The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. I want to do without that for a time. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. She came very near that night to resolving that she would return to her home next morning. "Then, the story of his death was false. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. .
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