That very night the death-like stupor was broken by agonies of torture which racked the wasted frame for many hours.  There was no respite for a prayer, or for a thought of the eternity into which his poor soul was hastening.  The witch doctor fled in haste, unable to endure the sight of the tortures she herself had invoked.  It was an unutterable relief when those shrieks of agony were hushed by the awful silence of death.

To us, there came an added burden of care as we realized how many of this people are still in bondage to these heathenish customs and superstitions.  Nothing but the light of a pure gospel and the elevating influences of education, will lift them out of their degradation.  It will take years of time, and patient labor, and will cost something; but these souls are precious to God.  They are “the heathen at our door.”  There are millions of them!  They will soon be a mighty power for good or evil in our nation.  Which shall it be?

* * * * *

A CALL FROM AUNT MARY.

Aunt Mary is a member of one of our colored churches—­a genuine daughter of Africa—­possessing characteristics belonging rather to the rougher than the softer sex—­a peddler by occupation; peddling cast-off clothing (which she gets from white folks) among her colored sisters.

This business, together with her masculine performances and her qualification in plantation melodies, makes her exceedingly popular with the colored people of the town.

“Hello!  Hello!” rang out from the highest key-note one morning just after breakfast.  Going to the door to see who it was, aunt Mary was standing at the gate; she had come to make us a social and business call.

“Dog bite?” she asked.  “Yes,” was the reply, “but he won’t bite you, open the gate.”  Aunt Mary opened it and entered the yard.  “Mornin’” (again at a high key).  “Good morning, walk in.”  “I come roun ter see you all dis mornin’; I dun know if I am ’ceptable.”  “Certainly, aunt Mary, you are, walk in and take a seat by the fire.”

Aunt Mary walked in, took a seat before the fire, placed her bag and an old hat-box on the floor by her side and for a moment looked around the room, noticing everything.  Then she took up the poker, commenced poking the fire, as if she wanted more heat to enable her to explain the chief object of her visit.  The heat is now up to the degree required, the poker is laid aside, the old hat-box is in her lap, and aunt Mary is ready to talk business.  Opening the box, she said to Mrs. R., “Sister, I have something har I want ter show you; dun know if you want ter see it.”  “What is it?” Mrs. R. enquired.  Here she pulled out a second-hand bonnet trimmed in high colors.  “A lady,” she said, “give me dis last night to sell.  I aint show it to no body yet; she say to take it to some of de preachers’ wives be case it’s too stylish for these yer common niggers.”  The hat was examined and returned with, “I don’t think I need a hat just now, aunt Mary.”