A curly-headed little fellow lay on the operating table in the royal infirmary, Edinburgh. His right foot was to come off. He glanced at the gruesome trays of knives and saws, the awesome bottles, and then at the living wall of students which rose, tier upon tier, to the very ceiling.

Suddenly pushing aside the chloroform towel, He looked into the eyes of the surgeon bending over him, and his shrill voice piped out, " Will ye no pray first ?"

Glancing from the surgeon to the wall of faces beyond, and back again, he fixed his eyes wistfully on the face, palest of all, above him. A tear trembled on each of the young lids, and again the distressed little voice was heard, "Can ye no pray ? "

The surgeon wheeled round on his heel, saying, "Now, you mission lads, show your mettle."

There was a dead silence; then a tall, dark figure in the third row stood up and prayed, "Our Father in heaven, bless the little man on the table, and bring him safely through; and bless the efforts of Thy skillful servant. For Thy name's sake. Amen."

Then Curly-head on the table smiled and fell asleep, and the operation proceeded.