the white man. "'Why,' said she, 'is he not one of us? Does he not bring plenty of cloth and beads? Talk about the Arabs! Who are they, that they should be compared to white men? Arabs, indeed!' "The doctor and I conversed upon many things, especially upon his own immediate troubles, and his disappointment upon his arrival at Ujiji when told that all his goods had been sold, and he was reduced to poverty. He had but twenty cloths or so left of the stock he had deposited with the man called sheriff, the half-caste, drunken tailor, who was sent by the British consul in charge of the goods. Besides which he had been suffering from an attack of the dysentery, and his condition was most deplorable. He was but little improved on this day, though he had eaten well, and already began to feel stronger and better. "This day, like all others, though big with happiness to me, at last, was fading away. We, sitting with our faces looking to the east, as Livingstone had been sitting for days preceding my arrival, noted the dark shadow which crept up above the grove of palms beyond the village, and above the rampart of mountains which we had crossed that day, now looming through the fast-approaching darkness; and we listened, with our hearts full of gratitude to the great Giver of Good and Dispenser of all Happiness to the sonorous thunder of the surf of the Tanganika, and to the chorus which the night insects sang. Hours passed, and we were still sitting there with our minds busy upon the day's remarkable events, when I remembered that the venerable traveler had not yet read his letters. "'Doctor,' I said, 'you had better read your letters. I will not keep you up any longer.' "'Yes,' he answered, 'it is getting late, and I will go and read my friends' letters. Good-night, and God bless you.' "'Good-night, my dear doctor, and let me hope, your news will be such as you desire.'" Since the creation of the world there never has occurred such another interview. The feelings of Stanley that night, in the heart of Africa, can only be imagined. The strain had ended, the doubt and suspense were over--_he had found Livingstone!_ he had succeeded; his most extravagant dreams had been realized; his wildest ambition was satisfied, and from that hour the adventurer, the newspaper correspondent, took his place among the great explorers of the world. But it was no stroke of luck,--it was the fitting reward of great risks and great endeavor. CHAPTER IX. STANLEY'S HOMEWARD MARCH.