them while you were away. We've made a good deal of progress, I guess. . . ."
There was a silence and Mary said:
"But I'm not Naomi . . . Naomi is dead."
The Reverend Mr. Murchison passed lightly over his error. "Like true children of God," he said, "let us kneel here in the dust and humbly thank Him for having brought you safely through a perilous journey."
The little man flopped duly to his knees, followed by Swanson. Mary waited, watching Philip, and then she saw him kneel along with the others. He didn't protest. He knelt and bowed his head. She knew suddenly why he was doing this—because it would have pleased Naomi. Then she knelt, too, with the old fear in her heart. She was afraid, because he was praying. . . . He kept slipping further and further. . . .
"O Just and Almighty God," said the dry, flat voice of the withered Mr. Murchison, "we thank. Thee for having brought these poor humble travelers safely through their perilous journey. . . ." Swanson knelt dumbly, his head bowed. It was the gnatlike Mr. Murchison who ruled the mission. But it was the meek Swanson who was the servant of God. Mary saw all at once the vast and immeasurable difference.
Philip made no effort to paint. The box containing his things lay forgotten in a dark corner of the hut, and for three days he went out to spend hours wandering alone along the shores of the tepid lake. Mary only waited, fighting a queer unnatural jealousy of the
