BROTHER JOHN'S STORY Although I went to bed late I was up before sunrise.

Chiefly because I wished to have some private conversation with Brother John, whom I knew to be a very early riser.

Indeed, he slept less than any man I ever met.
As I expected, I found him astir in his hut; he was engaged in pressing flowers by candlelight.
"John," I said, "I have brought you some property which I think you have lost," and I handed him the morocco-bound _Christian Year_ and the water-colour drawing which we had found in the sacked mission house at Kilwa.
He looked first at the picture and then at the book; at least, I suppose he did, for I went outside the hut for a while--to observe the sunrise.
In a few minutes he called me, and when the door was shut, said in an unsteady voice: "How did you come by these relics, Allan ?" I told him the story from beginning to end.

He listened without a word, and when I had finished said: "I may as well tell what perhaps you have guessed, that the picture is that of my wife, and the book is her book." "Is!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, Allan.

I say _is_ because I do not believe that she is dead.