantities of blue irises, 
 which are not indigenous, but evidences of the 
 Crusading occupation and the longing of some one 
 for the familiar, and a bit of the home land in the 
 inhospitable domain of the Saracen. 
 
 The black calla abounds and is very curious and a 
 great favourite of mine. It is shaped like a calla, 
 only instead of being white it is green, with great, 
 covering splotches of jet black on it, as though 
 some one had showered it plentifully with ink. It 
 has a disagreeable odour, which makes it unpopular, 
 but I carefully tend one which appeared in my 
 garden of its own free will. Squills grow wild and 
 have a whorl of delicate white blossoms, which are 
 very pretty, while everywhere you see Queen Anne s 
 Lace. Scotch broom abounds, too, and heather on 
 the heights. The thistles are very attractive. There 
 are the great yellow pompoms and light purple ones 
 and pinks, very thorny, but a joy when massed in 
 a big brass bowl on the piano. 
 
 Narcissus vies with the commoner flowers, the
 
 144 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 cyclamen, poppies and anemones, as though trying 
 to be the most plentiful, and the children come home 
 from their walks with their little hands full of it. 
 Of course my flower garden is a delight during the 
 rainy season and spring. It is not large, like Miss 
 Delight s, but it is full of the same roses and gera 
 niums, callas and violets. I have been carefully 
 tending a wistaria vine I brought from Trablus, but 
 it grows very slowly. The towering peppyer trees 
 Kate raised from the seed, sowing them first in a 
 flower-pot. They are big trees now and have trans 
 formed the garden, giving it shade and conserving 
 the moisture in the dry, rainless summers. You 
 know, don t you, that spice pepper does not grow 
 on these trees, but on a vine, somewhere in the 
 tropics. There is a promising lilac bush, which dear 
 Kate loved and lavished care upon because it re 
 minded her of those in her childhood s garden. It 
 should bloom in some near springtime. And I wish 
 you could see the care we bestow upon this small 
 garden place when the rains cease. I practise dry 
 farming in it after a very limited fashion. After 
 giving my roses a big drink in the trench dug 
 around the roots, it is filled in with dry earth, which 
 holds the moisture down where it is needed, and this 
 one watering suffices for a week. If the wind could 
 be depended upon to blow when the beans and roses 
 needed to be watered and make that American wind 
 mill from Illinois turn with sufficient velocity to 
 send the water through the conduits to the gardens,
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 145 
 
 it would be a comfort. But after the kublie, the 
 southwest wind, ceases at the end of July my vege 
 tables and flowers languish. If I only had an oil 
 engine to pump when wind power is lacking, I would 
 be glad. There! Is the hint broad enough? lam 
 sure we will be very grateful if you should feel 
 inclined to give this institution the best one you can 
 afford. I am putting all my pennies and Kate s, too, 
 this year into the alterations she would have made 
 if she were here. Ah me ! She is in a fairer spring 
 time far away. 
 
 This may well be called Discovery Day, as you 
 will see from what follows. Pure water is always 
 a problem here, and that which comes from the pub 
 lic wells has a very peculiar taste, is a little brack 
 ish and seems thick somehow, when you swallow it. 
 We have always used it, Kate did, until one day I 
 raised a glass I had been drinking from to the light 
 and beheld a gay and festive dance going on in it, 
 in which myriads of tiny white creatures were en 
 gaged. After that I concluded I would have it 
 boiled and thus perhaps overcome the many cases of 
 indigestion the children and I constantly developed. 
 
 But cooked water palls after a time, and I decided 
 to clean out an unused well in the Yuseph Effendeh 
 garden of oranges the Mandarin variety is what 
 that high-sounding name means. This well is sup 
 posed to be the oldest one in town and had not been 
 cleaned, no one knew when, nor used for years.
 
 146 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 Accordingly I had a windlass rigged up with a kero 
 sene oil tin converted into a bucket by means of a 
 piece of wood nailed across the end we had opened, 
 and while not very fancy, it did the work. 
 
 After emptying the well and the bottom was sup 
 posed to have been reached, we found heaps and 
 heaps of broken jars, which had to be removed. 
 There was a huge pile outside when the real bottom 
 was struck, and some of it of a kind no one had 
 ever seen before, which fact demonstrates how long 
 it had been since the last cleaning. 
 
 Then I had another idea. There is an under 
 ground passage in the Castle leading to fresh water. 
 All Crusading castles have one against a time of 
 siege. I argued, if our well was the oldest in J., 
 this passage would naturally end in it, and so I in 
 structed the workmen to be alert and see if they 
 could not find it. But they could only see the baskets 
 let down to put the broken jars in. Then Abdullah 
 went down to inspect the work, and in coming up 
 he found an opening, perhaps fifteen feet from the 
 surface, and came in much excitement with the 
 news. I was as excited as he, and after providing 
 him with a lantern, candles and matches, followed to 
 investigate myself. 
 
 Down he swung into the well, called up when he 
 reached the opening, and said he had found a cedar 
 plank, six or eight inches thick at right angles to 
 the opening on which he was standing. This open 
 ing, by the aid of the lantern, showed a stairway
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 147 
 
 leading up towards the house. Presently I heard 
 his voice seemingly under my feet, that he had 
 come to the end of the steps, where the passage was 
 roofed over with a wide flat stone, and that he 
 thought he could open it up from the surface, and 
 I could see for myself this underground thing. So 
 out he came and soon uncovered and removed the 
 stone, and sure enough, I dropped through the 
 opening and went down into the heart of my well ! 
 A spot the sun had never penetrated to before. The 
 stairway was built of dressed stone steps, sides and 
 roof, and while there were but ten or twelve steps 
 before the surface was reached, I am sure some 
 where within our grounds I shall find the connecting 
 link with that leading into the Castle. The continu 
 ity was broken, apparently, when a building was 
 erected, and the ground levelled for the foundation. 
 
 The water is pure, and much less brackish than 
 that in the public wells, so that I feel a good job 
 was done in cleaning it out, and incidentally in dis 
 covering the passageway. Won t Mr. Whitelaw be 
 interested when he hears about my turning into an 
 archaeologist ! 
 
 At last this book is full. I think I can promise 
 you that the future issues of my Oriental history 
 will reach you with greater regularity.
 
 The people of this world are as pas 
 sengers on a ship. It moves on with 
 them while they sleep. Arab Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 One of the sights I have longed to see ever since 
 I could remember is a cedar tree on Mt. Lebanon. 
 And do you know why? When I was quite small 
 I heard our old rector, Dr. DeLong, tell about a 
 man who was good and true and might be likened to 
 a Cedar of Lebanon. I do not remember anything 
 else about it, simply the comparison. One day I 
 told this to Miss Delight and my life-long desire, 
 and she exclaimed, "That must have been said about 
 one of our missionaries, whom the Syrians always 
 called Arz Libnan, a Cedar of Lebanon." And she 
 did not forget my wish, for the other day she wrote 
 to say a party was going for a fortnight s camping 
 under the Cedars, Arz ar Rub, and would I not like 
 to go along. 
 
 When I found I could arrange to be gone that 
 length of time, there was but one answer to that 
 proposition, and but I will begin at the beginning, 
 as you like to have me. How often have you told 
 me, "Child, don t jumble your stories. Be orderly." 
 I can hear your very tones in those last words. I 
 only wish you could have been with us, be with us, 
 for I am at the beginning of something very won 
 derful and new. 
 
 By the way of preface I would say that we came 
 151
 
 152 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 yesterday, and that the party consists of twelve men 
 and women, mostly young like your daughter, and 
 complete strangers to her. 
 
 Miss Delight is the chaperone, and Mr. White- 
 law, who seems somehow to get invited to most 
 things I happen to belong to, is one of the party, 
 and the only one I really know. I mention this fact, 
 lest you think I have had something to do with it. 
 Miss D. did her own inviting, and asked no sug 
 gestions from anyone. But everybody likes Mr. W., 
 and it is rather jolly to have him around. I have 
 missed him this year, I ll whisper to you. But 
 mother dear, think how few persons I know in this 
 far-off land. 
 
 We are living in tents, Miss Delight and I shar 
 ing one together. There is one large one, which 
 is dining-room and sitting-room combined. We 
 sleep on mattresses on the ground, and eat in the 
 same primitive fashion. I enjoy it immensely, this 
 getting away from conventions. 
 
 Now I am ready to begin with my tale of the 
 Cedars of God, as the Bible calls them. The long 
 day on horseback, all the way up, up, ever higher 
 and higher, until we pitched our tents under the 
 thick branches of these old trees, was back-breaking, 
 but glorious. 
 
 The month is September the most glorious of 
 the Syrian year, when the Hunter s moon rides 
 high, and we scan the sky for The Giant, Orion 
 to come back as herald for Sirius the Lustrous. And
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 153 
 
 we can see them if we wait long enough before 
 going to bed. I had never really seen the stars until 
 I came to live under the shadow of the Lebanon. 
 
 We were well out in the Kura, riding in and out 
 among the olive trees by sun-up. The grey leaves 
 glistened with dew; the tang of the dried sagebush 
 fire heating tannur and sajh for baking, crept into 
 our nostrils with a clean, aromatic smell. A church 
 we passed gave a greeting of incense and sanctity; 
 a woman with her empty water jar on her shoulder 
 lowered it, and going up, kissed a corner of the in- 
 senate building, reverently crossing herself, ere she 
 passed by to "fill" at the fountain. We met the 
 train of mules with its gaily decorated and belled 
 leader, laden with dripping packs of snow cut from 
 the higher parts of the mountains, en route to the 
 city that the glasses of sherbat (accent the last syl 
 lable, sherbat} served in cafe and home, be nice and 
 cool and refreshing for those forced to abide in 
 town. I hope C. D. gets some. Little did I dream 
 when as a child I read in The Talisman of the 
 Saracen serving drinks cooled with snow from 
 Lebanon, that I would ever quaff similar refresh 
 ment, least of all go to a Lebanon snow bank, and 
 camp near it for a couple of weeks. 
 
 We ate fresh figs with the dew and the coolness 
 of the night still upon them, and grapes from which 
 no rough hand had brushed the bloom, as we rested 
 under a spreading carob tree, perhaps the very 
 one the Prodigal Son ate the husks from. This is
 
 154 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 certainly a Far Country for some of us. It was the 
 natur, "watchman," of a vineyard, who politely sup 
 plied this most welcome refreshment, and a passing 
 Rebecca lowered her brimming jar just filled at the 
 gushing fountain, and gave us a cool draught as 
 well as "God be with you." Still another let us buy 
 of her hot, fresh, crisp bread, thin as paper, we 
 saw her bake and peel off the sajh, and, oh, so good. 
 And what sturdy, splendid folk these mountain peo 
 ple are, straight backed, inclined to be taller than 
 the lowlanders, alert and industrious. 
 
 In a village across the deep gorge of the river, 
 Abu AH, there lives in the summertime, Shamuny, 
 the dove-eyed, the peerless washerwoman for the 
 mission. In this high altitude voices carry far, and 
 when we were quite opposite the village, one of the 
 muleteers called, "Ya-a-a-a-a Shamuny. Ya-a-a-a-a 
 Shamuny. Bring eggs and milk and chickens to the 
 cedars of the Lord to-morrow morning." From 
 away across the deep valley we heard, Aye, aye, 
 sama ah. "Yes, yes, I hear." We could see her also 
 standing in her doorway waving something white 
 in her hand. Sure enough she was here this morn 
 ing with supplies before any of us had crawled out 
 of our tents. 
 
 We passed through towns and villages, some size 
 able with brave new tile-roofed houses, evidences of 
 hard-earned money over in America or Australia 
 or Brazil, and everywhere and always we found 
 kindly interest and courteous salutation.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 155 
 
 After leaving the last town, Besherreh, the climb 
 up was stiff over a winding, curving bridlepath. 
 Once we rode through white sea sand and beside 
 water-worn rocks. I would like to invite the un 
 believers in the deluge to explain how that sand 
 thrown up by some sea or other got at that eleva 
 tion, for if they can, I ll too, refuse to believe that 
 "Noah he did build an ark." 
 
 It is not necessary to tell about this clump of 
 trees. You can read all about it in books, how many 
 there are, etc. But what I would like to have you 
 see, mother, dear, is the way the big lordly things 
 rear themselves, and how they spread their branches, 
 as though inviting us mortals to lie at ease on their 
 thick, springy greenness and there rest awhile and 
 get acquainted with the cloud-dotted sky and its 
 Maker. 
 
 I wish, too, I could make a record of the sigh 
 of the wind and the whisper of the breeze passing 
 from tree to tree for you, that your Victor machine 
 might repeat it in your ears. 
 
 As night deepened, although weary, we could not 
 forbear to heed the word of those of our party who 
 knew, to wait up for the moon which "rules by 
 night." It was cold we are at an elevation of some 
 6000 feet and more and warmly wrapped up we 
 waited and watched. I have never seen such star 
 light as glinted and sparkled through the black 
 cedar branches, and when the great white disk of 
 the moon slowly shouldered itself above the encir-
 
 156 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 cling Ras el Qadib, it was as though the mountain 
 receded and gave way to the resplendent Queen of 
 Night, that she might fling afar her robes of trail 
 ing light. 
 
 Absorbed, we watched and silently adored. Then 
 a voice broke the stillness, "The heavens declare the 
 glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handi 
 work," softly spoken, in which we all joined as we 
 looked and worshipped in the words of the old 
 Psalmist, clear through to the end. One thing you 
 did well with me, mother dearest, you made me 
 when a child, commit to memory wonderful portions 
 of scripture. I rejoiced last night that I could meas 
 ure up to something with these wonderful Bible 
 students, even though it were only to repeat a Psalm. 
 
 Oh, yes, the party is charming. Everybody is nice 
 and agreeable, but these trees with their whisper 
 ings and sighs, bidding us remember the ages and 
 centuries they have been here, while kingdoms have 
 risen and fallen, and nations and races played their 
 parts in the Drama of Man to their final exit; the 
 sky and clouds and mountains with shepherds and 
 cropping sheep, these are the things we have come 
 to see. I could wish to be here alone with God 
 and this wondrous, majestic beauty He has created. 
 
 One of the trees is immense. It took eight of us 
 to gird it, the tips of our fingers touching only, 
 our arms stretched to the limit. The Old Guardian 
 some one dubbed it, because it has been here since 
 the days when Hiram of Tyre s workmen cut down
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 157 
 
 its companions for Solomon s Temple. It was left 
 behind for some reason, and has withstood tempest 
 and cold and summer heat to shelter us of the Twen 
 tieth Century, from a little-dreamed-of land and 
 speaking a language which was not formed on the 
 tongue of man until it was some two thousand years 
 old. Its branches grow quite low, and I have scram 
 bled up into its capacious lap with a book, my 
 bound in Russia one, only my attention will wander 
 to the cushions of green on the boughs, and I long 
 to pillow my head on them and be swayed by the 
 breeze, then off to a great field go my eyes where 
 had been wheat, but now golden stubble, above 
 which an eagle soared but now, with scarcely a 
 movement of his wide-spread wings, away up into 
 the blue he headed until he became a greyish speck 
 against the sky. 
 
 The tinkle of a bell on a browsing black and white 
 goat comes to my ears and the call of a strayed 
 lamb to its ewe from across the wady. What peace, 
 what holy calm, what surcease for tired bodies and 
 brains ! 
 
 Off to the south I see the cleft in the globe made 
 by the erosion of the river as it ate its way to the 
 sea. I can trace its whole length as though made 
 in a clay map by a human hand. 
 
 There are other people here, besides ourselves, 
 I have discovered. Up on the crest of one of several 
 small hills in the Cedar enclosure is a tiny chapel, 
 sacred and dear to the people. When I wandered
 
 158 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 off by myself this morning, I came upon a couple 
 of women laboriously climbing the slope to it on 
 hands and knees, because being childless, they had 
 heard some one say God would respect their desire 
 for motherhood if they went to church that way. 
 Their faith was sublime, and let us hope some day 
 they will become joyful mothers of children. 
 
 Another Day. 
 
 Of all my experiences in this land of wonder 
 and delight, the one I am now enjoying is quite the 
 best. We seem to have found ourselves in a place 
 much like the one the Master invited His disciples 
 to, "the place apart." The great throbbing world 
 has slipped away, quite out of sight, and we are face 
 to face with nature and primitive life, where the 
 trees and mountains become so intimate that you 
 learn their language of lights and shadows and 
 serenity, and forget to be tired or that down be 
 low in the lowlands is hurry and rush and competi 
 tion and hard work. 
 
 To-day we watched some shepherds "abiding with 
 their sheep," just outside the wall. One especially 
 interested us. He stood leaning on his staff, half 
 hidden in his sheep-skin coat with its huge, pro 
 truding shoulders, which not only sheds rain like a 
 sloping roof, but is capacious enough to shelter a 
 new-born lamb from heat or cold or wet. This man 
 we learned was on watch, while his companions 
 rested and drew their evening meal of bread and
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 159 
 
 cheese from their "scrips," the sheep-skin bag they 
 all carry. 
 
 As the shadows lengthened the part I most wanted 
 to see was enacted. There is a circular enclosure 
 near by, with but one entrance. This is the sheep- 
 fold, toward which I noticed the sheep had turned 
 their faces. As they nosed and hunted for the scant 
 herbage among the stones and rocks, one of the 
 shepherds called. I cannot describe the guttural 
 sounds he uttered they were not euphonious, but 
 from among hundreds of sheep scattered around I 
 saw one and another and another lift its head, listen 
 for a repetition of the familiar voice saying, Ta a, 
 ta a, "come, come," and then start toward it. Only 
 those who knew the voice responded. The rest 
 kept on eating. "A stranger will they not follow." 
 The called ones went after their shepherd, to the 
 fold, all but one or two, which a well-directed stone 
 from the shepherd s hand admonished and they came 
 running. At the door he stood "I am the door of 
 the sheep," and as they passed in he counted and 
 scrutinized each one, touching them with his staff 
 as they crossed the threshold. I saw him hold back 
 a ewe whose face was bleeding from contact with 
 thorns, to be tenderly washed and oiled later on. 
 Once we heard two shepherds call their flocks alter 
 nately, and it was a pretty sight, those sheep sepa 
 rating themselves to collect around the voice which 
 they knew and followed into the fold. 
 
 Next we saw a goatherd coming over the brow
 
 160 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 of the hill, driving before him his black charges. 
 Did you know that sheep follow a leader, but that 
 goats must be driven ? They, too, passed under the 
 rod into the fold, each one carefully looked at and 
 most of them called by name. We asked a shepherd 
 to tell us the names of some of his flock, and here they 
 are: Meliky, the Queen, was pointed out, because 
 she likes to walk right at the head of the flock; 
 One-eyed, which would jump down a slope and fell 
 on a cruel thorn and lost an eye; The Wanderer, 
 addicted to straying away out of sound of the shep 
 herd s voice ; the Lost One, which cost the shepherd 
 many anxious hours hunting among the rocks and 
 wadys until at last he found "the sheep that was 
 lost," on a ledge it had climbed to seeking a bit of 
 grass, and was caught fast by a low-growing thorn 
 tree. Others were, Black face, and Brown ear, and 
 Torn tail, Shaitan (Satan), the great ram which 
 keeps the flock in order, and the Orphan, the best 
 beloved, whose mother died when she was born. 
 
 Do you see, mother dearest, what the "comfort 
 of the staff" means? Care, protection, safe resting 
 places, and sleepless, tireless love. 
 
 The sun sank into the distant sea ere the last 
 sheep was safely folded, and the door secured 
 against intruders. Not alone by the curious lock 
 with a wooden key was that accomplished, but one 
 of the shepherds covered with his burnus laid him 
 self on his sheep-skin cloak, squarely in front of the 
 fab, "door," to sleep a little, and watch the more.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 161 
 
 No one might go in or out excepting over his body. 
 I will lay me down now and sleep, and when my 
 candle is out, I shall say alone in the dark the old 
 Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd," and I shall put 
 the emphasis on my. 
 
 Night Time, after Another Wonder Day. 
 
 To-day we took a long walk, and a rough one it 
 was across the wheat field of the soaring eagle, 
 till we came to the edge of the world, where if we 
 had taken one more step we would have walked 
 off into space. We started out to find where the 
 old Kadisha River came from, tumbling and jump 
 ing from somewhere in the mountain. We had a 
 merry time scrambling down the winding goat paths 
 to the source, some hundreds of feet below, where 
 was an opening in the side of the great, rock-bound 
 mountain, as large as a good-sized room. Out of 
 this cavern the ice-cold torrent rushed noiselessly 
 and swiftly, as if to try its strength now it had 
 emerged into the open. Then it got in such a hurry 
 that it had no time to dodge around the rocks in 
 its way, but gathered itself and took a mighty leap 
 down to a lower level, roaring and kicking back its 
 spume and spray in happy defiance. 
 
 "I am on my way to work for the sons of men," 
 it called back, but never stayed its forward rush, 
 leaping from the heights, often hanging up delicate, 
 fairy rainbows as parting gifts, keeping steadily on, 
 fretting against the rocky sides of the seons-old road
 
 162 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 its predecessors had carved, ever hurrying, running, 
 dashing along, giving of its fullness to the jells 
 near by, planted with vegetables, until it reached the 
 plains where men toiled for the harvests of grain 
 and fruits. 
 
 I can see the eager, watching, waiting, expectant 
 gardens of orange and apricot, parched and thirsty 
 in the rainless summer, hear the plash of the bare- 
 kneed toiler as he opens sluices and directs the re 
 freshing draught of water against the hot soil which 
 drinks deep and passes on the life-giving fluid. 
 It truly is the "water of life," as we used to sing. 
 How cold it is, too ! We put a melon in it, only 
 to see after a while that it had split in twain. From 
 the "roots of the mountains" it comes, where is that 
 limitless, God-stored supply, "pure as crystal." 
 
 Absorbed in the majesty of the scene, I drew 
 nearer and nearer to the brink, to trace the entire 
 length of this wonder river, so close that I felt 
 restraining hands drawing me back to safety, some 
 one fearing lest the absorption become fascination 
 and I follow the flow to the depths below. 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Whitelaw," I said, at last turn 
 ing my eyes from the ravishing view. 
 
 "How did you know it was I?" he enquired, still 
 keeping hold of me. 
 
 "How? You are always near when I need 
 help," I told him, looking up at him, and got one 
 of those hidden smiles, I have somehow missed, 
 because absent for so long. But this is one of the
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 163 
 
 very few times I have really seen him since that 
 
 day when I wonder if he has forgotten when 
 
 he offered me a gift, of which he has never spoken 
 since. But that smile to-day but, we turned and 
 joined the others who were making merry over the 
 lunch of cucumbers and sajh bread. 
 
 When we were about to return to the camp, and 
 stood near the edge of the world again, some one 
 began "Before the mountains were brought forth 
 or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, 
 even from everlasting to everlasting thou art God." 
 I felt as I listened that I was getting acquainted 
 with God up here, and that there were no words 
 of my own to employ. Nothing seems to fit but 
 those from the old Book. 
 
 And how small have been our aims and desires. 
 The trees are good correctives, thrusting themselves 
 up, up as though to measure themselves against the 
 everlasting mountain which reaches higher still 
 towards the sky, some four thousand feet and more. 
 
 And now the river has spoken. This laughing, 
 joyful river hastening down to brighten folks and 
 flowers and fruits alike, is another proof of how we 
 are all children of the Great I Am, who made us 
 and it and the mountains with its trees and silences 
 and flocks and herds, and who expects us to co 
 ordinate all our doings of help and inspiration, that 
 we may apprehend the reason of existence, and be 
 apprehended of God in the final analysis. 
 
 I am getting glimmerings of great life truths,
 
 164 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 which my college course, travels and books have not 
 furnished me. There is an Arab proverb which 
 sums it up. "The people of this world are as pas 
 sengers on a ship. It moves on with them while 
 they sleep." I think I have slept most of my life, 
 but I am grateful that the Captain did not put me 
 off at some port, but has kept me on board knowing 
 that I would waken. I am beginning to arouse 
 and observe that I have left much of the familiar 
 far behind ; that I have moved on to strange delight 
 some places, where the air is invigorating, the im 
 pulse to be compelling, and great souls smile at 
 me and hold out welcoming hands, and I am glad, 
 and am trying to respond and fit myself to company 
 them that I may attain to this fellowship. I am glad 
 and thankful I am no longer a drone. My entrance 
 into a tiny portion of real constructive work was 
 tragic but I am in. And that picket fence and 
 what it encloses will look very dear when I get 
 there two days from now. 
 
 To-morrow we go, and again I am glad and heart 
 happy. I want to get back and bind up Nebeeha s 
 sore finger and kiss away the tears when it hurts 
 too much, and sit down on the floor with wee Zehra 
 and build a great city for her out of her blocks, 
 wherein shall enter nothing to hurt or make her 
 afraid. I must hurry, hurry, and get at my task. 
 They will all be grown up before I know it, those 
 children of mine.
 
 Said Luqman the Sage: Let thy first 
 
 attainment be the getting of a good 
 friend. For a good friend is like unto 
 a palm tree. It giveth thee shade when 
 thou sittest, wood when thou gatherest 
 and fruit delicious for thy food. Arab 
 Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 Saturday Afternoon. 
 
 You have asked in several of your letters about 
 Beyrout, what it is like, and if I never go there 
 because no mention of it is in my letters. It is 
 not that I have not been there, nor that it is not 
 interesting, but it is so modern in many ways, and 
 I have tried to tell you about things opposite of 
 new. Still, I suppose there is not a little of interest 
 in it, as is the case in all large cities. 
 
 Before coming to live here, I had not been in 
 Beyrout excepting when Betty and I ran down in 
 the car once or twice for shopping. We only spent 
 one night there, and that at that very good Hotel 
 where I had breakfast when I arrived from 
 America. And that one night was occasioned by 
 unfinished dentistry Betty had to wait over to have 
 completed. So you see, I am not very competent 
 to tell you much about it, although I go there fre 
 quently now, because I am near and all supplies 
 must come from there. 
 
 But for picturesqueness and colour it cannot com 
 pare with Trablus, excepting in spots. Its situation 
 is magnificent on St. George s Bay, which name 
 
 167
 
 168 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 commemorates the spot where the dragon sported 
 and St. George (el Khudr, the "Green One" to the 
 Moslems), for ever ended his reign of terror. 
 Curiously enough el Khudr is venerated alike by 
 Christian and Moslem. The former name their 
 churches and children for him, and the latter build 
 shrines to his memory and therein consecrate their 
 newly-born a ceremony analogous to christening. 
 There is a Khudr not far from my house in J. 
 
 If one arrives in Beyrout either by steamer or in 
 the little baby Lebanon Tramway train, the terminus 
 is the same, down by the water front. And one 
 gets the impression of arriving in a metropolis. The 
 cabbie, looking for a fare, races his horses beside 
 the moving train, gesticulating to you at the car 
 window, flashing a grateful smile when he gets 
 your signal to wait at the station, if he arrives 
 before the slowing train. And when the wheels 
 cease to turn, you find yourself in a pandemonium 
 indeed. Clamorous are the cabmen, insistent, the 
 sakis clapping their brass bowls together to attract 
 attention and crying Ya atshan, ya atshan, "Ho, 
 thirsty one." The ca ak b simsum man not to be 
 outdone, calls, Ya sukhn, ya sukhn, "Oh hot, oh 
 hot," his wooden tray balanced on his head and his 
 koursee hanging from his arm to place it on if you 
 show the slightest desire to taste his delicious, crisp, 
 crescent-shaped sesame seed-coated cakes, and you 
 will very much desire so to do if you have once 
 eaten any. These are cited as examples of noises.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 169 
 
 Then swarms of porters, sweating, swearing, loud- 
 voiced, clamorous and grabbing descend upon your 
 bag, each one insisting you have always employed 
 him, and threaten to dismember it in the struggle 
 for possession. Once your carriage moves on with 
 you, you begin to feel the colouring of the red tar- 
 boushes (fezes), blue trousers and white turbans 
 of the slow-moving throngs in the roadways, or on 
 the seemingly endless hotel balconies facing the sea. 
 Occasionally it is a pink or red house which catches 
 your eye, but generally bright, vivid blue predomi 
 nates. You pass a large Austrian wholesale house, 
 wherein one may purchase almost anything from 
 Manchester muslins and French brie a brae to 
 American Go On Shoes. 
 
 Next we notice the Banks, Salonika, Deutscher 
 Palestina, and Imperial Ottoman, and the various 
 Post Offices of the European Powers. Your car 
 riage dodges the Belgian tram line as it passes the 
 shop of the British and Foreign Bible Society to 
 turn a sharp corner, but not before you obtain a 
 glimpse of French Modistes, bon bon and cleaning 
 establishments. Down a street lined with workers 
 in wood your driver takes you, past a cafe or two, 
 coming up against our old friends Thos. Cook & 
 Sons, just as you turn up a bit of steep street and 
 stop before the Hotel. Here you traverse a long 
 veranda with tables and chairs suggestive of out-of- 
 doors dining, then through a marble-paved entrance 
 hall and up the steepest stairs you ever essayed, to
 
 170 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 a cool, clean room wherein is rest and quiet. This 
 is going to Beyrout and getting there as well. 
 
 There is much of interest in this big town fast 
 becoming Europeanized, where are men and women 
 a-plenty who wear fashionable clothing. There are 
 splendid houses one or two might be termed pal 
 aces, surrounded by high, protecting walls which 
 conceal gardens of rare beauty, as a glimpse through 
 an open gateway reveals. The great American Col 
 lege is the most conspicuous group of buildings in 
 the Levant, and made my heart swell with pride 
 the first time I stood on the campus and saw nearly 
 a thousand students pass into the Chapel, with its 
 rose windows, pipe organ and Georgia pine flooring. 
 The faculty in cap and gown on the rostrum, the 
 hymns, scriptures and prayers in English, might 
 have caused me to think I was in America, had 
 I been able to forget that the students wore tar- 
 bushes on their head, which neither place nor prayer 
 sufficed to remove. It was not irreverence which 
 kept them at the proper angle on the rows and rows 
 of dark heads before me, but custom, which is all 
 supreme out here. 
 
 If I were a student in that institution, I think I 
 would almost worship the people who made it pos 
 sible for me to get a college education in the arts 
 and sciences, or medicine, or pharmacy, or dentistry, 
 or commerce, or education, or how to be a trained 
 nurse, and all this through the medium of the 
 English language.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 171 
 
 Now you have had a glimpse of the college 
 it would take all of our time to really see it there 
 are some twenty-five buildings standing in a campus 
 of fifty acres ; we will go on down the splendid wide 
 boulevard leading past the lighthouse to the sea, 
 following the shore to a waiting rowboat in which 
 we will explore the Pigeon Islands, two tall pin 
 nacles of rock, with crimson caps of wild flowers 
 in the winter and spring, passing through mysterious 
 entrances in their hearts of stone, through corridors 
 and tunnels and in and out of caves and water-eaten 
 passages. 
 
 Under, a long way under the shore of the main 
 land there is a cave, into which the storm-whipped 
 sea sends thundrous billows, mighty and terrible, 
 which eat in farther and farther, making in calm 
 weather a sure covert for contraband traffic after 
 nightfall when many a kantar of salt and tobacco 
 and cases of firearms change hands, and are spirited 
 away before the dawn. 
 
 Going back we will drive along the north shore, 
 we have been out to the west and south, and when 
 we reach the heart of the old city, we will leave the 
 carriage to walk through the winding bazaars where 
 diminutive dikakeen are filled with merchandise 
 from every corner of the globe, Singer Sewing Ma 
 chines and Milwaukee beer included! 
 
 The foreign community, too, is large and attrac 
 tive, absorbing too much time, I always feel if one 
 is engaged in serious work. There are wonderful
 
 172 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 compatriots of ours at work there men and women 
 of fine culture and attainments. Just the same kind 
 as those marvels in Trablus. I enjoy meeting them 
 and knowing them, and am amazed at all they are 
 accomplishing, and sometimes feel faintly envious 
 because they have concerts and afternoon teas and 
 lectures and meet the great ones of earth passing 
 that way, but I am always glad to get back to my 
 niche, where are motherless little children who are 
 mine, and my opportunity. 
 
 Days and as in this case weeks go by without an 
 entry in this book of my Syrian life. I imagined 
 that after my first year here I would have more 
 leisure, but the more I know of the language, the 
 more do I find to do. Sometimes I am so tired at 
 night, that I can only slip between the sheets, telling 
 my Father in heaven that He knows all about it, and 
 that I must sleep or die. Your calendar tells you 
 that the spring time has come and gone and that 
 summer is here, my third summer away from you. 
 I ought to be planning to come home, but what about 
 these children and Kate s confidence in her friend? 
 I must wait and watch for the turn in the road 
 which will lead back to you, darling mother. Don t 
 pity me, please, and say about me, "Poor Rachel." 
 I am richer than any thing in the love of my chil 
 dren, and the opportunities for helping them I am 
 utterly unable to take advantage of, because there 
 are not enough hours in the days. No, I am happy.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 173 
 
 happier than I have ever been. Perhaps I have 
 found my real life place. Do you suppose I have? 
 And if I have, when are you coming to share it 
 with me? I want you so "hard" as Caryl says. 
 
 One Day. 
 
 I have been feeling that this particular portion of 
 the globe is older than the rest, especially than 
 America. It may be because the story of the begin 
 nings of the human race has been staged in Genesis 
 and on Babylonian tablets. Sometimes I imagine 
 those prehistoric fragments of pottery of Kate s and 
 C. D. s are whole again in the hands of those first 
 men and women who lived and played their parts in 
 the great race drama, only to have the curtain rung 
 down, that the stage be set for their successors. 
 Once last winter, when we had a terrifying thunder 
 storm, I wondered if those first folk would not 
 have been seeking some cave, perhaps the very one 
 I sometimes go to out by the sea, to hide in, afraid 
 as I was when the crashes of thunder seemed to 
 split the sky. That day it did seem as though it 
 were the voice of the Most High, especially when 
 one awful crash came, throwing Miss Dear violently 
 across the room. She was not harmed, other than 
 being terribly frightened and upset. But our neigh 
 bour s house, Mejd ed Din Effendeh s, was struck, 
 the bolt tearing an irregular jagged hole clear down 
 one side of the tile roof. 
 
 I sent right over to offer assistance, but found no
 
 174 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 one at home. That evening the Effendeh appeared 
 at our mid-week service, and asked that public 
 thanks be given to Allah that no one of his family 
 was harmed. He is a Mohammedan. 
 
 A Fresh Entry. 
 
 I know something new, mother dear. I know 
 what a "fatted calf" is, only it is not a calf, but a 
 sheep nowadays, hand reared from a little lamb, 
 and made quite a member of the family. Each day 
 it is given a bath, many times a day all it can eat 
 of wayside gleamings and mulberry leaves, until the 
 autumn when the stuffing process begins. 
 
 A woman will sit beside the creature on the 
 mustaby, "door place," morning, noon and night, 
 and stuff leaves and herbage into its mouth, holding 
 the jaws somehow and assisting it to work them if 
 necessary. Sometimes these sheep get so fat, it does 
 not seem possible for them to walk. And I have 
 told you of their broad, fat tails ? great excrescences 
 where the tail should be, of nothing but pure fat, 
 which is greatly prized in cooking. 
 
 July 2Qth. 
 
 This day has an entry duly dated, for reasons 
 which will be disclosed as you read. I received a 
 letter yesterday. Will you listen to it and to my 
 tale of what came after ?
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 175 
 
 Rachel: 
 
 I find in the record I keep of daily events, 
 that it is just two years to-morrow since you 
 were taken from this office down here by the 
 sea (I am writing now at your desk), and 
 placed in charge of a work not of your choos 
 ing. Dare we say, God was not in it? I am 
 asking myself that question, for the fact re 
 mains that He seems to have taken you for 
 this long time quite beyond my ken, quite out 
 of reach. And I had wanted you closer, not 
 farther away. Had did I say? That is not 
 true, is it? 
 
 I know there is a very slight bond, Miss 
 Morgan s request that I be one of your advisers, 
 when I desired to serve you in a more intimate 
 capacity for the rest of your life. Notwith 
 standing the official relationship, I have not 
 been able to see you often; there is a Syrian 
 Mrs. Grundy to be taken into consideration, 
 and I have not known whether had there been 
 no conventions to be observed, you would have 
 cared to have me come. 
 
 And now my work here is finished, and T am 
 facing the west again. I have not found the 
 bi-lingual inscription. Failure is it? At any 
 rate the search is to be suspended for the 
 present. But over there in England is the old 
 home. I was the eldest son. The others are 
 all gone. The old Manor House stands amid
 
 176 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 its lawns and trees and smiling gardens. My 
 ancestors lived there and the churchyard re 
 cords where they lie. In this eastern land, bar 
 ren and thirsty, I have remembered with great 
 longing at times, those green fields and leafy 
 woods, beautiful and beneficent, when my soul 
 even seemed parched and dry. And there is 
 an abundance in storehouse and Bank. 
 
 And yet I am not content. I want just one 
 other thing. Can you imagine what? Have 
 you ever looked at or tried to see my point of 
 view? You said you "did not feel a particle of 
 love" for me then. And you have had too 
 much to think about and learn since that unfor 
 gettable day, for me to intrude my affairs upon 
 you that I might try and induce you to change 
 your mind. My desires had to be put one side 
 temporarily, but not forever. I assure you, 
 although I have been impatient, my heart has 
 not fainted from defeat. I startled you that 
 day. Perhaps I was too abrupt, and looked 
 only at my side and my great love for you. 
 
 I would like to see you before I go, the 
 steamer sails on Monday, and this is Wednes 
 day. Have I your permission to come and say 
 good-bye? Be kind, and fix the time. The 
 messenger who takes this to you will wait for 
 an answer. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 J. D. Whitelaw.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 177 
 
 This is the letter I got by special messenger yes 
 terday. I was in the midst of reading it when 
 a telegram was brought me from C. D. that read, 
 "Going to Europe Monday. Betty also ; am sending 
 the car for you to come; arrange to go with us, 
 David." 
 
 Well! Two such communications were breath 
 stoppers and I gasped and wept alternately. The 
 bottom of things seemed falling out. There wasn t 
 time for preparation, for it was not long ere Deebna 
 was stopping before the gate. But I took time to 
 write a note. "Will it do just as well to say good 
 bye in Trablus as here? I am coming, and when 
 you read this I ll be there." 
 
 I did not sign my name for he would know who 
 wrote it. And instead of that messenger plodding 
 back over the short cuts, walking all the long, 
 weary way, a matter of at least twenty-five miles, 
 we took him in the car, instructed to deliver that 
 note the first thing. 
 
 I am up in my old room at Betty s as I write, 
 trying to set things in orderly array in my mind. 
 David had a cable calling him to a conference in 
 London, and he thought Betty had better go along 
 for a change. And he wants me to go with them. 
 Ah, England again, with the greenness, one s own 
 kind once more and the blessed English language 
 spoken by every one who calls and passes you on the 
 streets ! Oh, how good it would be. And new hats 
 and up-to-date gowns !
 
 178 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 But I am not going, mother dear. The summer 
 vacation is on and Miss Dear, who sadly needed a 
 good long rest, is away, and there is no one to 
 stay with the children but myself. And besides, we 
 are trying experiments with silk weaving. We in 
 duced a master weaver from Hamath to come and 
 start our looms, and I am anxious to foster the 
 work. Then, too, we are beginning to really teach 
 gardening, and you should see the children s plots 
 of growing things, now that we have an unlimited 
 supply of water since you saw that we had the oil 
 engine to irrigate with when the wind does not 
 blow. I have offered a prize for the finest egg 
 plant and peas, another for potted plants and cut 
 flowers. The flower and vegetable show is to be 
 held late in August, and I cannot desert that in 
 which I have taken such pride and worked so hard 
 to make a success. 
 
 So you see, I cannot get away, much as I would 
 like to. C. D. and Betty will not be gone but a 
 couple of months, and I am not worth much, if I 
 cannot endure being left behind for that length of 
 time. 
 
 It seems C. D. started off his telegram and the 
 car to fetch me at about the same time. The 
 former only beat the car by five minutes. I got 
 here in time for tea with Betty, and before C. D. 
 came from his office. Mr. Whitelaw being a 
 Britisher, never misses tea, and when he strolled 
 in, it was funny the expression on his face directly
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 179 
 
 he saw me. He had not yet received my reply to 
 his note, and the surprise was complete. But his 
 greeting left nothing to be desired, and that crinkly 
 smile I like so much, came forward with the grasp 
 of his hands. Yes, mother, he used both of them 
 to held one of mine. And well, he seemed glad I 
 was there, and I ll confess to you he looked manly 
 and good to my eyes. C. D. had not told him he 
 had sent for me, any more than he had told C. D. 
 of his letter to me. I wonder why? 
 
 I must get into bed, but I am thinking about the 
 children, and if anyone has remembered that Temam 
 needs looking after, or will that subtle little thing 
 manage to slip into bed before she brushes her 
 teeth? And wee Kef a had a bit of cold and needs 
 a witch-hazel nose wash. Since we began using 
 the latter with the children, we do not have well- 
 developed colds. But, I have a battle royal some 
 times to accomplish it, and only win out because 
 I am bigger and stronger. But we conquer the 
 cold, which is the main thing. 
 
 And now good-night. Why does Mr. W. desire 
 to say a particular good-bye, can you tell me? I 
 found to-night that he has very unruly eyes. I 
 begged Betty to play for us, I was so music hungry, 
 and that man off in a corner bothered me. I felt 
 his eyes, and every time I looked his way, I caught 
 a gleam and that hidden smile. We are going for 
 a canter early in the morning before breakfast ere 
 it gets too warm.
 
 180 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 Friday, July 
 
 What do you suppose was the first thing I re 
 membered when I wakened this morning? Not 
 that I was here in Trablus and in my own room 
 from whose windows are visions of glorified moun 
 tains and sea, nor that I was going for a canter on 
 the sands with Mr. Whitelaw, but, of those children 
 down home. Oh, mother, shall I confess it? It 
 is home, and I do not like to think of the possi 
 bility of giving it over to some one else some day. 
 And yet, I am not ready to say I am willing to be 
 called a missionary. I am not good enough for 
 that. I am only mothering some children who 
 would be lonely and forsaken otherwise. I love to 
 provide for them and have them taught, and watch 
 them grow and develop, but more than all, to try 
 and help them lay sure and right foundations for 
 the future. 
 
 These first morning reflections did not prevent 
 me from keen enjoyment in the saddle. I rode 
 Betty s horse which has the appropriate name of 
 Shaitaneh, she devil and she is one at times. 
 This morning she would hardly wait to be off, and 
 was with difficulty induced to stand long enough 
 for me to mount, and then away she shot like a 
 bird awing. She is under perfect control, but 
 simply flies when in the mood I found her to-day. 
 I could hear the pound, pound of Mr. Whitelaw s 
 mount behind me at first, and when Shaitaneh had 
 winded herself a bit, I wheeled about and rode back
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 181 
 
 to find my escort. And I could not find any. A 
 funny thing to lose an escort. He did not mate 
 rialize. I reined in and waited for him to appear. 
 Finally when he did not come, I went back to 
 the parting of the ways. I should explain, that 
 these devious paths to the sea wind between 
 gardens separated from the road and each other 
 by high hedges. Hence, if you go the length of 
 your horse down one of them, you are quite lost 
 to sight. I soon sighted Mr. Whitelaw coming 
 around a bend in the upper road at a quick canter 
 and knew he saw me by the wave of his crop. 
 Then I wheeled about and was off again the way I 
 had come, Shaitaneh making the dust fly as she 
 tore along. After a bit, I saw her prick up her 
 ears and give a welcoming whinny, and there 
 coming toward me was my escort, who had found 
 a cross path and thus won out in the hide and seek 
 game. 
 
 "Fine, wasn t it?" he called. 
 
 "Splendid, only you found me too quickly," I 
 answered. "I ll not let you the next time." 
 
 "Perhaps," laying his hand on Shaitaneh s neck 
 to quiet her as we rode side by side. "Only you 
 couldn t lose yourself to me, you know," said with 
 much assurance I thought. 
 
 "And why not?" I asked simply to mark time, 
 and fend off another remark. 
 
 "I don t intend to let you," was the answer this 
 quiet man made who had kept still, and had never
 
 182 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 by so much as a word or look, referred to the 
 question he asked me once, and I had come to feel, 
 perhaps, that he had accepted as final, my rejection 
 of his startling proposal to teach me the primer 
 of love. 
 
 We rode along in silence for a time, and after 
 an exhilarating race on the hard firm sands, we 
 drew rein beside some towering rocks, lashed and 
 beaten by the never quiet waves. 
 
 Mr. Whitelaw secured his horse and then came 
 to me. 
 
 "Won t you rest here a little? The horses need 
 a breathing spell," holding out his hand to assist 
 me to dismount. 
 
 Oh, I knew what was coming, but somehow I 
 did not want to run away. Does it seem as strange 
 to you as it does to me, mother, that I meekly let 
 that man lift me from my saddle and finding a 
 seat for me in the shadow of a great rock, there 
 to pour out the flood of love and devotion he had 
 kept dammed up for so long? That first declara 
 tion, was a tiny, trickling rill compared with the 
 torrent which carried away every possible objection 
 I could conjure up or invent, even sweeping away 
 the moorings almost to my work. 
 
 I may not tell you what he said dearest, nor 
 what my answer was, only that he penetrated some 
 how to a certain hidden place in my heart of hearts 
 and found therein a carefully guarded secret, hardly 
 known to myself, that I did care.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 183 
 
 "Only care, Rachel? Can t you find that other 
 word there?" 
 
 "Like," I corrected. Still he was not satisfied 
 until, well I whispered it from somewhere in the 
 shelter of his coat in the midst of a long, smother 
 ing, heavenly something, wherein the old world 
 spun away, and we two were the only units in the 
 whole universe of God. Unit, not units. 
 
 Have I not used restraint to tell you all this 
 wonderful tale in the orderly way you like? Only 
 one thing more can I tell you to-night. Betty was 
 too busy packing to dress for tea this afternoon, 
 and when I came down to pour for Mr. Whitelaw 
 and myself, he was waiting, and I got the kind of 
 greeting I hope he will keep up the rest of our lives. 
 And I got something else too. 
 
 When he was last in England he had his mother s 
 ring reset, anticipatory to to-day, he was so sure 
 about the final outcome, and as he slipped it on 
 my finger said: 
 
 "Beloved, my father pledged my mother with 
 these jewels (pearls and diamonds, oh, so lovely), 
 and I, too, pledge you with the same, my true and 
 faithful love and service as long as we both do 
 live." Then kneeling on one knee he kissed the 
 token and the hand it was on, as though he were 
 a knight of olden time and I a princess. 
 
 Wait till to-morrow, dearest mother. It is too 
 much for one day. If I could have had your arms 
 to fly to from his. Denny not John nor Jack even
 
 184 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 is his intimate name, but just Denny, his mother s 
 name for him and which he has given to me, 
 Denny sent a cable this morning to you. Are you 
 reading it now? And what are you saying and 
 thinking? I happiness enfolds me, oh mother, 
 mother. I did not know this kind existed. The 
 story writers don t know how to describe it. They 
 have not even touched the fringes of it. Why did 
 not you tell me mother darling, what i was like?/- 
 
 Home Again. 
 
 Mother dearest, I mean to write something for 
 you every day, now, but there is so much to arrange 
 when one s whole life plan has to be changed and 
 made to fit in with another, that there seems to be 
 no time for anything or anybody but this man 
 whom in a rash moment I promised to marry. 
 
 I told him the morning before he went away, that 
 I could not marry him. 
 
 "Yes? And why?" He did not seem at all dis 
 turbed by my pronouncement, but continued to 
 smile at me and look adorable. 
 
 "Really, I mean it if you are going to take me 
 away from those children down home. I just 
 couldn t go. It would break my heart to bits to 
 lose them," I told him. 
 
 "How about losing me ? Would that trouble you 
 any?" 
 
 "Some," I admitted after sufficient urging. 
 
 "Only some? Not a great deal?"
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 185 
 
 I had to admit he is a very persistent person 
 that it would hurt a million times more if he 
 should slip out of sight, which admission seemed 
 to ease his mind somewhat. Then he proposed that 
 we have a last ride together, and there by our great, 
 overshadowing rock by the sea, we talked of many 
 things and decided some. This much is final how 
 ever we may change other plans. The work Kate 
 placed in my hands is not to be relinquished. And 
 not because I hold this work in trust for my dead 
 friend only. It has become my task, which not 
 even this great wonderful love and companionship 
 may take out of my hands. Then, too, there is 
 much of interest for an archaeologist in J. and 
 Denny has long wanted to prowl around and see 
 what the prospects are for regular excavations by 
 his society at home. Thank God I do not have to 
 choose between work and him. 
 
 So that much is easy. We will try to secure 
 a strong force of helpers that we may be free to 
 come and go. I had about decided to build a house 
 on the higher ground back of the Orphanage, for 
 my own habitation, or whoever might be in charge 
 before Mr. W. stepped in to disarrange things, and 
 you know about the plans Matthews and Black 
 sent out for it. We shall still carry out that one 
 plan and have our own house, to be built after 
 Denny is here permanently to relieve me of look 
 ing after its erection. I find he has heaps of gold 
 and houses and lands and is an archaeologist be-
 
 186 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 cause he loves it, and not because he has to dig to 
 live. 
 
 Have you ever discovered that I am queer? I 
 have had suspicions that such was the case, and 
 now I know it. And the evidence of it is that 
 while I hated to have my man go to England so 
 soon, I welcomed the opportunity to be alone with 
 my joy, that I might get my inner self in order, 
 and accustomed to this great absorbing thing we 
 call love. Almost every mail brings some word 
 from him. He arrived at the Manor House two 
 weeks ago. Perhaps I ll let you see a letter I got 
 to-day, in which he says he has written you sug 
 gesting that you go over and join him there and 
 let him escort you the rest of the way to Syria. 
 A very good arrangement it seems to me, arid I 
 hope you will do so. How will it seem to you to 
 have a son, as well as a daughter? And such a 
 son! C. D. and Betty are enjoying every minute 
 in London. Betty writes they have been down and 
 seen Mr. Whitelaw, in fact, he insisted they make 
 the Manor House their home while in England. 
 Betty says it is a place of great charm, and that 
 she envies me the privilege of having it for my 
 home some day. 
 
 Here is the letter I hinted I might show you. It 
 is not the regulation love epistle as you will see, 
 but somehow It tells me in every word of the love 
 and devotion of the Dearest Man.
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 187 
 
 My Rachel: 
 
 I wish you could see it, this greenness and 
 freshness stretching all around, lawns and 
 meadows, woods and gardens and country 
 quiet and peace. There are no silent-footed 
 camels nor laden mules passing, each pace 
 marked by the jangle of bells. There is no 
 glare of unclouded sun on grey, dusty rocks 
 and parched wayside fig or mulberry trees. It 
 is all restful to eye and soul, and I would that 
 I could have you here to bask in it with me and 
 get the refreshment you need. 
 
 It would be perfect to-day out under the 
 limes, where I could watch you over your tea 
 cups once more. For they are yours because 
 mine. There is a particular winged chair, with 
 a high, fan-shaped back, which was my 
 mother s, in which you are to sit and preside, 
 while I read aloud to you after the tea is over. 
 Your hands will be busy. Do you knit? I 
 hope you do, for there is nothing quite so fit 
 ting for graceful, white hands like yours, as 
 shining needles, fashioning some pretty thing. 
 Oh yes, I do remember how you used to sit 
 on the other side of the table from me those 
 evenings in Trablus, before you went to J. and 
 when David was convalescing, knitting, while 
 we delved into those well-stocked book shelves 
 of his. 
 
 And how long is it to be before I bring you to
 
 188 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 my home to make it yours also? For no mat 
 ter how much time we spend in J. the Manor 
 House will always remain open to receive us 
 when we tire of wandering. And I have a 
 presentiment that that will be very often, don t 
 you? 
 
 Oh, my Rachel, I suppose it is true, this 
 great happiness, but somehow I find it difficult 
 to make it real after all. Don t you think 
 you were a trifle cruel? And two whole years 
 never by so much as a look did you hint 
 that you did "care, like." Think of the ar 
 rears you will have to pay. And have you 
 enough in the Bank of Love saved up to quite 
 clear yourself? I warn you, you will need a 
 large amount, and of a particular coinage. 
 Begin to pay in your next letter, will you? 
 Remember how far you are from me, and that 
 I want you, want you, everlastingly want you 
 with me, always near as long as life shall last. 
 
 I am coming soon to fetch you. I have 
 written your mother asking her to join me 
 here and we will come on together. Then she 
 can stay with your children, while you and I 
 take a journey together. Nay, my beloved one, 
 begin that journey together on the Long Road, 
 which please God, shall have no turning to the 
 end of Eternity. 
 
 He who signs this is all yours, 
 
 Denny.
 
 Patience is the key to joy. Arab 
 Proverb.
 
 CHAPTER NINE 
 
 I am finding it difficult to adjust present condi 
 tions to that inner serenity upon which my heart 
 happiness must rest. And just as you used to let 
 me pour into your understanding ears my childish 
 perplexities, so I come now to sit at your feet while 
 the difficulties come out one by one for solution. 
 
 Kate placed a great responsibility in very ignor 
 ant hands when she died, not only am I untrained, 
 but untested. I have begun to see the enormity of 
 the task I have undertaken, and although some 
 what incredulous still as to the desirability of pre 
 senting new ideas colder and cruder to a people 
 mellowed and ripened in so many ways, by an age 
 long outlook upon great mountains, vast plains and 
 this boundless sea, I have been forced to see that 
 the Sons of Shem stand in need of the hustling 
 ways of the Children of Japheth. 
 
 I see also that I have received much. Why, 
 mother, my background of educated ancestors is 
 an asset I had never counted in until I came out 
 here and found that very few know how old they 
 are, and that "how to open a book" is not a uni 
 versal possession by any means. I never knew 
 
 191
 
 192 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 before what it meant to have been born in a land 
 of free speech in the press and on the platform. I 
 did not realize there could be a sharp limit to ways 
 by which a woman might earn her living. Fancy 
 an American woman thrown upon her own re 
 sources Ending herself obliged to scrub or wash or 
 sew only. Oh yes, I know our women once were 
 shut up to about the same limited area of occupa 
 tions, but that day has passed long ago. The West 
 has moved on, while progress has not yet started here 
 so far as the government is concerned. The women 
 who have been fortunate enough to have had an 
 education of sufficient breadth, may be employed 
 as teachers, if their families do not object, which 
 they are apt to do if they are of the akabir "aris 
 tocracy." 
 
 The reason why this country has never risen 
 from its age-long desuetude is, there is no founda 
 tion upon which to build a credible superstructure 
 for society. The western nations have become 
 great and civilized, because they have grown and 
 expanded by being mutually helpful each to the 
 other, I mean as regards literature, inventions, 
 science, etc. Here colossal ignorance on the part 
 of the official class, prates and preens itself at the 
 expense of the development of the empire. 
 
 Here are some examples of the repressive 
 measures which obtain here. Telephones are little 
 known, because some one supposed they and dyna 
 mite meant the same destructive energy. A text
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 193 
 
 book on chemistry was suppressed because it con 
 tained on every page H 2 O, which the imperial 
 censor interpreted to mean "Abd ul Hamid II is 
 nothing." One wonders if he ever heard that the 
 Arabs were the first chemists. We get our word 
 chemistry from the Arabic alchemy. These are 
 two illustrations among many I have heard of the 
 crass ignorance in officialdom. 
 
 I have also learned that the people have splendid 
 qualities. That their capabilities are quite as fine 
 as any western s, and I have begun to ask myself, 
 by what right are they to be denied the same oppor 
 tunity to develop as is the happy lot of every one 
 who bears the proud name American? 
 
 If the government only provided an educational 
 system, and employed modern methods in govern 
 ing: if the industries were encouraged and devel 
 oped, there might be hope that things would right 
 themselves. But when the reverse is appallingly 
 true, where is light to come from, if some one 
 from outside does not appear bearing the "torch 
 of civilization"? 
 
 I instinctively have had an antipathy to the word 
 "missionary." But since learning a little of the 
 marvellous Arabic language, I have discovered that 
 in the speech of the people a missionary is really 
 "one who is sent," a moursel. That idea has 
 illumined this missionary business. I was not 
 "sent" into my work. I was thrust into it. What 
 must one do to be a "sent one," I wonder? All of
 
 194 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 them out here, the maursaleen, belong to Boards 
 and Societies. I with Kate s inheritance, and my 
 patrimony am free to work out my own ideas and 
 hers. Kate pre-empted this little untilled corner, 
 and left it well cultivated. 
 
 Mother, is there anything more important I 
 could do with my life, than to take these bequeathed 
 children, bereft of their natural mothers and of 
 Kate, twice bereaved and give them the best 
 chance I know how? To so fit them for life that 
 I can hand them the "torch of civilization" along 
 with the knowledge of the "Light of Life," rea 
 sonably sure it will be passed on in turn to others? 
 Mother of me, I need your help. I need my mother 
 in the midst of these great questions. 
 
 My next perplexity is, and darling, I am turn 
 ing my heart inside out for you. I ve got to, it 
 aches so. What shall I do about Denny? Is his 
 coming into my life going make me any little bit 
 less eager to do this thing I have undertaken ? Am 
 I going to be able to do it at all? I puzzle and 
 question and banish sleep from my pillow as I 
 strive to solve the riddle. Is there such a thing as 
 a double harness elastic enough for us to pull to 
 gether in, when over in England estates and family 
 ties and traditions draw in that direction, while 
 here, and all important, is a great need, and wide 
 opportunities wholly dependent on me? As for 
 Denny s coming here as an adjunct merely, the 
 thought is abhorrent. Our engagement was so sud-
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 195 
 
 den, and the bliss of the few days before he went 
 away so pure and blessed, that we only saw the 
 one great, luminous, primal fact, our mutual love. 
 There was no time for adjustment. But I know, 
 oh, I know, I want to keep this very precious thing, 
 the love of my man Denny, while I fear lest we 
 allow our service to become diluted, when it should 
 become intensified. I want our marriage to be not 
 merely a beautiful, selfish incident in our lives, but 
 a step to a higher plane of service. Will the desire 
 for growth dwindle if love thrives? Tell me, 
 mother, you know. I wrote something of this to 
 Denny a fortnight ago. Of one thing I am sure, 
 he will not misunderstand my questions. 
 
 Mother, he told me during those heart happiness 
 days, less than three they were, that he had 
 watched me grow during the time he has known 
 me, the spiritual me, and he reproached me, but 
 very gently, for saying I was not good enough for 
 this work, nor to be his wife. Could I, oh could 
 I give up "all for His dear sake," if it meant giving 
 up him? Would it mean, having real spiritual 
 stature, surrendering my own dear himself? It is 
 all a muddle and I need your wise advice. 
 
 The End of a Busy Day. 
 
 The days come and go, and I may not wait in 
 active for the untangling of the knots in my life 
 skein, but must keep about the business of healing 
 the wee ones hurts, teaching them how to sew a
 
 196 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 seam, and dust a room and be sorry for wrong 
 doing and faithful in the performance of their little 
 tasks. 
 
 To-day little Bedr (Full Moon) was naughty and 
 gave wee Zehra (Flower) a wicked push which 
 sent her headlong on some sharp stones and fedaghit 
 rasha "cut her head." My! how the blood ran, 
 and poor frightened, repentent Bedr followed, sob 
 bing up her little Calvary, marking the drops of 
 blood all the way. She took refuge at my side, 
 holding on to my skirts and asking, "Will she die? 
 Have I slain her? I pray thee, I pray thee." Poor 
 little motherless baby, just five the other day. 
 After the wound had been washed, I found it was 
 very small and really of no account. Then I took 
 them both to my sitting-room and we talked it 
 over. Bedr could hardly wait to say Betreedy 
 tsamaheenyf "Wilt thou forgive me?" And the 
 little flower child, consoled with a cookie, coldly 
 said, "Aye, aye," and went on making scallops 
 around the edge of her sweetie with her little white 
 teeth. The incident was closed so far as she was 
 concerned. But sorry Bedr had not shown enough 
 contrition, and running to her shelf in the closet, 
 brought her dearest possession, a large pink glass 
 bead she had strung on a bit of string, and insisted 
 that Zehra wear it around her neck. 
 
 "And against another time," I asked. "How 
 about hands which push? What shall we do with 
 them?" She looked solemnly at me with her great
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 197 
 
 black eyes, then coming slowly forward, whispered 
 with a catch in her breath, "Tie them fast, my 
 teacher." 
 
 "Very well," I said, and bade her bring a hand 
 kerchief, and all the rest of the morning she sat 
 as still as a mouse on a little chair, her arms 
 folded and tied together. 
 
 In the afternoon Um AH came a good three 
 hours walk for me to look at her eye, on which 
 a ripe pear had fallen as she was looking up into 
 the tree. I could see nothing wrong, but she can 
 not distinguish objects with it, and I shall have 
 to send her to some one in Beyrout who knows 
 about eyes. 
 
 While I was busy with her, a company of Mos 
 lem ladies called and I entertained them with the 
 Victrola. Subhan el Khalik, Ma ashterkum entum 
 cl Amerikan, "Praise to the Creator, How clever 
 are you Americans," were some of the comments. 
 Then we had tea and some of Ferrud s cake. While 
 they were here the Adan for the Aser (the middle 
 of the afternoon) was heard, and they asked me 
 for a drink of water and if they might say their 
 prayers. The water brought, they rinsed their 
 mouths and standing and kneeling, prayed with 
 their faces toward Mecca. I am glad they have 
 enough confidence in me to approach their God 
 in the only way they know, even in my presence. 
 Mother, did you ever hear of anyone in America,
 
 198 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 out making calls, asking permission to kneel down 
 and pray, and thus keep a tryst with our God? 
 
 A Glad Day. 
 
 To-night I come to you darling mother, too ex 
 cited to sleep. If I could only share my brimming 
 cup with you. First, your cable is here, "Sailing 
 to-day." Oh, I ll believe it is true when I see you 
 on the steamer deck in Beyrout harbour. Still, I 
 know you are actually on the ocean this very 
 minute, every whirl of the screw bringing you by 
 so much nearer. And when you are here, are you 
 going to experience the pull of privilege too, and 
 be content and happy, loving and blessing your 
 adopted grandchildren? You are going to be just 
 that, if I know my own mother. 
 
 Oh, but I have not told you the great, splendid 
 piece of news. Why do things of deep joy come 
 as surprises? As I sat on the balcony alone, each 
 weenty one in bed, I heard the gate-bell, and Fer- 
 rud s kobkobs clattering on the stairs down to the 
 first landing that she might peep from the window, 
 and her rush through the hall and out to me 
 breathless with the importance of news, Fee wahid 
 burra, "Some one is outside." Some one indeed! 
 As she bustled away to prepare sherbat, I heard, 
 "Am I welcome?" and there stood the Dearest 
 Man. Ah, how welcome, as he was soon assured, 
 although there crept through my heart a fear, some 
 how. "Why? Why?" I enquired as soon as I
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 199 
 
 could I was prevented from breathing freely for; 
 a few minutes, let alone speaking. 
 
 "Why?" he answered at last. "Why? your 
 questions must be answered, and those fears dis 
 missed, my Rachel. Could I let you go through 
 this time of testing and decision alone when only 
 a matter of less than a week lay between us? To 
 gether we can thresh it out, but apart who knows ? 
 You, would you have built a barrier to keep me 
 perpetually outside? Some of your statements were 
 rather startling, you know." Oh, I did know, and 
 I feared still more he seemed so grave. But we 
 agreed that we would not discuss anything until 
 to-morrow. So I put my fears one side for over 
 night, and we sat under the Syrian stars and spoke 
 of other things, happy to be together again. 
 
 His eyes with that special smile he reserves for 
 me, were confident but serious, somehow, and with 
 a new gleam. But for to-night, he was here, and 
 not far away. 
 
 As he was starting for the Hotel where he had 
 secured lodgings, I asked, "How long can you 
 stay?" and he seemed to think I alone could answer 
 my own question. 
 
 "No, oh no, I can t," I exclaimed, and before I 
 knew what was happening, a great, tearing sob 
 stopped further speech. 
 
 "Rachel, child," and his tones were very tender, 
 "has it been so hard? It is well I came. Wait 
 and trust a little. Can t you find any confidence on
 
 200 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 which to rest? We will find a way to-morrow," 
 he comforted as he kissed away the tears. He 
 would not leave me until he was quite satisfied 
 about my unhappiness. Then he sent me off to 
 bed, letting himself out of the house. I listened to 
 each foot-fall going up the road. But I am some 
 how, greatly afraid of to-morrow. 
 
 The Next Night, after the Day of Days. 
 
 My pen cannot move fast enough to tell you 
 about The Day, but I have put on the curb bit and 
 will begin at the beginning. After breakfast yes 
 terday, I packed a basket of lunch and we took 
 C. D. s car and went to that enchanting spot over 
 the sea, where Denny first offered to teach me to 
 spell out a certain primer, and there undisturbed 
 and in quiet we had it out. Deebna took the car 
 on to Trablus for some slight repairs, coming back 
 in time to take us home for tea. 
 
 When Denny had seen that I was comfortably 
 seated he began without any preamble, "Now, 
 Rachel, let us face it squarely and see where we 
 stand." Then he asked, "Can you put aside for the 
 time being everything," and he hesitated an instant 
 before he added, "even our love?" gravely said. 
 
 I smiled up at him, but could not answer. Again 
 he asked, "Tell me, is there no way to arrange for 
 this work to be carried on without your constant 
 presence ?" I told him we could probably find some 
 one much better fitted than I to carry it on, but I
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 201 
 
 hoped she would not materialize. "Why?" he next 
 probed, and waited gravely and silently for my 
 answer, which tarried. The testing had come. 
 
 "Denny," I said slowly, "when you first knew 
 me, I was not worth a second thought. I was un 
 developed and ignorant and without a particle of 
 real religion in my makeup. I was arrogant and 
 stupid and foolish. It was considered smart in 
 my college set to say religion was old fashioned. 
 Oh, yes, I was an Episcopalian, but not a Christian. 
 
 "But somehow, I caught the gleam of something 
 I did not comprehend, from those saintly mission 
 aries I came in contact with, and I set myself the 
 task of searching for its source. And I found it. 
 It comes from the heart of the Man who died be 
 cause He so loved. My great discovery was that 
 He died for me as though I were the only sinner on 
 earth. Don t you see why I must be here? It is 
 the least I can do for Him, it seems to me. I find 
 Kate s dying confidence and trust hard to set aside, 
 and I had just promised my Lord, I would do the 
 best I could if He would help me for the rest of 
 my life right here, when you came along, and it 
 was so blessed to belong to you that for those three 
 days while we were in Paradise, I made myself 
 believe I could be all things to this work and you 
 could go on being an archaeologist and an English 
 gentleman with your estates, and all would be well. 
 But it won t work, and what shall we do?" 
 
 "No, Rachel, it won t work. I see that, too. You
 
 202 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 have gone to the root of the matter. There is 
 but one working basis, one dynamic for us both. 
 The only power great enough and enduring and 
 strong enough to remove this mountain between us 
 and happiness, is love. Love for Him who is the 
 source of all love, love for each other and love 
 for this people. You said in your letter you could 
 not bear the thought of your husband being merely 
 an appendage to your work, which we had agreed 
 must not be given up." 
 
 He had been standing, leaning against a rock 
 while listening to me, but now he came and grasp 
 ing my hands drew me into his arms. "Rachel, 
 Rachel," and his voice shook with deep emotion, 
 "not as an adjunct, but couldn t I help? Perhaps, 
 I might become a sent one in time, too. The 
 double harness can be made to fit and not gall. 
 Shall it be share and share alike?" 
 
 And then he told me how they had wanted him 
 to go on with the excavations up country, but he 
 declined, "because," he said, "I want to try helping 
 fit men into their places in the Kingdom of Heaven, 
 instead of spending my days putting pieces of pot 
 tery together in an attempt to spell out the pre 
 historic past. I can still do that as a pastime, but 
 no longer as a major pursuit. You see, dearest, 
 I too have learned lessons in this land. The Man 
 of Nazareth is become a new Friend as I have 
 come to know His fellow-countrymen and their 
 needs and possibilities." Oh mother, how my heart
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 203 
 
 sang its loudest joy song as I listened to a lot 
 more than I could tell you, knowing that there was 
 not to be any sacrifice, but more and more love in 
 a life together, with him. 
 
 When we were going home I said, "After all we 
 have settled it along the line of least resistance. 
 The story writers would have made me pious and 
 proud spiritually, so that I would have refused to 
 see any way but the hardest, renunciation of you 
 and all joy of living." 
 
 "Rachel," he rejoined, "we are real people, living 
 in a world of work and need. Not every one is 
 able to choose his field of labour, and not every 
 one elects the corners where the results make no 
 great showing. You are not a story-book char 
 acter, but my " I ll not say what, for it was 
 
 for my ears alone and his hand found mine 
 (Deebna could not see) "and besides you are strong 
 enough to hold fast to your ideals." 
 
 We were spinning along towards home in that 
 contentment, which I fancy comes not many times 
 in one s life, when ahead of us by the roadside 
 under the shelter of a wayside olive tree, we ob 
 served a knot of people gathered round something 
 on the ground. 
 
 Deebna stopped beside them, and we witnessed 
 the saddest sight. A young wife and mother was 
 just breathing her last when we drew up alongside. 
 I sprang from the car, for I recognized them as 
 people I had seen in J. The young husband was
 
 204 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 holding his two-months-old son in his arms in a 
 frenzy of grief, calling upon the inanimate form 
 before him to speak to him, to look at her first 
 born, and then with streaming eyes, turned to me 
 and begged me to do something. I kneeled beside 
 him and gathered the motherless babe to my heart 
 and tried to find out what had happened. It seems 
 the wife had never been strong since the boy came, 
 and that day besought her husband to take her to 
 her village. She was weak, but insisted that the 
 change would benefit her, so they started and had 
 only gone an hour s journey when she cried out in 
 great pain and begged to be allowed to lie down. 
 They spread the carriage cushions under the 
 friendly tree, and there with the sunlight glinting 
 through the silver grey leaves she left her husband 
 and little sleeping lad forever. 
 
 Denny took command of the situation with such 
 tenderness and wisdom. Deebna was sent after a 
 coffin, the driver of the carriage to bring a doctor 
 to certify as to the cause of death for the govern 
 ment, and then he drew the husband, bereft and 
 nearly frantic away from that quiet form under 
 the carriage robe, and learned about his circum 
 stances, his business and especially that there was 
 no near relative in a position to care for the baby. 
 Denny asked the baby s name and was told it was 
 Hanna, "John." "That s my name," he told the 
 father. "I shall have to see that my namesake is 
 properly cared for until he is old enough to care
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 205 
 
 for himself," which fact will be a comfort when 
 the poor man is quiet enough to think clearly. 
 
 The plain coffin was soon there, and the pathetic 
 procession started, the wife in the same carriage 
 in which she left home a few hours before, the 
 grief-stricken man with us in the car, and the 
 motherless little one cradled in my arms. There 
 are many details of our arrival, of the arrangements 
 for the funeral which was held early this morning, 
 for according to Turkish law the dead must be 
 buried within twenty-four hours, which I cannot 
 put on paper. I know, the shining coins I saw 
 slipped into Abu Hanna s hand as Denny parted 
 with him, have eased the material expense of this 
 unexpected sorrow. 
 
 All last night I heard the death wail in the one- 
 roomed cottage by the sea. Sympathy is quick- 
 winged and sorrow sacred in this land of loving 
 hearts. Cooked food in quantity was carried to 
 the house of mourning, none lacked as they watched 
 by the side of the solitary mourner, who never left 
 the dead until she was carried to her last resting 
 place. Little Hanna slept last night in a hastily 
 constructed bassinet, a clothes-basket lined with 
 pillows, on a chair beside my bed. 
 
 A strange ending for my great joy day, was it 
 not? But sorrow is ever tagging on the heels of 
 happiness. "Our first service together, my Rachel," 
 the Dearest Man said, as we stood on the balcony
 
 206 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 facing the orange and pomegranate garden after 
 our belated supper. 
 
 The shadows deepened and darkened, blurring 
 the trees as twilight was swallowed up of night. 
 Across the nearby sea, the lights of the distant 
 city came out one by one. The Little Sister of the 
 Moon (Venus), glowing and resplendent in the 
 western sky, threw a path of glory on the water as 
 though it were a gleaming highway over which we 
 might pass to those other lands far below the 
 horizon which gave us birth. But even as we 
 watched, the eastern horizon became slowly dis 
 tinct, and presently the full moon edged itself above 
 the rim of the mountains, so that the lesser light 
 paled and withdrew. 
 
 We watched the transformation of the dark 
 Lebanon as the great orb asserted its sway, noted 
 how the shadows crept away from my garden, until 
 each tree stood out leafy and symmetrical in silence 
 and beauty, and knew we were witnessing as in a 
 pantomime staged by nature for us two alone, a 
 symbolism of our future and work. Not to the 
 west, not back home along a golden pathway must 
 we walk, but right here where the light was flood 
 ing the place of my choosing and his, whose 
 presence beside me had already glorified life.
 
 My heart s beloved came with morn 
 ing s faintest light. 
 
 I cried, f Oh sit thee here and rest be 
 side thy love 
 
 Oh heart of mine. I ll hold the cup 
 for thee to quaff. 
 
 Didst thou not fear the lurking dangers 
 of the night? 
 
 He answer made, I know no fear, for 
 love of thee 
 
 Hath spoiled me of both my spirit and 
 my soul. 
 An Ancient Arabic Kasideh.
 
 CHAPTER TEN 
 
 Mother dearest, you are drawing nearer and 
 nearer every minute, and soon I shall be telling 
 you all the things I have not written during these 
 three years we have been separated. 
 
 Miss Dear came back to-day, and is such intelli 
 gent comfort and help. Denny telegraphed her the 
 day after The Day of Days. "The beginning of 
 days and months and years please God, my 
 Rachel," he said, adding "and why have any break 
 in the beautiful continuity?" with an enquiring 
 smile. 
 
 I reflected that this is the land in which the 
 Church of Christ was once symbolized as "A bride 
 adorned for her husband," and made answer, "You 
 always say things. But I am not ready. It is three 
 years since I have had a new frock, and this bride 
 is not going to her bridegroom except with the 
 attire due him." 
 
 That adorable smile rewarded me for the pretty 
 conceit, and something else too, which held my lips 
 fast shut for ever so long. Then, "Rachel, your 
 adorning is not in fine apparel of latest mode, but 
 In the love of your heart and that new outlook on 
 life which shines in your grey eyes. The fact is, 
 
 209
 
 210 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 you would be adorned if your wedding garment 
 were but one of those white frocks I notice you 
 always wear mornings. Child, what do we care 
 how you are gowned. Our faces are set toward 
 new horizons, not fashions." 
 
 "But Denny," I persisted, "don t you really care 
 how I dress?" and as I said it, I realized how slight 
 my knowledge was of the man. 
 
 "I care much," he smiled back at me. "So much 
 that I always know what you have on, and that 
 it seems fitting to the occasion. One gown I espe 
 cially like to see you in, is that wine-coloured one 
 you wore on The Day." I made a mental vow 
 then and there, that I would always gratify myself 
 and him, by having a red taffeta frock in my ward 
 robe. 
 
 I told him I was pleased he liked my clothes, but 
 insisted that I did not have a thing I would wish 
 to be married in. His next remark was fairly 
 breath-stopping. 
 
 "My Rachel, when is the wedding to take place? 
 That has not been decided, has it?" The answer 
 tarried. "After mother gets here," I finally said. 
 "Won t that be time enough to decide?" 
 
 "We must decide some things before that," he 
 said, and we talked a long hour walking up and 
 down under the grape arbour, which is so huge that 
 five great vines are needed to cover it. Near by the 
 tall eucalyptus tree kept shaking out spicy smells 
 as the breeze rippled its long-hanging foliage, and
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 211 
 
 the birds poured a continual fusillade of melody 
 from the tapering topmost boughs. 
 
 And this is the conclusion. He had many argu 
 ments against our being separated again, and I was 
 persuaded of them at last, to assent to his proposi 
 tion, that we be married some time during the 
 week after mother arrives. Her steamer is due 
 next Saturday week, and this is Monday. It looks 
 to me as though there would be a wedding here 
 very soon. Meanwhile Denny is to absent himself, 
 for I shall never be able to accomplish anything 
 if he is here. When I asked where he was going, 
 he answered, "I have some exploring I would like 
 to do." "More archaeology?" I queried. "Of a 
 certain sort," was his reply. And this is the reason 
 why he is still here. 
 
 Beyrout. The Sea View Hotel. 
 
 How I have longed for and at the same time 
 scorned the New York shops during this busy week. 
 I am not sure but I have found things as dainty 
 and sweet and fitting as I would have on Fifth 
 Avenue. I decided that I would be sensible and 
 not try to have a really new wardrobe. In the first 
 place, there was no time for that, and secondly I 
 have an idea mother is bringing me some things 
 from home. 
 
 In the most fascinating of Oriental shops, I came 
 upon yards and yards of heavy white silk native 
 weave and which will wash. That I selected for
 
 212 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 the gown a simple going-away dress with a long 
 covering coat of the same material. To protect 
 from the dust, I got a beautiful white and gold 
 burnus, which is a thing of joy. Then a French 
 milliner took a bit of the material and fashioned 
 me a fetching motor cap, which I will cover with 
 one of the long, white silk terhas many of the 
 Syrian ladies wear instead of hats. I have de 
 spaired and nearly wept over the shoe question. I 
 can find none to fit, and I wanted some white ones 
 dreadfully. I have pumps I brought from America, 
 but they have been shabby for two years, and have 
 been chalked and chalked until the lining almost 
 shows through in the worn places. Well, they will 
 have to stand another coat, for who ever heard of 
 a bride being married in anything but white shoes ? 
 
 Later. 
 
 I was interrupted by the gar g on de chambre 
 bringing the finished result from the tailor, who 
 was interested enough to put my frock right through 
 with all speed, and he has done far better than I 
 expected. It is plain, severely so, but quite suitable 
 for the wedding robe of a "sent one." I do not 
 intend to wear that motor cap during the ceremony, 
 instead a straight-brimmed chapeau with a perky 
 white feather, one of the scraggy kind, not so pretty, 
 but very smart according to the fashion papers they 
 showed me. 
 
 Not a word has come from that Dearest Man all
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 213 
 
 this week. He could not get a motor of course, 
 but he secured a good pair of horses and started 
 for the mountains the day I came down here in 
 C. D. s car. My shopping is all done, and I can 
 scarcely believe that by this time to-morrow, I ll 
 be home and that mother, my blessed mother, will 
 be with me. If Denny were to be there too, it 
 would be perfect. But he did not know when he 
 would return. 
 
 Mother s Day. 
 
 I left word at Cook s that I was to be called for 
 at 6 A. M., and when I came out to go to the 
 steamer, there was the old boatman C. D. always 
 has, waiting for me with Deebna, who looked very 
 smart in a new Sittik Rosa suit, which being ren 
 dered into English means, that his suit was made 
 from pongee, but for some reason is called "Your 
 lady Rose." 
 
 The autumnal rain, the "early rain," is hovering 
 along the crests of the Taurus Mountains away up 
 north, while the nearer Lebanons are wreathed 
 with mists and clouds much of the time. Occa 
 sionally we get omens of the coming "sound of 
 rain" in the lightning which plays on the northern 
 horizon in the evening. Thus it is that the sunsets 
 and day dawnirigs have clouds a-plenty which they 
 colour and glorify until I sometimes think heaven 
 itself opens to give us a glimpse of the "eye hath 
 not seen" wonders which await us up there.
 
 214 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 This morning as I sat in the stern of the fluccia 
 waiting for the steamer to get pratique, for until 
 that was granted no one could go on board, there 
 was presented to mother a marvellous welcome up 
 in the sky and on the mountaintops. I could see 
 her standing at the rail, and motioned to her to 
 look toward the sunrising, where was a far reach 
 of fleecy, gold-flecked, piled-up clouds, from be 
 hind which the King of Day sent his cohorts, 
 their lances gleaming and sparkling, which they 
 thrust aloft to the zenith, as rank on rank of 
 colour-bearers advanced shaking the reds and yel 
 lows and bright gold of their banners against the 
 deep blue of the sky and the towering mountains 
 until they glowed as pink as a rose. In the bound 
 less sea the whole magical picture was reflected as 
 in a looking-glass. What a welcome for mother! 
 
 It seemed an age before I could get close to the 
 steamer, there were so many crowding boats and 
 pushing boatmen, and up the companion way to my 
 waiting mother and clasp her in my hungry arms. 
 We both cried when we got under cover away 
 from curious eyes. I was sobbing from sheer joy, 
 when, "Rachel," a voice said near me, "don t you 
 think you had better let me have a chance to greet 
 our mother?" 
 
 "Yes, but have you a spare handkerchief? I 
 don t seem to have any," and I threw myself into 
 Denny s arms and cried some more. He held me 
 tight, while he looked over my head to mother, and
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 215 
 
 I know they smiled at my childishness. Then 
 gently releasing me the Dearest Man bent and raised 
 her hand to his lips. She had not spoken, just 
 silently looked at the man who had won her only 
 child s heart, and as he lifted his head, said softly 
 with a certain love note in her voice my heart has 
 ached three years to hear, "My son," and drew 
 his face to hers and kissed him on the lips. His 
 eyes were misty and his voice husky as he replied, 
 "I thank you mother." 
 
 We had a royal welcome when we got home in 
 the afternoon from the children clad in their Sun 
 day best, who lined both sides of the mosaic walk 
 with smiles and flowers, singing a song of happiness 
 and sweet words Miss Dear had prepared. As we 
 passed between their ranks, they salaamed, saying, 
 "Welcome, welcome," and I could see mother s 
 instant surrender to their appeal for her love. 
 
 Denny and I took mother all over the house be 
 fore we let her lay aside her wraps even, and then 
 we had tea on the orange balcony together with a 
 real lovering time. But finally I took her to her 
 room to unpack a little and to rest, for she seemed 
 wearied with all the excitement of getting here and 
 seeing me again. 
 
 When I entered my little private sitting room, 
 Denny was waiting for me, arms ready, into which 
 I snuggled in great contentment. "Oh, but it was 
 so long you were away," I told him. "Yes, but it
 
 216 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 is the last time, my Rachel. From now on we 
 journey together." 
 
 Ah, it is blessed to belong to him who loves 
 and cares so much, and I told him so, his cheek 
 on mine. We have decided to defy fate and be 
 married next Friday. I have not a scrap of super 
 stition in my makeup, neither has Denny. When 
 we found a delayed letter from C. D. in which 
 he said that he and Betty would reach Trablus on 
 Wednesday, it seemed but fair to let them have 
 one day to get their new clothes unpacked before 
 coming on here even though we had set Thursday 
 as the wedding day. Denny will go with Deebna 
 on Thursday to fetch them. Meanwhile, we must 
 get busy filling in the date in the invitations with 
 Tiffany on the flap of the envelopes mother brought. 
 They will not reach all of the friends in time for 
 Friday, but will serve as an announcement of the 
 marriage. 
 
 It seems queer to be writing this account of 
 my happenings with mother under my roof, but 
 she requested me to keep on with my diary as long 
 as I am Rachel Locke, that she may have the story 
 complete from the beginning. 
 
 Paradise, and underscored. Somewhere on the 
 
 Lebanon. 
 
 Rachel Locke is no more, but Rachel Whitelaw 
 Is very much in evidence under this pine tree where
 
 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 217 
 
 she is making a final entry in a Russia leather-bound 
 book. 
 
 Finis has been written across my girlhood s 
 story, and I am again facing new horizons which 
 beckon with the fascinating lure of the unknown. 
 
 Yesterday may I never forget one of its happy 
 moments, from your wake-up kiss in the morning, 
 dearest mother, to that rapturous instant when 
 Denny looked at me with a special love-lit smile 
 after the blessing had been said over our bowed 
 heads. Did you notice that he did not kiss me 
 then? That is the regulation thing to do, but as he 
 explained afterwards, there wasn t time enough. 
 
 Did I really look an up-to-date bride? I might 
 have known you would not let me be married in 
 any make-shift gown. I was glad to wear your 
 very own wedding dress, all freshened up, and to 
 have the same filmy veil on my head that you 
 had on yours. But the tragedy of those slippers. 
 Why did not my feet grow more so as to fill them 
 as yours did on that glad day so long ago? Do 
 you suppose any one noticed my old pumps, chalked 
 for the nth time? I had to wear them after all. 
 Think what lies before me, please God. No sacri 
 fice of you nor of him who is the light of my eyes. 
 I have you both and here in Syria too. 
 
 Last evening after dinner we went out on our 
 private balcony under the beautiful Syrian stars, 
 which seemed brighter than usual, as though send 
 ing down to us a special benediction. Up the coast
 
 218 "Who Follows in Their Train?" 
 
 our eyes travelled, for home, and work and our 
 future lie there. We could see the dim outline of 
 the Masailaha Point, a landmark in our lives, and 
 caught the lights of home as you signalled with the 
 red matches. I could see almost Nabeeha hold 
 ing her blazing love torch, and Bedr and Temam, 
 a little fearful of getting scorched, but most im 
 portant because I was supposed to be watching for 
 their message away up here. Tiny tokens they 
 were, those bits of colour in the dark of night, but 
 big with meaning to us both, and they glowed and 
 burned in our hearts like the fire they were in 
 reality. 
 
 As the last one faded away, I turned to Denny, 
 that is I addressed him, I did not have to turn, he 
 was very close by, for there came flashing in on 
 memory s page, the picture of a girl in Miss De 
 light s school drawing a map of the Empire on the 
 board. As the outline of Syria grew under her 
 crayon, I heard her say, "And here is Habeebty 
 Sureeyeh." 
 
 "Oh, Denny," I exclaimed, "it is Habeebty 
 Sureeyeh, is it not, for both of us?" and I stretched 
 out my arms as though to enclose within them the 
 whole land I have grown so to love. 
 
 "Beloved Syria? Yes, my Rachel, it is our 
 Beloved Syria." 
 
 Printed in the United States of America
 
 FICTION, JUVENILE, Etc. 
 
 CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY AND SON 
 
 rf St**l ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 oi oieei THE 
 
 A Story About a Father and Son by a Father and 
 Son for All Mankind, izmo, cloth, net $1.35. 
 
 "All who delight in adventure stories will find a thrill in 
 every chapter in this story by Cyrus Townsend Brady." 
 Des Moines Capital. 
 
 ABE CORY 
 
 The Trail to the Hearts of Men 
 
 A Story of East and West. Illustrated, I2mo, 
 cloth, net $1.35. 
 
 A story of action and power with the scenes laid in China. 
 The hero is a man of high ideals, determined upon a life of 
 high purpose. Social ties including a sweetheart endeavor 
 to hold him, and he has to come to the cross-road of decision. 
 He chooses for his higher ideals to find in the long run, the 
 other things are his. There is much of the spell of adventure 
 in the story, and some quickly-moving scenes that grip and 
 hold the reader with undiminished interest. 
 
 S. HALL YOUNG Author / "Alaska Days with Jihn Muir" 
 
 The Klondike Clan 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.35- 
 
 Out of his wonderful experiences in the great Northwest, 
 Dr. S. Hall Young has evolved a story of breathless interest 
 dealing with the days of the Great Stampede to the Yukon in 
 the days of the gold craze. Dr. Young s adventures are real 
 adventures, through which he and those of whom he writes 
 literally passed. A book of vigour, interest and power. 
 
 /. /. BELL WITH "KITCBEtfER S MOB" 
 
 Wee Macgreegor Enlists 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.00. 
 
 "A rare and rollicking book, is this one. For all its fun, 
 it gives a graphic picture of present-day Scotland and the 
 Scotch. But, oh, it s the wee Mac and Private Thompson 
 and Christina that belong in the Caledonian Hall of Fame!" 
 Evening Sun. 
 
 CHARLES H. LERRIGO Doc William s Stronghold 
 
 The Castle of Cheer 
 
 12010, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 "One resounding note of optimism," "Doc Williams is a 
 benefactor of the race, for in these pages he succeeds in 
 instilling a note of cheer into the soul of a fellow-mortal. It 
 is a strong, inspiring, invigorating story, spicy with romance 
 and humor." The Continent.
 
 FICTION, JUVENILE, Etc. 
 
 WINIFRED ARNOLD 
 
 The Twins "Pro" and "Con" 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 An altogether delightful story, in which two vivacious girl- 
 twins (Pro and Con) and a sagacious canine gentleman, re 
 joicing in the name of "Mr. Barker," are the chief characters. 
 It is difficult to conceive of any girl of Uncle Sam s reading 
 this jolly little story except with rapt interest and gleeful 
 delight. 
 
 Little Merry Christmas 
 
 New Popular Edition. Illustrated, boards, net 500. 
 
 The immediate success of this unusual Christmas story has 
 
 called forth a new popular-priced edition. "From the moment 
 she alights, one wintry night, at the snow-piled station of 
 Oatka Center, little Mary Christie begins to carry sunshine 
 and happiness into the frosty homes, and still frostier hearts 
 of its inhabitants." Presbyterian Banner. 
 
 MARY STEWART Author ./ "Tell Me * True Story" 
 
 Tell Me a Hero Story 
 
 Illustrated by Samuel M. Palmer. I2mo, net $1.35. 
 
 "Tell Me a Hero Story," is the oft-repeated request of 
 childhood. Miss Stewart has retold in clear, simple form 
 (while still preserving their stirring spirit) some old stories 
 found enshrined in mummy-cases and the peasant songs of 
 the world. And it ends, does this inspiriting procession, with 
 some stories of heroes of our own time a French lad who 
 received the Cross of Honor the King without a kingdom 
 whose very name thrills us and a child of the city streets, a 
 hero as great as any "who ever won a battle" 
 
 LOUISE RICE A Story of Chri,t mal K V e in Gothan, 
 
 The Girl Who Walked Without Fear 
 
 Both a Story and an Indictment of So-called Chris 
 tian America. Decorated, net 5oc. 
 
 "As novel as it is interesting. The message which runs, 
 like a thread of gold, through the pretty tale is one which 
 renders the work an ideal gift-book. Dayton Herald. 
 
 NORMAN DUNCAN 
 
 Dr. Grenfell s Parish 
 
 The Deep Sea Fishermen. A New Enlarged Edi 
 tion with Added Material. Illustrated. I2mo, cloth, 
 net $1.00. 
 
 "A very rare picture the author has given of a very rare 
 man; a true story of adventure which we should like to seft 
 in the hands of every one." Outlook.
 
 EARLIER WORKS IN DEMAND 
 
 S. R. CROCKETT A U lh.r.fTh,Sti</tltMim,t t r, 
 
 .^ . "Tht Raidirt," itt. 
 
 Silver Sand 
 
 A Romance of Old Galloway. Cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 "In this romance published only a few days after his 
 death, we find Mr. Crockett in his familiar Wigtownshire, 
 writing at his best, and giving us an even finer display of his 
 powers than when he first captured his admirers." Pall Mall 
 Gazette. 
 
 CAROLINE ABBOT STANLEY 
 
 Dr. Llewellyn and His Friends 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 The Kansas City Star says: "If there is to be a Missouri 
 school of literature to rival the famed Indiana institution, 
 Mrs. Stanley has fairly earned the right to a charter mem 
 bership." 
 
 GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL LUTZ 
 
 The Man of the Desert 
 
 Illustrated, lamo, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 "Mrs. Lutz draws some vivid pictures of life as it is led in 
 a sheltered New England town, as it is lived in the desert 
 wastes of Arizona. Every reader of this charming story will 
 be made to rejoice in the happy triumph over difficulties 
 which gives to these young people the crowning joy of life, 
 the union of kindred souls." Book News. 
 
 THURLOW ERASER 
 
 The Call of the Easl: 
 
 A Romance of Far Formosa. Illustrated, I2mo, 
 cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 "A delightful picture of life in China during the French 
 invasion of Formosa. It is primarily a thrilling story of the 
 love of a man for a maid, amid scenes trying to both of 
 them." Spokane Chronicle. 
 
 CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY 
 
 The Little Angel of Canyon Creek 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 "A capital and captivating story of the old days of the 
 Western Colorado Mining Camps days when a man s chances 
 of returning to his cabin at night, depended largely on his 
 ability to draw a bead. A tale brim-ful of vim and color 
 incident to days and places where life was cheap and virtue 
 rare." Christtan Intelligencer.
 
 FICTION, JUVENILE, Etc. 
 
 CYRUS TOWN SEND BRADY Amtkv if Tk* Litd* AntJ 
 
 f Canytn Cnek" 
 
 A Baby of the Frontier 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 A captivating story of pioneer days and Indian adventures. 
 Mr. Brady is at his best throughout and relates the thrilling 
 episodes surrounding the capture by a tribe of Cheyenne In 
 dians of the little daughter of the commanding officer of Fort 
 Sullivan, with vividness and power. 
 
 S. R. CROCKETT Author ./ "Silver Sand," etc. 
 
 Hal o the Ironsides : 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 Crockett s last story. A rip-roaring tale of the days of tho 
 great Oliver days when the dogs of war were let loose in 
 English meadows, when the unbeatable Ironsides invoked the 
 spirit of the God of battles, and "the gallants of England 
 struck home for the King." 
 
 WILLIAM SAGE Author tf" Robert Tturnay" Ett. 
 
 A Maid of Old Virginia 
 
 A Romance of Bacon s Rebellion. Illust, net $1.25. 
 
 A fascinating story of early days of the Old Dominion, 
 when Sir William Berkeley was governor at Jamestown, dur- 
 the Colony s revolt against oppression, intermingled with ad 
 ventures of Indian warfare. 
 
 CLARA E. LAUGHLIN 
 
 When My Ship Comes Home 
 
 Decorated and Illustrated by Samuel M. Palmer. 
 l6mo, cloth, net $1.00. 
 
 The latest of Miss Laughlin s stories well sustains her 
 reputation for originality and refreshment. None of her pre 
 vious works excell in quaintness or charm this narrative of 
 the two "argosies," which both eventually make safe harbor. 
 
 MARTHA S. GIELOW Authir " Unc i e Sam ," .*. 
 
 The Light on the Hill 
 
 A Tale of the Mountains. Illustrated, net $1.00. 
 
 "A simple story of life in the Appalachian Mountains, 
 which is full of pathos and which shows the true nobility, 
 honesty, loyalty." Christian Work. 
 
 I. T. THURSTON Authtr / The Ttrch Bearer," etc. 
 
 "D* Ye the Next Thynge" 
 
 Illustrated, i2tno, cloth, net $1.15. 
 
 "The Eight Weeks Club Movement" of the Y. W. C. A. is 
 the motif. "No girl will read it without realizing that there 
 is a great work in the world for girls to do." Book News,
 
 NEW EDITIONS 
 
 S. HALL YOUNG 
 
 Alaska Days with John Muir 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.15 
 
 "Do you remember Stickeen, the canine hero of John 
 Muir s famous dog story? Here is a book by the man who 
 owned Stickeen and who was Muir s companion on that ad 
 venturous trip among the Alaskan glaciers. This is not only 
 a breezy outdoor book, full of the wild beauties of the Alas 
 kan wilderness; it is also a living portrait of John Muir in 
 the great moments of his career." New York Times, 
 
 S. R. CROCKETT Author / "Silver Sand," etc. 
 
 FTfll *r thf Tron<*idpJ A Story of the Day 
 
 n<u u me iruii&iuej* . of Cromwell 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 "Crockett s last story. A rip-roaring tale of the days of the 
 great Oliver days when the dogs of war were let loose in 
 English meadows, and _ "the gallants of England struck home 
 for the King." Examiner. 
 
 FANNY CROSBY 
 
 Fanny Crosby s Story %*& 
 
 By S. Trevena Jackson. Illustrated, cloth, net $1.15 
 
 "This is, in a way, an autobiography, for it is the story of 
 Fanny Crosby s life as she told it to her friend, who retells 
 it in this charming book. All lovers of the blind hymn 
 writer ought to read this volume. It tells a story of pathos 
 and of cheer. It will strengthen the faith and cheer the 
 heart of every reader." Watchman-Examiner, 
 
 PROF. HUGH BLACK 
 
 The New World 
 
 i6mo, cloth, net $1.15. 
 
 "Dr. Black is a strong thinker and a clear, forcible writer. 
 Here he analyzes national tendencies toward unrest social, 
 material, religious. This he does with moderation yet with 
 courage, and always with hopefulness." The Outlook. 
 
 S. M. ZWEMER, P.P., F.R.G.S. Authar , f A rakia ,*. 
 
 Childhood in the Moslem World 
 
 Illustrated, 8vo, cloth, net $2.00. 
 
 "The claims of millions of children living and dying under 
 the blighting influence of Islam are set forth with graphic 
 fidelity. Both in text and illustrations, Dr. Zwemer s new 
 book covers much ground hitherto lying untouched in Mo 
 hammedan literature." Christian Work.
 
 FICTION, JUVENILE, Etc. 
 
 /. T. THURSTQN Authtr / Thi Biilut t Shadtw" 
 
 Billy Burns of Troop 5 
 
 Illustrated, I2mo, cloth, net $1.15. 
 
 Here is a Boy Scout s story which has to do with the 
 average boy of the city. Like "The Bishop s Shadow" and 
 "The Scout Master of Troop 5," it is fresh, breezy, clear-cut 
 and catchy a fine, strong, earnest, lucid book, written with 
 the idea of helping boys to do their part of the world s work. 
 The author s wonderful insight into the boy nature and 
 knowledge of his ways of work and recreation is apparent. 
 
 NORMAN DUNCAN B iii, To tia ii" s.ri t , 
 
 Billy Topsail, M.D. 
 
 A Tale of Adventure with Doctor Luke of the 
 Labrador. Illustrated. I2mo, cloth, net $1.35. 
 
 The further adventures of Billy Topsail and Archie Arm 
 strong on the ice, in the forest, and at sea. In a singular 
 manner, the boys fall in with a doctor of the outposts and 
 are moved to join forces with him. The doctor is "Doctor 
 Luke of the Labrador," whose prototype, as everyone knows, 
 is Dr. Grenfell. Its pages are as crowded with brisk adven 
 tures as the pages of the preceding books. 
 
 EDWIN C. BURR1TT End, rs ,d Officially by th* 
 
 Boy Sceuts of America 
 
 Boy Scout Crusoes 
 
 A Tale of the South Seas. Illustrated by Walter 
 Louderback. I2tno, cloth, net $1.25. 
 
 Storm, wreck, hunger, encounters with reptiles, wild beasts 
 and strange birds, house-building in the wilderness, an ex- 
 pkjtetion of a volcano together with many interesting bits 
 i <catural hietory are interwoven in this story of the Boy 
 adventures on an unchartered island of the tropics. 
 
 ESSAYS 
 
 FANCE THOMPSON Authtr Eat and Grow Thin 
 
 "Take It From Me" 
 
 A Look-In on the Other Fellow. I2mo, net $1.00. 
 
 Mr. Thompson s new book is written with the sympathetic 
 understanding of men and women that has characterized his 
 previous work. No subject of greater interest has yet been 
 touched by his pen, and his reflections and analyses touch 
 upon every phase of human experience. In its broad sanity 
 and genuine helpfulness, this latest book equals anything he 
 has written.
 
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