"Yes. I suppose I could—wire."
"Sternford will have it sent for you."
In a moment the light of hope died out of the girl's eyes. The excited flush on her cheeks paled. And the man saw, and read the sign he beheld.
He waited. But Nancy remained silent, crushed under the feeling of utter desolation to which the mention of Bull Sternford's name had reduced her.
Father Adam set his cup down.
"Don't let the sending of that message worry, child," he said quickly. "These people deserve no better treatment after the thing they've done to you. All you need say is, 'You will accept my resignation forthwith.'" Write that out on a piece of paper, and sign it. Then take it along to Mr. Sternford. Tell him of your decision, and ask him to have it sent by the wireless. He'll do it, my dear. And after that—why, after that, if you still feel the same about things, and want to turn missionary in the lumber camps, come right back to me here, and I'll do for you as you ask. It's a great thought, Nancy, and I honour you for it. It's a hard, desperate sort of life, without comfort or earthly reward. Once the twilight of the forest claims you, and its people know you, there's nothing to do but to go on and on to the end. Will you go—and send just that message?"
Nancy inclined her head.
"Yes. I'll go right away, just as soon as I've taken this tray back."
She rose abruptly. She gathered the remains of the meal on to the tray and picked it up. And the manner of her movements betrayed her. She stood for a moment, and the man saw the struggle for composure that was going on behind her pretty eyes.
"Father," she said at last, and the man abruptly rose from his chair and moved away, "I just can't thank you—for this. It's given me fresh hope. A hope I never thought would be mine. Some day—"