“Well, enjoy yourself, then, while I do some work,” Norris replied. “We can talk later.”
Seated once more at the table, the missionary was soon engrossed in his work. The visitor watched him curiously as he sent big wreathes of smoke into the air. And truly it was a scene worthy of a great artist—the venerable, white-haired man, with the long flowing beard, noble forehead, and eyes expressive of sympathy and devotion. The lighted candle, and the humble surroundings seemed to enhance the face and form of the man, bestowing upon him a patriarchal dignity, and the glorifying of the commonplace.
Of all this, however, the silent man near the stove thought nothing. His mind was dwelling upon more material things, such as the amount of money the missionary might have on his person or concealed about the house, and whether it would be worth the trouble and the risk to knock him on the head in order to find out. He wondered if he would fight if ordered to produce anything of value. He believed that he could handle him all right, and that he would easily submit when threatened by a revolver. But of the old man’s eyes he was not so sure. There was something about them that made him afraid, and awed even his reckless and villainous nature. No respect for the self-denying and gentle man of God entered his calloused heart. And gratitude for favors received, which even the dumb brutes possess, was to him a thing unknown.
At length the missionary laid down his pen and looked over at his visitor.
“You must be very tired,” he said. “It is my bedtime, so if you will excuse me, I shall retire. Make yourself perfectly at home here, and if you need any
