Then had come that first great happiness and finally disaster. Jim was looking forward now to just the same moment in his life. That first-born child. It was an ineffaceable landmark in the life of any man.
He sighed. He was contemplating again the tragedy which had followed hard in the wake of his overwhelming happiness. Poor little Jean. Poor, poor little woman.
Her happiness was short enough lived, and his— In his simple, earnest fashion he prayed God that Jim and Hesther should never know a similar disaster. He wondered if little Jean knew of the thing he was doing now. And if she would have approved had she been there to witness it. Yes. Somehow he felt that her full approval would have been his. It was for Felice. He desired nothing for himself but to be permitted to carry on the labours of his Mission. But for Felice—
He stirred uneasily. The scene of his devastated Mission lit again before his mental gaze and tortured him. And suddenly he sat up and carefully folded the annotated map he had prepared. He finally enclosed it in a piece of American cloth, tied it up securely, and sealed it with the fragment of wax he had discovered for that purpose. Then he stood up and gazed about him. His dark eyes took in every happy detail of the home which had served him so long. And presently the man of peace found himself contemplating the cartridge belt, with its two great revolvers protruding from their holsters, which was hanging from its nail on the log wall.
For some moments he regarded it without any change of expression. Then of a sudden he stirred and moved quickly over to it. He removed first one gun from its holster, then the other. He examined them. They were old-fashioned, and their chambers were empty. Very deliberately, almost reluctantly, he loaded them in each chamber. Then with another sigh he returned them to the holsters where they belonged.
He turned away quickly. It was as though he detested the thing he had just done and was anxious to rid himself of the memory of it. So he passed into the room which he had always shared with his wife, but which now was given up to the atom of humanity which was the priceless treasure of his life.
The man was sitting on the stool set beside the simple bedcot. It was the stool which Pri-loo was wont to occupy when watching over the slumbers of the child she had taken to her mother heart. He was gazing down upon the sleeping babe as she lay there under the coloured blankets and patch-work quilt which was the daintiest covering with which he had been able to provide her.
Fair-haired and sweetly cherubic the child lay breathing in that calm, almost imperceptible fashion so sure an indication of perfect health. Her colouring was exquisite. A subtle tracery of blue veins was plainly visible beneath the delicate, fair skin. She was sweetly pretty, and her brief four years of life had afforded her a generous development sufficient to satisfy the most exacting parent.
The man’s dark eyes were infinitely tender as he regarded the sleeping child. Gold? There was no treasure in the world comparable with that, which, with her dying effort, his well-loved wife had presented him. Felice—little Felice. The smiling, prattling creature, the thought of whose wide blue eyes was unfailing in lightening even the darkest shadows which the cares of her father’s life imposed upon him.