"But this is by the way," he went on; "for my Society does not ask you
to subscribe towards the conversion of the Children of Fire. Until that
people is conquered--which very likely will not be for generations,
seeing that they live in Central Africa, occupying a territory that
white men do not desire--no missionary will dare again to visit them."

At this moment something caused him to look a second time at Thomas
Owen. He was leaning forward in his place listening eagerly, and a
strange light filled the large, dark eyes that shone in the pallor of
his delicate, nervous face.

"There is a man who would dare, if he were put to it," thought the
Deputation to himself. Then he ended his sermon.

That evening the two men sat at dinner in the rectory. It was a very
fine rectory, beautifully furnished; for Owen was a man of taste which
he had the means to gratify. Also, although they were alone, the dinner
was good--so good that the poor broken-down missionary, sipping his
unaccustomed port, a vintage wine, sighed aloud in admiration and
involuntary envy.

"What is the matter?" asked Owen.

"Nothing, Mr. Owen;" then, of a sudden thawing into candour, he
added: "that is, everything. Heaven forgive me; but I, who enjoy your
hospitality, am envious of you. Don't think too hardly of me; I have a
large family to support, and if only you knew what a struggle my life
is, and has been for the last twenty years, you would not, I am sure.
But you have never experienced it, and could not understand. 'The
labourer is worthy of his hire.' Well, my hire is under two hundred a