“I cannot find her.” Then the old man’s head sank again upon the table.
“It is very unfortunate,” communed the bishop in soft, sad tones. “Human frailty, alas, human frailty! When I sent the priest to be instructor to your wife, I thought him a noble, a virtuous man. It has broken my heart to find out that by being tempted he has lost his soul. What could be worse! I would rather the Mission be wholly destroyed than one soul lost. We came here to save souls, not to lose them. And now, in the opinion of your countrymen, all our benevolence, all our good deeds, our self-sacrifice, our prayers and labours are gone, utterly forgotten on account of this one evil act. You complain bitterly. You have lost a wife—God a soul.”
Silence again ensued. Several times the bishop cleared his throat as if to speak.
Tai Lin remained motionless.
“Did you ever think that—that—perhaps the priest was not wholly to blame?” asked the bishop with mild concern.
Tai Lin looked at him dully.
“Yes; you are right. She was not to blame.” He answered mechanically. “She could do no wrong.
“Once I gave her a little stool. She always sat on that at my feet. You do not know, but that is the way it was. She patted my hand—now, she is gone—all is gone.”
The old quavering head fell forward upon the table. Sometimes a tremor passed through his body, but no sound broke the silence.
The bishop picked his teeth, white, narrow teeth, set far apart. This was a sign of meditation.