Marie sympathised heartily with this sentiment, but pointed out that it was too long and dangerous a voyage to be undertaken in a canoe, and that it was probable the mission ship would revisit Ratinga ere long, in which case the voyage could be undertaken in comfort and safety.
But Betsy did not believe in the danger of a canoe voyage, nor in the speedy arrival of the mission ship. In fact she believed in nothing at that time, save in her own grief and the hardness of her case. She shook her head, and the effect on the coal-scuttle, which had now become quite palsied with age and hard service, was something amazing, insomuch that Marie’s sympathy merged irresistibly into mirth.
The good woman’s want of faith, however, received a rebuke not many weeks later.
She was hastening, one afternoon, to an outlying field to gather vegetables in company with Zariffa, who had by that time grown into a goodly-sized girl.
The pace induced silence, also considerable agitation in both bonnets. When they had cleared the village, and reached Rosco’s hut near the entrance to the palm-grove, they went up to the open door and looked in, but no one was there.
“He’s hoed out to walk,” observed Zariffa with a light laugh; “awful fond o’ walkin’ since he got the ’ooden legs!”
“What was you want with him?” asked Betsy, as they resumed their walk.
“Want to ask ’bout the Bibil lesson for to-morrow. Some things me no can understan’, an’ Rosco great at the Bibil now.”
“Yes,” murmured Betsy with a nod, “there’s many things in the Bibil not easy to understand. Takes a deal o’ study, Ziffa, to make him out. Your father always say that. But Rosco’s fuss-rate at ’splainin’ of ’em. Fuss-rate—so your father say. Him was born for a mis’nary.”
At that moment a cry was heard in the distance. They had been ascending a winding path leading to the field to which they were bound.