"Because a little while ago that nice cashier gentleman from Chicago sought shelter in the Quarters. I heard his story. He was the hungriest man for home cooking I ever saw. I gave him plenty of it, too, and a little Testament besides, before he left."
"Why, Jane Gray! you knew this and did not tell?"
"Yes, Miss Jenkins; that is what I did. You see I am a sort of father confessor. I simply cannot furnish information about the dear people who confide in me. I would have saved Page, but when I came home and found him ill something told me to give both men a chance. I knew Page was not guilty. The same thing that made me sure of my hospital made me certain he would get well. The other man—well, you know, I am only a messenger of hope. I wanted to give him time to read that little book!"
I was dumb with astonishment.
"Upon my word," remarked Mr. Hamilton after an eloquent pause, "as a soul diplomat you give me a new light on missionaries! Everything is all right now. I have found my son, and, if I know the signs, a daughter as well. She is a picture in her nurse's dress. Tell me about her."
I turned to look for Zura, but she was no longer in the room.
Leaving the delighted Jane in a full swing of talk about Zura, I withdrew and crossed the passageway. The paper doors of the sick chamber were wide apart, and once again I saw outlined against the glow of the evening sky two figures. The girl held the hands of the man against her heart, and through the soft shadows came low, happy voices:
"Ah, Zura, 'I sought for thee and found thee!'"
"Belovedest," joyously whispered the girl, bending low. Darkness, tender as love itself, folded about them, and I went my peaceful way.