As the heart of the great ship began to throb and she swung slowly out toward the sea, one tall, quiet-faced man stood upon the old wharf among the Indians, silently watching the departure of all that meant home and friends. He waved his hand and lifted his hat to some one on deck, then turned gravely, and with firm step walked back toward the straggling row of huts which sheltered the poor, degraded natives of Fort Wrangell.
“Who is that?” queried some one carelessly, and the answer came: “The missionary.”
It was Mr. Selborne who spoke last. He explained that he had just been talking with the man, who was doing noble work in this squalid, miserable community. His pay was a mere pittance, and the society supporting him were in sore need of funds for the establishment of a school or home for native children.
Rossiter paused.
“Let’s give them a helping hand,” said Mr. Percival, passing over a bill. Another and another fell into the hat that was sent around, and a few days afterward that missionary’s eyes filled with glad tears as he opened a package containing one hundred and thirty dollars for the needed Home, from the passengers of the Queen.
Another wonderfully beautiful evening followed the Wrangell experience. At half-past nine fine print could be read by daylight, and at eleven it was by no means dark.
The next day the steamer touched at Douglas Island, giving its passengers time for a run up to the richest gold mine in the world. In the early afternoon the Queen steamed across the strait to Juneau, only a few miles distant, and stopped there for the night.
It was a larger town than any they had yet seen in Alaska, and curved around a fine bay at the base of high mountains, on whose high slopes could be seen patches of snow and “young glaciers,” as Fred called them.
Mr. Selborne and his sister at once hunted up the Mission House, and had a long talk with Mrs. Willard, the brave and gentle lady who gave up a happy and comfortable home life in the East to help the Alaskan natives.