Thomas shook his head. “No bon! No bon! Him sleep so five hour, dead like one bear. We go toute suite!”
But to this the missionary would not agree. “At any rate, we must give him the chance to say.”
“It’s a shame! a crime!” said his wife.
At the end of three-quarters of an hour the missionary stood up, put his hand on the shoulder of the sleeping boy and gave him a slight shake. With one movement the boy was on his feet, awake and alert.
“What is it, Peter? Time, eh?” he asked, gazing upon the faces about him. “I was—I’m afraid I was asleep,” he said shamefacedly. “All ready? Let us go.” He drew on his light fur coat, seized his mitts, caps and snowshoes.
“No use, Mother,” said the missionary. “All right, we’re off. You’ll see us when we get back. Good-bye.” He kissed his wife.
“Oh, he cannot make that trip, John. He will perish on the way,” said his wife, quick tears coming to her eyes.
“Nonsense, Mother! He has two days’ march in him.”
The boy stood, his big grey eyes turning from one to the other. They were concerned for him. The tears in the woman’s eyes were for him. Slowly a deep red flush overspread his thin haggard face. Silently he took her hand in both of his, held it for a moment, then with a kind of shy grace he kissed it.
“You are awfully good,” he muttered, turned away and made for the door.