For it's weary here In de wilderness; Oh, it's weary-y-y, 'way down in Goshen!'

That was the sort of stuff, and it had any number of verses.

I never heard the end of them. Also there were variants--most of them unfit for publication. The tune had swept up the valley like an epidemic disease: and, after a while, it astonished no dweller in Eucalyptus to find his waking thoughts and his whole daily converse jigging to it. But the new-comer was naturally a bit startled to hear the same strain put up from a score of houses as he walked down the street.

"I found the house, No. 67, easily; and knocked. It looked neat enough, with a fence in front and some pots of flowers in a little balcony over the porch, and clean muslin curtains to the windows.

The fence and house-front were painted a bright blue, but not entirely; for here and there appeared patches of green daubed over the blue, much as if a child had been around experimenting with a paint-pot.

"'Open the door and come upstairs, please,' said an English voice right overhead. And, looking up, I saw a slim young man in a minister's black suit standing among the flower-pots and smiling down at me. I saw, of course, that this must be my patient; and I knew his complaint too. Even at that distance anyone could see he was pretty far gone in consumption.

"As I climbed the stairs he came in from the porch and met me on the landing, at the door of Miss Montmorency's best parlour-- a spick-and-span apartment containing a cottage piano, some gilded furniture of the Second Empire fashion, a gaudy lithograph or two, and a carpet that had to be seen to be believed.

"'I had better explain,' said I, 'that this is a professional visit.

I met Miss Montmorency just outside the town, and have her orders to call. I am a medical man.'

"Still smiling pleasantly, he took my hand and shook it.

"'Miss Montmorency is so very thoughtful,' he said; then, touching his chest lightly, 'It's true I have some trouble here-- const.i.tutional, I'm afraid; but I have suffered from it, more or less, ever since I was fourteen, and it doesn't frighten me.

There is really no call for your kind offices; nothing beyond a general weakness, which has detained me here in Eucalyptus longer than I intended. But Miss Montmorency, seeing my impatience, has jumped to the belief that I am seriously ill.' Here he smiled again.

'She is the soul of kindness,' he added.

"I looked into his prominent and rather nervous eyes. They were as innocent as a child's. Of course there was nothing unusual in his hopefulness, which is common enough in cases of phthisis-- symptomatic, in fact; and, of course, I did not discourage him.

"'You have work waiting for you? Some definite post?' I asked.

"He answered with remarkable dignity; he looked a mere boy too.

"'I am a minister of the gospel, as you guess by my coat: to be precise, a Congregational minister. At least, I pa.s.sed through a Congregational training college in England. But nice distinctions of doctrine will be of little moment in the work before me. No, I have no definite post awaiting me--that is, I have not received a call from any particular congregation, nor do I expect one. The harvest is over there, across the mountains; and the labourers are never too many.'

"It was singular in my experience; but this young man contrived to speak like a book without being at all offensive.

"'I was sent out to America,' he went on, 'mainly for my health's sake; and the voyage did wonders for me. Of course I picked up a lot of information on the way and in New York. It was there I first heard of the awful wickedness of the Pacific Slope, the utter, abandoned G.o.dlessness of the mining camps throughout the golden and silver states. I had letters of introduction to one or two New England families--sober, religious people--and the stories they told of the Far West were simply appalling. It was then that my call came to me. It came one night--But all this has nothing to do with my health.'

"'It interests me,' said I.

"'It does one good to talk, if you're sure you mean that,' he went on, with a happy laugh. Then, with sudden gravity: 'It came one night--the clear voice of G.o.d calling me. I was asleep; but it woke me, and I sat up in bed with the voice still ringing in my ears like a bugle calling. I knew from that moment that my work lay out West.

I saw that my very illness had been, in G.o.d's hands, a means to lead me nearer to it. As soon as ever I was strong enough, I started; and you may think me fanciful, sir, but I can tell you that, as sure as I sit here, every step of the way has been smoothed for me by the Divine hand. The people have been so kind all the way (for I am a poor man); and I have other signs--other a.s.surances--'

"He broke off, hesitated, and resumed his sentence at the beginning:

"'The people have been so kind. I think the Americans must be the kindest people in the world; and good too. I cannot believe that all the wickedness they talk of out yonder can come from anything but ignorance of the Word. I am certain it cannot. And that encourages me mightily. Why, down in Bellefont they told me that Eucalyptus here was a little nest of iniquity; they spoke of it as of some City of the Plain. And what have I found? Well, the people are indeed as sheep without a shepherd; and who can wonder, seeing that there is not a single House of Prayer kept open in the munic.i.p.ality? There is a great deal of coa.r.s.e levity, and even profanity of speech, and, I fear, much immoderate drinking; but these are the effects of blindness rather than of wickedness. From the heavier sins--from what I may call actual, conscious vice--Eucalyptus is singularly free. Miss Montmorency, indeed, tells me that in her experience (which, of course, is that of a single lady, and therefore restricted) the moral tone of the town is surprisingly healthy.

You understand that I give her judgment no more than its due weight.

Still, Miss Montmorency has lived here three years; and for a single lady (and, I may add, the only lady in the place) to pa.s.s three years in it entirely unmolested--'

"This was too much; and I interrupted him almost at random--

"'You remind me of the purpose of my call. I hope, if only to satisfy Miss Montmorency, you won't mind my sounding your chest and putting a few questions to you.'

"Seeing that I had already pulled out my stethoscope, he gave way, feebly protesting that it was not worth my trouble. The examination merely a.s.sured me of that which I knew already--that this young man's days were numbered, and the numbers growing small. I need not say I kept this to myself.

"'You must let me call again to-morrow,' said I. 'I've a small medicine chest up at the Cornice House, and you want a tonic badly.'

"Upon this he began, with a confused look and a slight stammer: 'Do you know--I'm afraid you will think it rude, but I didn't mean it for rudeness--really. Your visit has given me great pleasure--'

"It flashed on me that he had called himself 'a poor man.'

"'I wasn't proposing to doctor you,' I put in; and it was a shameless lie. 'You may take the tonic or not; it won't do much harm, anyway.

But a gentle walk every day among the pines here--the very gentlest, nothing to overtax your strength--will do more for you than any drugs. But if you will let me call, pretty often, and have a talk-- I'm an Englishman, you know, and an English voice is good to hear--'

"His face lit up at once. 'Ah, if you would!' said he; and we shook hands."

"As I closed the front door and stepped out upon the sidewalk, a tall man lounged across to me from the doorway of a saloon across the road--a lumberer, by his dress. He wore a large soft hat, a striped flannel shirt open at the neck, a broad leathern belt, and muddy trousers tucked into muddy wading-boots. His appearance was picturesque enough without help from his dress. He had a mighty length of arm and breadth of shoulders; a handsome, but thin and almost delicately fair, face, with blue eyes, and a surprisingly well-kept beard. The colour of this beard and of his hair--which he wore pretty long--was a light auburn. Just now the folds of his raiment were full of moist sawdust; and as he came he brought the scent of the pine-woods with him.

"'How's the Bishop?' asked this giant, jerking his head towards the little balcony of No. 67.

"Before I could hit on a discreet answer, he followed the question up with another:

"'What'll you take?'

"I saw that he had something to say, and allowed him to lead the way to a saloon a little way down the road. 'Simpson's Pioneers'

Symposium' was the legend above the door. A small, pimply-faced man in seedy black--whom I guessed at once, and correctly, to be 'Huz-and-Buz'--lounged by the bar inside; and across the counter the bar-keeper had his banjo slung, and was gently strumming the accompaniment of 'Hey, Juliana!'

"'Put that down,' commanded my new acquaintance; and then, turning to Huz-and-Buz, 'Git!'

"The architect raised the brim of his hat to me, bowed servilely, and left.

"'Short or long?'

"I said I would take a short drink.

"'A brandy sour?'

"'A 'brandy sour' will suit me.'

"He kept his eye for a moment on the bar-tender, who began to bustle around with the bottles and gla.s.ses; then turned upon me.

"'Now, then.'

"'About the Bishop, as you call him?'

"He nodded.

"'Well, you're not to tell him so; but he's going to die.'

"'Quick?'

"'I think so.'

"He nodded. 'I knew that,' he said, and was silent for a minute; then resumed, 'No; he won't be told. We take an interest in that young man.'