guess we are too old hands to be caught napping, are we not, Tom?”
“I guess you’re right, sergeant,” Rolfe replied. “Why, we’re going to do wonders out there. Some day I shall write a poem about it which will beat Tennyson’s ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ all to pieces. It will tell about Sergeant North leading a lone constable into the jaws of death with mountain to the right of them, with mountain to the left of them, with mountain in front of them. Such a poem should make me famous.”
“That will be too much of a fuss about the pursuit of one man, and lame at that,” the sergeant dryly replied. “Surely you can hit upon a more heroic subject.”
“Oh, I’ll make it heroic enough, sergeant, never fear. I shall bring in about a lone woman left in fear and trembling, while two heroes marched forth to avenge the wrong done to an old man. Never you mind, I shall fix it up in great style.”
Leaving the men to continue their talking, Marion arose and went into the bedroom where the missionary was lying. He was just as she had left him. Sitting down by his side, she watched him. A great respect for this man stole into her heart. She had heard much about him, and his wonderful devotion and self-sacrifice. Her heart thrilled at the thought of what he had given up for a great Cause. And was this to be the end of it all? No worldly applause, no honor, and an apparent defeat of all his efforts. She spoke of it that night to the sergeant as they sat talking while the rest slept.
“Is such a life wasted?” she asked. “Will there be no result of all his labors?”
“His work can never die,” the sergeant quietly re-
