the old, built by the patient Swanson of mud and of stones dragged up from the river-bed in dry season.
Mary, watching Philip, knew what he was seeing. Naomi . . . Naomi. The place belonged to her in a strange, inexplicable fashion. She saw suddenly that Naomi perhaps belonged in a place like this with a stupid man like Swanson . . . a man who was all faith, too stupid even to have doubts.
On a platform before one of the huts a strange figure sat before a table reading aloud in the native tongue some long harangue which was repeated after him by ten or a dozen black girls who sat swaying monotonously to the rhythm of their own voices. The sound was droning and monotonous, like the sound of a hive of bees.
"That's Murchison," said Swanson. The figure was dressed in a black suit-like an undertaker, with a high white celluloid collar gaping about a reedlike neck, which it no longer fitted. On his head was a stiff straw hat, yellowed with age. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles that in the heat had slipped well down upon a long nose.
"He's dressed up to greet you," said Swanson.
The black girls, all save one or two, had ceased their buzzing and were staring now with pokes and giggles at the newly arrived procession. The Reverend Mr. Murchison halted the two dutiful girls who were going mechanically on with their lesson, and stepped down from his throne. He was an ugly little man with a sour expression.
He shook hands and to Mary he said, "I suppose you'll want to take back your girls. I've been teaching
