THE tropical island of Aniwa drowsed in the afternoon sunshine. Long, lazy swells rolling in from the Pacific broke on the outlying reefs, overflowed into the turquoise bay, and gently lapped the stretch of sandy beach. The softest of breezes stirred the palm trees and rustled the banana thickets.
Before the door of a low, thatched hut, nestling under a clump of date-palms, stood a fair-haired young woman anxiously watching a canoe which was making a perilous passage through the surf to the shelter of the bay. When at last it slid into smooth water she breathed a sigh of relief and went slowly down the hill toward the shore.
The craft nosed stealthily up to the beach, where a stalwart, grave-faced white man sprang out; then the boat, propelled by the muscular arms of two kinky-headed blacks, slipped away and vanished around a little promontory.
“I’m glad you’re safe home, John,” the young woman cried, as the big man came swiftly toward her. “Is all well?”
“Very far from that, Margaret,” the newcomer answered, as he reached her side. “I’ve found a great deal of unrest throughout the island.”
“Because of the drought?”
“Yes,” he replied, and stood looking down upon her thoughtfully.
She came nearer and slipped her arm through his.
“I can see that you are anxious, John,” she said softly. “Do you fear an uprising?”
“Margaret,” he exclaimed, as they turned and began to climb the hill to the hut, “I should not have brought you here!”
“Oh!” she cried. “More than anything else I desired the privilege of helping you in your work. Do you mean that I have failed? That I have proved a burden rather than a help?”
“You know it is not that,” he replied quickly. “You have been wonderful, dear. But I should not have allowed you to leave old Scotland for the hardships and perils of these heathen isles.”
“It has not been easy,” she acknowledged; “but I have never once regretted coming.”
“I thought I was doing right to bring you,” he went on; “but now—now—”
“You feel,” she interposed, “that we are in real danger?”
“We shall be if the natives rise,” he replied. “I think you should know the truth, dear.”
Her blue eyes darkened, but there was no fear in them.
“But the people have come to feel we are their friends,” she protested. “Some of them love us. Surely they will not harm us.”
By this time they had reached the hut. He put her gently into a camp-chair before the door, and flung himself upon the white sand at her feet.
“A trading-ship touched on the other side of the island yesterday,” he told her.
“And paid for five hundred pounds’ worth of sandalwood with a barrel of rum, I suppose,” she commented.
“They were a little more generous this time,” he replied grimly. “They left several barrels.”
“No wonder then,” she said, “that the people are mad to-day.”
“They also left,” he continued, “in the mind of the old chief the impression that we missionaries are responsible for the drought.”
“Oh, too bad!” she exclaimed softly.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Old Namakei informed me just now that if another moon passes without rain the island will have no more of our God or of us.”
“What did you answer?” she asked.
“I told him,” and he smiled, “that I would dig in the earth and reveal a place where God’s rain is buried. He scoffed at first, but finally agreed to come with his warriors and help with the digging.”
“But, John,” she queried, “will you really be able to dig a well on this island?”
“Of course, I can’t be certain,” he answered; “but I’ve been studying the soil, and it seems probable. Anyway, it’s our one chance to appease the old chief’s ire and continue our work.”
John Gibson Paton had come out to the New Hebrides some years before, and settled on the cannibal island of Tanna.
He had begun at once to teach the people and had succeeded in greatly improving their condition, when a trading vessel had brought measles to the island. An epidemic followed, and the natives died like flies.
They were so bitterly angry against those who had brought the plague that they became suspicious of all white men, even the missionary who had always helped them, and he was finally obliged to flee for his life.
With great difficulty he escaped to a passing ship bound for Australia. From Australia, he went to his homeland, Scotland.
He had a wonderfully happy time on this visit among his friends and relatives, for he was married to the pretty Scotch lassie whom he had learned to love.
He felt that life would be very hard for her on the island of Tanna, and he decided to go, instead, to Aniwa, where the natives were less fierce and more intelligent. Besides, they had asked that a missionary be sent to them.
They were very glad when he came bringing his pretty wife, and they tried to learn all he told them.
All went well until the traders who came to the South Seas for sandalwood and cocoanuts and the rich tropical fruits, discovered that the natives were becoming more intelligent, and could not be cheated or swindled so easily since the missionaries were teaching them.
So the traders made up their minds to try to turn the blacks against Doctor Paton and his wife, and his native helpers.
They had not been able to do much until the time of the long drought, told about at the beginning of this story. You see, they depended almost entirely upon rain for fresh water to drink.
Never before in the memory of living men had the islands been so long without rain. The people were terrified and ready for any outbreak.
But the young missionaries, sitting silently under the palms, realized that the traders might so excite the natives with their talk, and with the rum, that they might become murderers and revert to cannibalism.
“Where will you dig the well, John?” Margaret asked at length.
“On the slope over there.” He nodded toward the opposite hill. “I shall begin work to-morrow. Chief Namakei comes an hour after sunrise.”
“If you succeed in reaching fresh water, shall we be safe?”
“Yes, and if not, I hate to think of what may happen.”
“But anyway,” she declared, “I’m sure you will find God’s rain, John.”
Weary days and nights followed; days when the doctor and his band of native helpers dug from dawn to dark in the sandy soil; nights when the young white people, too anxious to sleep, sat under their palm trees and watched while the moon sank into the sea, and the volcano of Tann, “the lighthouse of the Pacific,” flung its blazing banners high against the heavens.
Two weeks passed and the diggers found no water. Then one day the continued drought left the old chief’s favorite water-hole quite dry. On the same day the side of the new well caved in.
The two troubles coming together turned the interest of Namakei to suspicion. When the digging began again he forbade his men to take part in the work, and, though he still watched the other toilers, his beady eyes had the look of a hawk’s just ready to pounce upon its prey.
The moon was full before the cave-in was repaired. The next morning the two remaining helpers did not report for duty, and old Namakei told the doctor that they would not come back.
“They are my prisoners,” he laughed. “If Missi Paton wish help in finding the buried rain, let his God give it.”
“His God will give it,” the missionary replied, calmly.
And alone Doctor Paton went on with his undertaking.
Two days, three days, passed, and still no water. Namakei assumed a more threatening attitude.
“The moon wanes!” he warned the missionary.
And then one morning when the doctor went down into the well he saw something gleaming at his feet. He bent down, gazing with eager eyes. It was water!
“But will it be fresh?” he asked himself, with fast-beating heart. On so tiny an island the sea water might easily penetrate the soil.
Very slowly he dipped his finger into the now fast-rising water and lifted it to his lips. And then suddenly he sank down in the dampness and wept like a child. The water was fresh and pure and sweet, God’s rain indeed.
By noonday the well was filled with the life-giving water, and from every part of the island the natives gathered to behold the miracle of the rain which had come up from the earth instead of down from the sky, and to do honor to Missi Paton who had given it to them.
And when he assured them that it would always be there so long as the island remained in the sea, and that drought would nevermore bring suffering and distress among them, they kissed his hands in gratitude.
Never again did the evil words of the traders against their beloved Missi have any weight with the natives of Aniwa, and never again did they turn away from the Christian religion and the Christian God; and, if you should visit the island to-day, you would be shown by the proud people the well where John Gibson Paton found by faith and prayer and labor the buried blessing so many years ago.
Again the Story People clapped their hands as the story ended, for they love to hear of nothing better than a brave and an unselfish deed.
“That is a good story,” said Mary Frances.
“Yes,” said the Story King; “the stories of those who risk their lives for others are the best of all our stories.”
“Yes,” agreed the Story Queen; “they are the best of all.”
“Now,” said the Story Lady, “we come to our fourth story.”