He remembered, long years ago, hearing his mother sing those old hymns in his boyhood home.

He could see the ancient melodeon with its yellow keys, and the ragged hymn book his mother had prized next to her Bible; and he could hear again her sweet, quavering voice sing those gentle songs, like unforgettable benedictions--the same songs that Mukoki and the Missioner were chanting now, up here, a thousand miles away.

That was a long time ago--a very, very long time ago.

She had been dead many years.

And he--he must be growing old.