The instances were rare in which those terrible mental struggles so often described in the annals of Methodism took place. At the same time the belief in the direct interposition of the Creator in the smallest matters was intensified almost beyond imagination, and meanings were often assigned to the most ordinary actions of everyday life which, if they were not sad, would be laughable to contemplate. Galbraith was an unconscious doubter, and he was perhaps the only man there whose faith, unknown to himself, was tottering on its foundations. In a dim sort of way he was conscious that there was something wrong with himself, and the impulse to throw off the chains of the cheerless belief to which he was bound was at times almost greater than he could endure. It was his hourly duty to exhort his flock to find Christ. Many of them asserted that they had made the discovery, and looked with complacent satisfaction on the certainty of future salvation. But while John Galbraith was raising his voice and preaching to his people, there was that within him that told him that he himself was unable to find the haven of rest, and a longing for a warmer belief, one full of love and charity, would come upon him. * * * * * Elder Bullin, arrayed in a solemn suit of black, stood, hat in hand, at his doorstep. His brownberry was ready, the lamps flashing brightly in the darkness of the evening. It was the date of the monthly meeting of the tabernacle, and the elder was determined to put Mr. Sarkies out of the fold, that "tainted wether," whose further touch was contamination. His daughters stood beside him to see him off, and the elder, rapping his stick on the fibre matting, impressed upon the girls the necessity for holding godly communion among themselves during his absence. His speech was interrupted by the fact that in slipping his hand into his waistcoat pocket, he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten his spectacles. Hastily stopping his discourse, he walked back to his room, and found the brown leather case lying on a square envelope on his writing-table. He picked up the case, and, pulling out the glasses, fixed them carefully over his eyes. He then picked up the envelope. It was not addressed, but carefully sealed. He rubbed it between his finger and thumb. There was evidently something inside it. The bright pink colour aroused his suspicions. "The livery of the scarlet woman," he said, as he tore it open. As he read, the expression of his countenance changed from profound astonishment to anger, and then to utter contempt. "Verses--poetry--Satan hath lain in wait for this unhappy young man, and his portion shall be of the wrath to come--verses--and to me--pah!" He recognised the writing and the monogram, and was self-complacent enough to imagine that the verses were addressed to him.