Six years had passed and again the rain fell heavily. That which seemed miraculous had happened. David had gone to school; friends had been raised up for him, he had become a preacher and, still more wonderful, a missionary. He had gone, not to India as he had expected, but to Liberia on the west coast of Africa. Liberia is a republic, founded as a home for colored people who wished to return from the United States to their native land. On the seacoast there was civilization, but only a little way inland the darkness of heathendom grew dense. Here David's church had a mission, and here David and his wife had just arrived.
The rain was not a steady winter rain like that into which he had ridden with his horses; it was much heavier, and it was also more irregular. For a half-hour the downpour shut out everything in sight; then the sun shone brightly, and in a few minutes a thick mist rose from the steaming earth. A little while and the same process was repeated, and so on all day long.
David and his wife left the little steamer which ran part way to the mission and walked up the path preceded by the bearers who carried their luggage. They expected to find a comfortable house with food in the larder provided for them by their predecessor, who had had to return home on account of failing health.
They saw only the path before them; they did not see bright eyes peering from among the dark leaves, glittering, bright eyes which looked like a queer variety of fruit or blossom. The eyes watched them cross the overgrown clearing before the mission house and climb the steps. The porters set down their loads, received their pay, and turned back into the wall of mist, and the two young people stood alone. The black eyes could not see the faces of the newcomers and did not dream of the consternation expressed there. To them, the mission house, even in its present state, was a grand palace.
David and his wife walked into the hall and saw that the rain had come through the roof, through the ceiling, clear down to the first floor. The departure of the last missionary had to be made so hurriedly that there had been no time to protect anything from moisture or from destructive insects. The furniture looked unsafe, the walls were covered with mould, and there was naturally no food anywhere about.
But they had brought some food with them, and they sat down on rickety chairs before a rickety table to eat. The sun which had shone so brilliantly for a few minutes vanished; there was a noise like thunder on the roof, and darkness fell with the rain, though night was still far away. As they ate, their spirits rose.
"We are pioneers," said Mrs. Day.
"Not quite," said David. "Pioneers do not have even as much of a roof as this." Suddenly he laughed and went to the side of the room where their luggage was stacked. He opened an umbrella and held it over Mrs. Day's head upon which the rain had begun to drip. "Nor umbrellas!" said he.
Mrs. Day laughed, and her laugh made David for some strange reason sober.
"Why, your eyes are full of tears!" said she. "There isn't anything to cry about!"