A moment of silence followed. Then of a sudden the wrinkle of anxiety on the girl’s brow disappeared. Johnny’s lips moved in an inarticulate murmur.
With a little exclamation of joy the girl sprang to her feet.
“He lives! He lives!”
Then all was silent again on stream and jungle.
* * * * * * * *
It was a strangely mixed dream through which Johnny was passing. It seemed night. He was hidden away in some deep forest. A storm had set the tree tops to twisting and writhing. The constant roll of thunder, mingled with the moaning of the trees, made the night hideous.
Like a flash the scene changed. It was day—Sunday in the little old church at home. Someone rose to sing; a beautiful white-gowned figure with a sweet melodious voice. She sang, but the words of the song had no meaning for him. It was as if they were sung in a foreign tongue.
And now he was gazing upon a sunrise. Such a sunrise as is never seen on land or sea, all red, orange and gold.
It was in the midst of this last broken dream that he opened his eyes and stared around him.
To his vast amazement he saw that the vision of orange and gold had not completely vanished. Neither had the singing nor the sound of thunder been hushed. They had merely taken on a more definite form, a truer meaning. The words of the song: