gamblers. I almost expect to hear the harsh tones of my mother-in-law calling me to do some menial duty.
Then I remember the famine and its horrors. I can scarcely believe that it is all a thing of the past, and I have become Ping-an, the child of rest and peace. And what has done it all? Just this—the love of Jesus. It was Jesus who sent the missionary with the message of love and pardon, and it is Jesus who now fills my heart with joy. Yet I cannot forget that there are many—oh, so many!—of my sisters in China in the same sad plight as I was. I wonder how long it will be before the message will come to them? How long before they will enter the land of rest and peace?
In the city of Pekin there hangs a great bell, and there is a legend connected with it on which I love to ponder. Twice had the labor of years been lost at the time of casting. The third time, just as the molten metal was to be poured into the mould, the lovely daughter of the maker, knowing that by no other means could a perfect bell be cast, flung herself into the cauldron and gave her life to save her father from disappointment and shame.
China now is waiting to be moulded. Old things are passing. It is a new China we are beholding. Many ways have been tried for her regeneration. The cold morality of Confucius is powerless. Buddhist monks and Taoist priests have come in vain. Only by the cleansing Gospel of Christ can China be purified and made a vessel meet for the Master's use. Ages ago this girl sacrificed herself that the bell might be perfect. What we women and girls of China need is
