THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
first recurrent note. Again it rose on the night air, this time strong and clear, as if a company of angels were singing.
“I knew now!
“It was the hymn my friend the missionary had taught the children.
“I plunged down the hill, stumbling, falling, only to drag myself to my feet again, groping my way through the dense night fog and the tangle of undergrowth, until I reached the small stockade at the foot of the incline which circled the missionary station. Crossing this ground, I followed the path and entered a small gate. Beyond it lay a flat piece of land cleared of all underbrush, and at its extreme end the rude bamboo hut of a hospital filled with sick and dying children.
“Once more on the deadly night air rose the hymn, a note of exaltation now, calling me on—to what I knew not, nor did I care, so it would ease the grinding fear under which I had lived for weeks.
“Suddenly I came to a halt. In the faint moonlight, within a dozen yards of me, knelt the figure of a man. He was praying—his hands upraised, his face lifted—the words falling from his lips distinctly audible. I moved
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