Around the door plays a little boy, the image of his mother, while some distance away, under the shadow of the huge tree, sits the missionary himself.

One leg is thrown over the other, an open book turned with its face downward upon his lap, while his hands are folded upon it, and he is looking off toward the wood in deep abstraction of thought.

Time has not been so gentle with Harvey Richter.

There are lines upon his face, and a sad, wearied expression that does not properly belong there.

It would have required full fifteen years, in the ordinary course of events, to have bowed him in this manner.
The young man--for he is still such--and his little boy are the only ones who now dwell within the cabin.