Sunday, October 13.—­Glorious eventide.  What grander than to sit still at perfect rest after burden of a long and heavy day!  What a day to look back upon!  I tremble when I think of what I am compelled out of sheer compulsion to venture.  Service this morning; “Deze zijn het die uit de groote verdrukking komen” (These are they which come out of great tribulation).  This afternoon, “Hoe zou ik u overgeven, O Efraim?  U overleveren, O Israel?” (How shall I give thee up, Ephraim.  How shall I deliver thee, Israel?)

“Scant and small the booty proved”—­more’s the pity!

When will I find time to prepare myself decently?

Anyhow, comfort myself with thought that if hearers knew (and no doubt they do) how pressed I am for time, they will deal gently with my scanty productions.  For myself, whole subject very unsatisfactory and unsatisfying.

Immediately after service; funerals; Mr. Becker unable; seven or eight, all children; huge crowd; splendid opportunity; “Gij dwaas hetgeen gij zaait wordt niet levend tenzij dat het gestorven is” (Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die).

    There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
      Who with his sickle keen,
    Cuts the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between.

After funerals, girls’ prayer meeting.

Last and best of all—­Service of Song, evening.  Now what on earth can be more beautiful than our meeting this evening?  Such a crowd, and such singing!  Ten minutes, John iii., 16.  And now the day is over.

And the sick?  And the hospital?  All neglected; too pitiable to contemplate.  And Mrs. Grobelaar dying; when, two days ago, visited her, said as I drew napkin from face, “Ach Minheer L., het min. dan vir mij vergeet?” (O, Mr. L., have you then forgotten me?); she was delirious most of day, but when I spoke to her she was quite conscious.  And how inwardly thankful when I prayed with her; poor mother; her days on earth are numbered; both lungs gone.

Little babe, Van Huyssteen, also dead this morning (mother shot on their flight by English; babe pined away out of sheer lack of nourishment).

* * * * *

Wednesday, October 16.—­Getting lazy with diary; mindful of old Mark Twain.

Hear woman’s voice calling “Ambulance!  Ambulance!  Ambulance! in 172 moet een meisje weggedra wordt” (Ambulance! in 172 a little girl has to be removed).  Here go the bearers!

172 is just thirty yards from 177, where I take meals, and next to 171 old Mrs. Van Straten, whom I regularly visit, and yet I know absolutely nothing of this girl’s sickness nor her death till this very minute.  Enough to make one discouraged.

Of Monday’s work can’t remember much except that I found the “summum” of misery and distress in 678, Pelser’s; whole family down measles; poverty; filth; baby ill at breast (died yesterday, buried this afternoon); sent food, but made her promise faithfully that children would be washed to-day.