\" She whispered back. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. To preach a fine sermon every Sunday so that he would lose neither the art nor the impulse; and this child, in secret rebellion, taking it down in long hand during odd hours in the week! Preaching grandiloquently before a few score natives who understood little beyond the gestures, for the single purpose of warding off disintegration! It reminded the doctor of a stubborn retreat; from barricade to barricade, grimly fighting to keep the enemy at bay, that insidious enemy of the white man in the South Seas—inertia. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. You must wait till supper's over.
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