“It was laid on my heart,” says Mary Whately, “to try and do something for the girls and women of the land, especially those of the Moslem poorer classes, far the most numerous, of course.  The only schools hitherto opened for the children of the land had no scholars except from the Copts or native Christians; others were considered quite out of reach, and many of my friends endeavoured to dissuade me from an attempt which was sure to end in failure, as they said.  However, it seemed best to make an effort, at all events.  But it was begun in prayer, and therefore difficulties and delays did not greatly discourage me.” [l]

[Footnote 1:  Life of Mary L. Whately, pp. 21, 25.]

Mary Whately, accompanied by a cousin, resided for a time with Mrs. Lieder, of the Church Missionary Society.  But in order to open a school she had to engage a house for herself; and after great difficulties one was secured in a suitable position.  It was but a comfortless abode, and only rude furniture and inefficient domestic help were obtainable.  But Miss Whately held outward comforts in light regard.  Even in later days, when she had built for herself a capacious and comfortable house, it was furnished in the simplest, even rudest fashion, and all her personal expenses were cut down to the lowest possible point, that she might have the more to spend the work to which she gave both her heart and her life.  As as she was settled in her new house she endeavoured to make acquaintance of her neighbours.

Miss Whately was but just beginning to learn Arabic, and the only assistants she could get for starting her school were a Syrian matron—­who could speak but a few words of English and read with difficulty the New Testament—­and her daughter of thirteen.  Accompanied by the Syrian matron, Miss Whately went out into the surrounding lanes and invited the women to send their little girls to her to be taught to read and sew.  She met with many curt refusals and received many fallacious promises; but when at last, in February 1861, a start was made, nine little girls were present the first morning “No recruiting sergeant,” she says, “was ever so pleased with a handful of future soldiers, for it was beating up for recruits for the Lord.” [1] The numbers gradually increased, though from time to time they were seriously affected by the spreading of malicious reports and the opposition of bigoted relatives and the only way to keep up the attendance was to go round visiting to obtain recruits, and to cultivate an acquaintance with the parents of the old scholars.  In three months the children had been reduced to some sort of order, taught the alphabet and the way to sew; they could repeat a few texts, and sing a few hymns with some approach to sweetness.  But perhaps of more importance still, they had learned to love and obey their teacher.  Before her return to England for the summer she took them for an early morning feast in the public gardens of Cairo:  and when the