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before she died." They established schools in two or three localities, but these gradually failed, owing to the want of constant personal superintendence.

After some years of united mission work, the sisters were separated, the marriage of one removing her to another sphere of work, and a few years later broken health obliged the unmarried sister to return for a while to her native land. As she quitted India, her heart still yearned over dark Colar, and she resolved, if permitted to return, and it were the Lord's will, that Colar should be the next scene of her labours.

Two years passed in sickness and suffering. No advice, no change brought permanent cure. As a last resource Miss Anstey went into Germany and sought the advice of an eminent physician, who, after some time, told her that her case required time, and that perhaps in a year or more she might throw off her distressing malady. It was just at this time, when confined to the bed of sickness, and thinking sadly over postponed work and active service for the Master, that the subject of "healing by faith" was brought before her, and her faith grasped the thought. A newly found friend pleaded with her, and both desiring entire conformity to God's will, her case was laid before Him. Again and again the friends prayed, and not many hours after the first prayer of faith, Miss Anstey felt that it was answered, and exclaimed in full assurance, "I am healed." Before that day closed, she made arrangements for her immediate return, and in a few days she arrived in England, and walking quietly into a room full of friends, she announced with thankful heart "what God had wrought."

From that time she busily prepared for work in Colar. She would gladly have had like-minded friends to go forth with her, but none came forward. Miss Anstey went forth single-handed; "alone, yet not alone," to fight with heathen darkness and superstition.

When she arrived at Madras in the autumn of 1876, she found herself confronted by the terrible famine. The quay was crowded with rice bags, imported by the Government for transmission to the interior, where the land had yielded no fruit for the starving millions. Even at Madras living skeletons were to be seen in every direction; some hovering ready to snatch at any few grains of rice that might fall from the sacks, devouring them greedily.

Miss Anstey was appalled at the awful sight, and thought for a moment, but only for a moment, that she had not chosen the right time for the commencement of her work, but it proved the Lord's own time. When she arrived at Colar, she took the

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traveller's bungalow, summoned to her side two or three native Christians who had been connected with her during her former residence in India, and commenced the mission by opening a school for day scholars. But the famine raged, and hungry people thronged around; half dying children were left at Miss Anstey's door, and could she refuse to help? Her own resources were narrow, but her faith was strong, and she received the waifs and strays, and fed the hungry, looking to the Giver of all to send her

means.

At the very time when Miss Anstey began to receive the children by hundreds, and before her letters telling of this unexpected famine-work had reached England, the LORD laid it upon the hearts of friends at home to send the needed help.

The readers of The Christian and the Missionary Echo took up the work, and large sums came in for "Miss Anstey's work” before her most intimate friends could possibly receive by post the announcement of the need. Thus by God's own hand Colar Orphanage was founded. Hundreds of famine-stricken sufferers have passed away under its sheltering roof, watched over tenderly to the last, and their failing eyes directed to the Saviour. Many others have been baptised on confession of their faith in Christ, and are living consistent lives. The mission is prospering in every way. A well-built, well-arranged orphanage has taken the place of the sheds in which the orphans were first sheltered. Two villages are being built with farms, where the boys are being instructed in the cultivation of the land, and Miss Anstey hopes that the orphanage will soon be in a great measure self-supporting. Meanwhile she looks to the Lord for carrying on the work which has been begun and continued in His name.

Any reports of the work will be gladly sent on application to Miss James, 131, Adelaide-road, London, N.W. All who read will doubtless feel that while there is much to glorify God for, there is also much need for constant prayer that the work may be sustained and directed by His guiding hand. May it be laid on many hearts to bring this mission before the Lord continually.

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THE RIVER AND ITS CHOICE.

THE RIVER AND ITS CHOICE.

BY SOPHIA M. NUGENT.

we

E were out for a long mountain day among Swiss heights, but before we reached our goal paused. The little river we sat by had a wonderful story to tell-shall I repeat it?

We had lately passed its birth-place in the fair, still, and pale Lake, the Lake formed and fed from the glacier meltings: lying side by side with another Lake fed from springs, looking dark in its clear depth, beside the other, grey with the rock filings which the glacier scrapes as it advances. This was our river's cradle, nearly 8,000 feet high; no tree near, its bank covered with short greensward, starred with mountain flowers, and all beyond rocky heights, crowned with the perpetual snow in its radiance of whiteness.

Now we had come some way along its course, but it was hardly a river yet; there was no visible gush or impetuous rush in it, for its path was fairly level yet, and it was still amusing itself, spreading out itself time after time into small lakes, then contracting, but only to expand again, its smooth bed making no ruffle on its quiet, sparkling surface. It was so happy and so restful; full of the joy of life and motion. But it could not go on always like this. The blessed stillness, and this kind of happy, idle progress must end some day, and just where we were resting, it was waking up to this: the long hindered impulse of flow was just dawning to it, and the trembling stir and quiver in its onward movement over the rough stones of its now narrowed course, told of the combat, but also of the conquering!

For what was the choice before it ? An onward sweep meant measureless fruitfulness waked in the lands far below-oleanders, myrtles, figs, and vines in endless profusion aroused at every step of its course, and then, far in the distance, the glorious Sea for itself!

No wonder it thrilled with the thought of such certain prospects! But in between its stillness now, its calm serenity and unbrokenness, and the wealth and the gained goal of the future, there lay an awful plunge, four thousand feet fall of constant breaking and shattering, besides the terrible first drop over the sharp, dark cliffs in front.

There was a choice to make! and it made it, and let the future prevail, and left the calm, unruffled reflection of sunshine for ever

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as it thought-and took the unknown leap, and dared all the following shattering, for the sake of the loss of itself in the Sea beyond, and the fruit and beauty it should rouse in the sunny lands below.

And while the breaking and bruising lasted, its progress was grandly, nay terribly rapid!

Soon we saw that first fall, and stood in awe at the change;