notice that more than three-fourths of those present are women.
As the time for their so-called worship has come, we look about for seats, but as none are provided, we shall have to do as the others do, sit down on the floor. The Laos women are kind and polite, and we soon find quite a number of soft straw mats at our service, with invitations to come and sit on this or that mat. Selecting our places, we are soon seated in an audience of heathen worshipers. How depressing and melancholy it all seems! The flickering flames of the tapers cast a weird light over the stupid countenance of the large idol, toward which every face is turned. The worshiping is not simultaneous; there is neither rule nor order in it. Neighbors who have not met for some time are chatting together in an ordinary tone of voice. A woman sitting by us is inquiring if we are comfortable, if this is not a pleasant occasion, if this is one of the ways we are accustomed to worship, etc. While answering her questions we are observing two women in front of us. One is a mother with a young child on her knee, in whose little hands she places a sweet, bright flower; then she closes the tiny hands, palm to palm, the flower projecting from the tips of the fingers, the stem within the palms. She then, pressing the hands closely with hers, raises them above its baby head, at the same
