“Vell, _I_ von’t keep you,” says the great man cavalierly, shutting up the spy-glass with a snap. “Dat’s not de _Trush_, Got dammer!” and he turned testily away. Mr. Christianson followed with words about rebate on “damaged cans.” Mr. Björk followed Mr. Christianson, deaf to Cheviot’s questions about Mar, eyes fixed in abstraction on the red-brown scoriæ under foot. * * * * * The two “Scandahoojians” and their passenger left St. Michaels the next day in the little sail-boat _St. Olaf_, managed with no small skill by Mr. Björk. It was the rugged Christianson, however, who issued the orders, and strangely enough, considering his aspect, supplied the social element and the information. If you saw Christianson alone, you would have thought him one of the grimmest works of God, but seeing him beside Björk you would find him almost genial. What chiefly occupied Cheviot, as the _St. Olaf_ sped through the windy drizzle, was a growing wonder as to how Hildegarde’s father had come to be stranded up here all these months, and how a man accustomed to creature comforts, a cripple, and close on sixty—how had he endured the conditions of life at “Golovin!” What _were_ the conditions at Golovin? Curious to know, for Hildegarde would ask—afraid to know, for Hildegarde must be answered, he kept seeing in flashes and as through the eyes of a girl, all the probable harshness of the old man’s adventure. Cheviot’s questions about Golovin were interrupted by Mr. Christianson somewhat narrowly—eliciting an account of how the mission prospered; what the native population was; how many were converts; and other matters not strictly to the point Cheviot had in mind. “Yes, _oh_, yes! Dere is great acti-_vitty_. You can see in our reports. Ve make great progress. Ve bring de true light to many who sat in darkness. But ve arre poore—meezerabble poore. Nobody knows, what haf not lief dere, how harrd de life. Eh, Björk?” Björk, sheet in hand, gloomily assented, without the aid of speech. Cheviot caught his glancing eye. “Are you—a—a—at the mission, too?” The dark man studied the course and held on his silent way. “Oh, yes. Mr. Björk ees von of os. He is not long dere—but he understand. Ve haf great need of vorkers. So he come.” “You mean you sent home for Mr. Björk?” Mr. Christianson stared a moment. “Send home? Oh, it is far to Sveden. Heaven is nearer.” It was Cheviot’s turn for mystification. “Vhen ve need helpers,” Mr. Christianson explained, “ve pray for dem. God send os Mr. Björk.” He spoke with a curious matter-of-factness. “Oh,” said Cheviot, “and—a—how did Mr. Björk know where to find you?” “He see Kwimkuk in a visshun. He see de Mission House and he see me, too. Eh, Björk.” The helper nodded with preternatural gravity. “Where were you,” said Cheviot, “when you had the vision?”