As he thought on these things, somehow his enthusiasm for foreign missions ebbed away, and left him desperately tired and worried. He made several abortive attempts to put some fire into his missionary plea, but it was useless; and he was about to give up when he heard Mrs. Betty’s gentle voice inquiring from the next room:
“May I come in? Haven’t you finished that wretched old missionary sermon yet?”
“No, dear; but why aren’t you asleep?”
“I have been anxious about you. You are worn out and you need your rest. Now just let the heathen rage, and go to bed.”
Maxwell made no reply, but picked at his manuscript aimlessly with his pen. Betty looked into his face, and then the whole stress of the situation pierced her; and sitting down by his side she dropped her head on his shoulder and with one arm around his neck stroked his cheek with her fingers. For a few 241 moments neither of them spoke; and then Maxwell said quietly:
“Betty, love, I am going to work.”
“But Donny, you are one of the hardest working men in this town. What do you mean?”
“Oh, I mean that I am going to find secular work, the work of a day laborer, if necessary. Matters have come to a crisis, and I simply cannot stand this sort of thing any longer. If I were alone I might get along; but I have you, sweetheart, and––”
Maxwell stopped suddenly, and the brave little woman at his side said:
“Yes, I know all about it, Donald, and I think you are fully justified in doing anything you think best.”