The series of Meetings, up to Quebec, was mapped out at the Assembly, and the whole of the arrangements were entrusted to the Rev. J. W. Mitchell of Thorold, a man of deep devotion and of untiring zeal. Our Treasurer was A. K. Macdonald, Esq., Toronto, to whose kindness also we were profoundly indebted. Countless applications poured in upon us. It was no uncommon thing to address two or even three Meetings daily, and to travel long distances between them by conveyance and rail. On Sunday we delivered never less than three Addresses, but more frequently five, and sometimes even seven, including the Bible Classes and Sabbath Schools. It was dreadfully exhausting work. Sometimes I hesitated, fearing every day would be my last. But again my vigor returned, and my heart hungered to overtake all that I possibly could, knowing that the time was short. Besides, in this tour as always, the getting of Collections, however anxiously desired for our Mission, was never my primary aim; but always the saving of souls, by the story of the New Hebrides. For that cause I would gladly die. But I did not die; and there was given a new illustration of the meaning of that inspired saying—“The joy of the Lord is your strength”—the work, which is our _joy_, uplifts rather than oppresses us! The incidents of these journeys would fill a goodly volume. But I had neither the leisure nor the inclination to record them day by day. One or two specially impressed themselves on my memory, however, and may here be glanced at. On one occasion, after a long Railway ride, I found myself set down on the wrong side of a flooded River, the bridge having been swept away. The Station-Master pointed us to a boat, kept by a farmer, which, if we reached, might ferry us over. But two huge fields betwixt us and the spot were flooded with the overflow, and these had to be crossed. A young lady, a gentleman, and I, all equally eager to get to the other side, resolved to try. We waded to the Boat-Landing, and reached it in a very bedraggled state. There the boat had been left, awaiting some one’s return, but the farmer was across the River. None of us felt very brave about the experiment of rowing across the racing current! Our fellow traveller, nevertheless, resolved to try. Minimizing my warning about rowing a long way up in the quieter water, and then slanting across with the sweep of the current, he went up only a little, and quickly plunged in. His boat was whirled away like a cork. We held our breath, while the young farmer on the opposite bank kept shouting and gesticulating, running down the River, and guiding the rower as best he could. It was with a sigh of thankful relief that we saw the traveller stand up at last on the farther side, safe but badly shaken.