At first, when the dread suspicion began to be whispered in the
halls of Oxford College and in the chapel gatherings throughout
the country, people refused to believe it. Kai Bok-su ill? No,
no, it was only the malaria, and he always arose from that and
went about again. It could not be serious.
But in spite of the fact that loving hearts refused to accept it,
there was no use denying the sad fact. There was something wrong
with Kai Bok-su. For months his voice had been growing weaker,
the doctors had examined his throat, and attended him, but it was
all of no use. At last he could not speak at all, but wrote his
words on a slate.
And everywhere in north Formosa, converts and students and
preachers watched and waited and prayed most fervently that he
might soon recover. Those who lived in Tamsui whispered to each
other in tones of dread, as they watched him come and go with
slower steps than they had been accustomed to see.
"He will be well next month," they would say hopefully, or, "He
will look like himself when the rains dry." But little by little
the conviction grew that the beloved missionary was seriously
ill, and a great gloom settled all over north Formosa.
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