A decrepit old woman, limping heavily on her crutches, made her way into the chaplaincy yard and insisted upon speaking to the white chaplain.

The chaplaincy yard was kept scrupulously clean, and the little garden adjacent, with hibiscus and crotons growing in rich profusion, and all bordered with festoons of sweet-peas and scarlet runners in early bloom, showed, as clearly as outside appearances went, that the Rev. Silas Whitely fully appreciated the good things in life.

The Colonel Chaplain had dined well, and was enjoying a Havana under the spreading bread-fruit trees which adorned the chaplaincy yard. The full moon threw a spray of silvery light through the myriad leaves of the overspreading branches, casting a halo over his face quite out of keeping with the mundane thoughts which at the moment engaged the mind of the reverend gentleman.

"Yes, I believe in even an ambassador of Christ having a good time. Why should I be such a silly ass as to refuse a whisky and soda at the Club? Besides, we must be all things unto all men. That is clearly the scriptural admonition, and it suits my present humour down to the ground. So there goes it; it is done" – this as he flicked off the live ashes from his cigar.

A deep, low cough arrested the attention of the Rev. Silas Whitely, and he turned to see the direction whence it came. He had thought he was alone.

"Was it you, Nancy?" he said, addressing the old woman. "What brings you here to-night?"

The woman addressed curtsied low. She had been brought up in the Mission school, finishing up in the High School, and spoke English with remarkable fluency. She had loved, and she had lost – first husband, then an only son who had been unto the husband as the apple of the eye, and, therefore, doubly dear unto her woman’s heart. Did I say lost? No, they were not lost. At least thus she had been taught by the missionaries, and when she was sad the chaplain had cheered her with the hope of resurrection morn. She had come to believe that somewhere, in another sphere, they awaited her; and her one thought was that happy hour, one day, when they would welcome her to a place beside them. She lived for this, and worked for this hope. Now and again she thought she had glimpses of Him who said: "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life," and she had been told the way to Him was to maintain the truth. A heavy burden, for some time back, had sorely pressed upon her heart, which she felt would be lifted by telling the Rev. Silas Whitely the truth, as she conceived it; and so here she was to do it, and yet did not know how.

A soft wind rustled the luxuriant foliage overhead, and through the branches the bright stars peeped down upon this simple old woman whose only wish was to be in harmony with Nature’s God. A sudden inspiration, like the wind blowing where it listeth, came to her. She would tell the chaplain a story, as she had heard he was fond of Fanti stories, and was wont to collect them; and what better time than a moonlight night in Africa for telling stories?

Nancy laid aside her crutches, took a low stool offered her by the Chaplain, and cleared her throat of a troublesome cough or two. "I have a nice story to tell you, sir, to add to your collection, and, as I was feeling a little stronger this evening than usual, I thought I would come in."

"Certainly, quite welcome," said the Rev. Silas Whitely. "Fire away, Nancy; I am all eagerness to hear you begin."

"Once upon a time," Nancy began in a clear sonorous voice, "there went into a far distant country two Mahomedan priests to work for Allah. After a time their paths lay in different districts, and they seldom heard of one another. As was their wont, the missionaries worked in leather and other useful industries; but, as it happened, Akarbah succeeded and grew rich in wordly goods, while Adaku, his friend, merely lived from hand to mouth; yet did Allah bless his labours. As is the way of the world, Akarbah’s society was now sought by the highest in the land; and when he counted his beads at the hour of prayer, he failed not to thank Allah for all the good He gave.

One day as he returned from the house of prayer he met an errand boy, who handed him a bit of parchment, written in Arabic. He opened it, and found it was a message from his brother missionary, who, he knew, was low and humble in the things of this world. ‘This day,’ so the message ran, ‘I, Adaku, thy brother missionary, shall lodge with thee.’

Akarbah frowned. It was very inconvenient. This very day the High Sheriff was to dine with him, the rich and prosperous Akarbah, and what would he say if he met at his table a mendicant friar of a Mahomedan priest? He was resolved. The thing must not be. ‘Here, lad, take this parchment back quickly to my brother Adaku. Make sure and give it to him, and I will give you my blessing and a silver piece upon your return.’

The lad ran past the camels and the horses and the cattle in the market places, and went out by the fifth gate of the city to find the priest Adaku was not at the place where he expected him to be. Adaku had already entered by the seventh gate, and was already within the holy precincts of the abode of Akarbah.

‘Hail, brother,’ was Adaku’s salutation. ‘May Allah be ever more gracious to thee.’

For answer Akarbah visibly trembled with agitation. ‘Did you not receive the parchment?’

Adaku stared vacantly at his friend. ‘What parchment?’

Akarbah gave no answer, but suddenly left the precincts of his abode, as if struck by a sudden thought. The hours passed, but they did not bring Akarbah. At last the truth dawned upon Adaku. ‘Evidently I am not wanted here,’ and, putting on his sandals and snatching his staff, he passed out of the house of his friend, shaking the dust off his feet as he did so, and never forgetting to mention him, not in anger, it is said, when he counted his beads in the house of Allah.

‘What a funny story, Nancy; whatever do you mean?’ said the Rev. Silas Whitely, as the old woman finished what she had to say.

‘Yes, it is funny,’ she said; ‘but you know, chaplain, I have lately had such grave doubts as to whether what you tell us in those beautiful sermons you read out every Sunday about the love of God, of heaven, and the rest of it can all be true; and oh! whatever shall I do after all these years of weary waiting, if they are not true? Where is my husband, and where is my son?’ and it was painful to see the distress and the anguish in the face of the poor woman.

‘Don’t go on like that, Nancy. But what is there to make you doubt of heaven and the love of God?’

The old woman dried a tear or two, and said very slowly and deliberately: ‘Chaplain, you asked me when I had done telling my story what I meant by it. I have prayed to God night and day for some time to be able to answer that self-same question when it came, and now, God helping me, I will. Know thou, then, that thou art the Akarbah of my story. God hath exalted you above thy fellows that thou mightest be a guide unto us his forlorn little ones, and show us the way of love and the way to heaven. But surely thou hast not dealt in love with thy brother, Kwaw Baidu, who is now out of work, with wife and children depending upon him, whose story is known to all parishioners for mile and miles around. And oh! if the heaven you have so often preached about hath two ways leading to it, one for us black folk and one for you our masters, what an undesirable place it must be for us after all the weariness here below. But do tell me – you who have raised the hope in me – where is now my husband, and where my child?’ ejaculated the poor woman, wringing her hands. ‘Tell me, for thou hast helped to raise false hopes in me. Oh, God! what shall I do?’ And the poor woman swooned away in a dead faint. Every effort was made to revive her, without success, and when the doctor arrived he pronounced life extinct.