In short, I am one of--a party--of
white people who, with some trouble, have succeeded in getting to this
place and--and--would you allow us to call on you?"
Still they stared. At length the elder woman opened her lips.
"Here I am called the Mother of the Holy Flower, and for a stranger to
speak with the Mother is death. Also if you are a man, how did you
reach us alive?"
"That's a long story," I answered cheerfully. "May we come in? We will
take the risks, we are accustomed to them and hope to be able to do
you a service. I should explain that three of us are white men, two
English and one--American."
"American!" she gasped, "American! What is he like, and how is he
named?"
"Oh!" I replied, for my nerve was giving out and I grew confused, "he
is oldish, with a white beard, rather like Father Christmas in short,
and his Christian name (I didn't dare to give it all at once) is--er--
John, Brother John, we call him. Now I think of it," I added, "he has
some resemblance to your companion there."
I thought that the lady was going to die, and cursed myself for my
awkwardness.
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