It was an extraordinary story that Mrs. Eversley had to tell, and yet a short one.

She had escaped from Hassan-ben-Mohammed and the slave-traders, as the rescued slave told her husband at Zanzibar before he died, and, after days of wandering, been captured by some of the Pongo who were scouring the country upon dark business of their own, probably in search of captives.  They brought her across the lake to Pongo-land and, the former Mother of the Flower, an albino, having died at a great age, installed her in the office on this island, which from that day she had never left.  Hither she was led by the Kalubi of the time and some others who had “passed the god.”  This brute, however, she had never seen, although once she heard him roar, for it did not molest them or even appear upon their journey.

Shortly after her arrival on the island her daughter was born, on which occasion some of the women “servants of the Flower” nursed her.  From that moment both she and the child were treated with the utmost care and veneration, since the Mother of the Flower and the Flower itself being in some strange way looked upon as embodiments of the natural forces of fertility, this birth was held to be the best of omens for the dwindling Pongo race.  Also it was hoped that in due course the “Child of the Flower” would succeed the Mother in her office.  So here they dwelt absolutely helpless and alone, occupying themselves with superintending the agriculture of the island.  Most fortunately also when she was captured, Mrs. Eversley had a small Bible in her possession which she had never lost.  From this she was able to teach her child to read and all that is to be learned in the pages of Holy Writ.

Often I have thought that if I were doomed to solitary confinement for life and allowed but one book, I would choose the Bible, since, in addition to all its history and the splendour of its language, it contains the record of the hope of man, and therefore should be sufficient for him.  So at least it had proved to be in this case.

Oddly enough, as she told us, like her husband, Mrs. Eversley during all those endless years had never lost some kind of belief that she would one day be saved otherwise than by death.

“I always thought that you still lived and that we should meet again, John,” I heard her say to him.

Also her own and her daughter’s spirits were mysteriously supported, for after the first shock and disturbance of our arrival we found them cheerful people; indeed, Miss Hope was quite a merry soul.  But then she had never known any other life, and human nature is very adaptable.  Further, if I may say so, she had grown up a lady in the true sense of the word.  After all, why should she not, seeing that her mother, the Bible and Nature had been her only associates and sources of information, if we except the poor slaves who waited on them, most of whom were mutes.

When Mrs. Eversley’s story was done, we told ours, in a compressed form.  It was strange to see the wonder with which these two ladies listened to its outlines, but on that I need not dwell.  When it was finished I heard Miss Hope say: