Then a look of comprehension swept over the Missioner's face.

He chuckled, the chuckle grew, it shook his body, and he laughed--laughed until the forest flung back the echoes of his merriment, and even the leathery faces of the Indians crinkled in sympathy.

David could see no reason for his levity.

He looked at Thoreau.

His host was grinning broadly.
"God bless my soul!" said the Little Missioner at last.