‘I am sorry that it should be so,’ said Ernest, thinking what a glorious pastor this zealous missionary would be for his community at Rainbar, when it was sufficiently grown and established. ‘I am afraid none of us who are somewhat fully endowed with this world’s goods do a tenth part as much as we might. But I do not see how matters are to be mended as the world whirls on its appointed course. Enthusiasm is dead, and belief will soon follow.’ ‘We might all do much―you will excuse my professional tone of exhortation,’―said this latter-day apostle, ‘by performing our own distinctly laid down duties personally and rigidly, to arrest the dreary tendency you refer to―to plant the seeds of a richer and a more vigorous religious growth. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name; permit me to present my card. I trust that we shall meet again under circumstances more favourable for discussion and mutual acquaintance.’ ‘Thanks, I shall only be too happy. I am Mr. Neuchamp, of Rainbar, where I should be delighted to see you if circumstances ever lead to your visiting so distant a locality.’ ‘I don’t know where my Father’s work may take me; but be assured that I shall be much gratified by any chance which involves future intercourse with one of kindred sentiments.’ Mr. Neuchamp gazed at the speaker, and thought he had rarely seen a more uncommon countenance. Still young, he was perhaps nearer to the goal of middle age than to the ‘spring of springs’ of early youth. The outline of the features was aristocratic and refined. His slight but symmetrical figure, in its careless ease of seat on horseback, suggested more extended practice in youth than was quite compatible with his present position. But the eye, mild, searching, calmly radiant, was the conspicuous feature. It showed the steady unfaltering regard of one ever willing to attest with his blood the truth of the doctrines which he held. ‘We pass through these rails,’ said he, ‘and enter this lane, soon after which my path turns off and I leave you.’ As he pointed to the slip-rails Mr. Neuchamp spurred forward to prevent his having the trouble to take them down, and practised a manœuvre of which he was rather proud. He stooped from his saddle, and, raising the top rail, placed it carefully upon the second. Then wheeling Osmund for a stride backward, that accomplished animal leaped easily over, without the slightest hesitation. ‘Come along, sir,’ said Ernest to the clergyman; ‘it is no height, and I will put it up.’ ‘Thanks, no; you must really excuse me.’ Ernest reiterated his assurances that it was extremely low―no danger, and so on. All unmoved by Mr. Neuchamp’s requests and entreaties, the gentleman with the black coat and gray trousers quietly alighted, saying, ‘You must excuse me, I do not leap at all.’ He then took down the two lower rails and, replacing them, gravely remounted.