” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. At this moment, Davies, who had completed his preparations, extinguished the torch. To preach a fine sermon every Sunday so that he would lose neither the art nor the impulse; and this child, in secret rebellion, taking it down in long hand during odd hours in the week! Preaching grandiloquently before a few score natives who understood little beyond the gestures, for the single purpose of warding off disintegration! It reminded the doctor of a stubborn retreat; from barricade to barricade, grimly fighting to keep the enemy at bay, that insidious enemy of the white man in the South Seas—inertia. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. ’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive.
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