At present she rented a tiny house in the Quarters and called it her preaching place. I was told that to it flocked the outcasts of life who listened in silent curiosity to the strange foreign woman delivering a message from a stranger foreign God.
As the days went by the members of my household were deeply absorbed in dreams of a hospital, pursuit of passage money to America, and wisdom in guiding girls.
In all the years in my adopted country I'd never seen so lovely an autumn. Colors were brighter, the haze bluer, and far more tender the smile of the heavens on the face of the waters.
The song of the North wind through the top of the ancient pines was no melancholy dirge of the dying summer, but a hymn of peace and restful joy to the coming winter.
One lovely day melted into another. The year was sinking softly to its close when one evening found Zura, Jane and me quietly at work in the living-room of the House of the Misty Star. Jane was knitting on the eternal bibs, Zura adding figures in a little book.
Our quiet was broken by a knock at the door. Maple Leaf appeared bearing on a tray a pink folded paper.
"It's a cable; I know its color," exclaimed Zura, "and it's for Miss Jane Gray."
With shaking fingers Jane tore open the message. She read, then dropped her face in her hands.
"What is it?" I asked anxiously.
"It's the hospital."