Best of all, it has slipped quietly
into many a far-away harbor that I have never seen, and found a kindly
welcome, and brought back messages of good cheer from unknown friends.
Now it has turned home to be new-rigged and fitted for further
voyaging. Before it is sent out again I have been asked to tell where
the story came from and what it means.
I do not know where it came from--out of the air, perhaps. One thing is
certain, it is not written in any other book, nor is it to be found
among the ancient lore of the East. And yet I have never felt as if it
were my own. It was a gift. It was sent to me; and it seemed as if I
knew the Giver, though His name was not spoken.
The year had been full of sickness and sorrow. Every day brought
trouble. Every night was tormented with pain. They are very long--those
nights when one lies awake, and hears the laboring heart pumping
wearily at its task, and watches for the morning, not knowing whether
it will ever dawn. They are not nights of fear; for the thought of
death grows strangely familiar when you have lived with it for a year.
Besides, after a time you come to feel like a soldier who has been long
standing still under fire; any change would be a relief. But they are
lonely nights; they are very heavy nights.
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