She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly.
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