After I had breakfasted and made my bed (I know little Maisie Brant, who used to make my bed away back over in the old home--little Maisie who had wept at my departure, would have laughed till she wept again, had she seen my woful endeavours to straighten out my sheets and smooth my pillow. But then, she was not there to see and laugh and--I was quite satisfied with my handiwork and satisfied that I would be able to sleep soundly in the bed when the night should come again)--I hunted the shelves for a book. Stevenson, Poe, Scott, Hugo, Wells, Barrie, Dumas, Twain, Emerson, Byron, Longfellow, Burns,--which should it be? Back along the line I went, and chose--oh, well!--an old favourite I had read many times before. I hunted out a hammock and slung it comfortably from the posts on the front veranda, where I could lie and smoke and read; also where I could look away across the Bay and rest my eyes on the quiet scene when they should grow weary. Late in the afternoon, when I was beginning to grow tired of my indolence, I heard the thud, thud of a gasoline launch as it came up the Bay. It passed between Rita's Isle and the wharf, and held on, turning in to Jake Meaghan's cove. I wondered who the visitor could be, then I went back to my reading. Not long after, a shadow fell across my book and I jumped up. "Pray, don't let me disturb you, my son," said a soft, well-modulated, masculine voice. "Stay where you are. Enjoy your well-earned rest." A little, frail-looking, pale-faced, elderly gentleman was at my elbow. He smiled at me with the smile of an angel, and my heart went out to him at once, so much so that I could have hugged him in my arms. "My name is William Auld," he continued. "I am the medical missionary. What is yours, my son?" He held out his hand to me. "George Bremner," I replied, gripping his. "Let me bring you a chair." I went inside, and when I returned he was turning over the leaves of my book. "So you are a book lover?" he mused. "Well, I would to God more men were book lovers, for then the world would be a better place to live in, or rather, the men in it would be better to live among. "Victor Hugo,--'Les Miserables'!--" he went on. "To my mind, the greatest of all novelists and the greatest of all novels." He laid the book aside, and sought my confidences, not as a preacher, not as a pedagog, but as a friend; making no effort to probe my past, seeking no secrets; but all anxiety for my welfare; keen to know my ambitions, my aspirations, my pastimes and my habits of living; open and frank in telling me of himself. He was a man's man, with the experience of men that one gets only by years of close contact. "For twenty years it has been God's will to allow me to travel up and down this beloved coast and minister to those who need me." "You must like the work, sir," I ventured. "Like it!--oh! yes, yes,---I would not exchange my post for the City Temple of London, England."