you suppose," he asked almost fiercely,
"that for two-thirds of a generation I have wandered about among African
savages, pretending to be crazy because these wild people revere the mad
and always let them pass unharmed?"

"I thought it was to collect butterflies and botanical specimens."

"Butterflies and botanical specimens! These were the pretext. I have
been and am searching for my wife. You may think it a folly, especially
considering what was her condition when we separated--she was expecting
a child, Allan--but I do not. I believe that she is hidden away among
some of these wild peoples."

"Then perhaps it would be as well not to find her," I answered,
bethinking me of the fate which had overtaken sundry white women in the
old days, who had escaped from shipwrecks on the coast and become the
wives of Kaffirs.

"Not so, Allan. On that point I fear nothing. If God has preserved my
wife, He has also protected her from every harm. And now," he went on,
"you will understand why I wish to visit these Pongo--the Pongo who
worship a white goddess!"

"I understand," I said and left him, for having learned all there was to
know, I thought it best not to prolong a painful conversation. To me
it seemed incredible that this lady should still live, and I feared
the effect upon him of the discovery that she was no more. How full
of romance is this poor little world of ours! Think of Brother John
(Eversley was his real name as I discovered afterwards), and what his
life had been. A high-minded educated man trying to serve his Faith in
the dark places of the earth, and taking his young wife with him,
which for my part I have never considered a right thing to do. Neither
tradition nor Holy Writ record that the Apostles dragged their wives and
families into the heathen lands where they went to preach, although I
believe that some of them were married. But this is by the way.

Then falls the blow; the mission house is sacked, the husband escapes by
a miracle and the poor young lady is torn away to be the prey of a vile
slave-trader. Lastly, according to the quite unreliable evidence of
some savage already in the shadow of death, she is seen in the charge of
other unknown savages. On the strength of this the husband, playing the
part of a mad botanist, hunts for her for a score of years, enduring
incredible hardships and yet buoyed up by a high and holy trust. To my
mind it was a beautiful and pathetic story. Still, for reasons