again, when Mr. Warden had finished the story of the brave missionary
of Ballerraderad.

The Dunker preacher was beaming. He forgot the great doctrine of
humility, and declared that "Mister" Weston should have the volume that
very night. There was nothing better to give a clear view of the
character of the work than Brother Matthias Pennel's account of the
heroism of Sister Flora. So we composed ourselves again to hear of the
battle to the death between the noble missionary woman and the mighty
Bengal.

"Nearer and nearer came the footsteps," read Luther, pausing at each
word to make sure of it. "Furder and furder out over the top of the
mission-house leaned Sister Flora, and as she leaned she thought how
much depended on her that night; for she must remember that there were
sleeping within the walls of the mission-house forty-seven children,
thirty of which were females under the age of eleven years, and
seventeen males, of whom not one-half had reached the age of nine
years. Next she saw a dark object crouching below her. She saw two
fiery eyes; she saw the tiger gather himself preparatory to springing.
She----"

Perry Thomas's knock had been ponderous, thunderous, and clumsy.
Weston's had been self-assured, but polite. Now came a series of raps,
now loud, now low, now quick, now slow, keeping time to a martial air.
Evidently there was a rollicking fellow outside. No one moved. We sat
there, all five of us, eyes wide open in surprise, trying to guess, who
this could be playing tunes on the door, and never seeking to solve the
simple problem by turning the knob.