“A fair morning to you, my child! You are not a slug-a-bed. Have you come for the gathering of mushrooms or primroses? Not the latter; the borders of the Mill stream must be strewn with them to-day.” “I am on my way to my home, sir,” she replied. “I set out on my return to the village an hour ago. I should be back in less than another--'tis scarce four mile onward.” “I remember that you told me you had come from Porthawn--my destination also. I wished for a chat with you, but somehow we drifted a long way from Porthawn--we drifted across the Atlantic and got lost in the backwoods of America.” “Ah, no, sir, not lost,” said the girl. “I was a poor guide,” said he. “I have only had a glimpse of the backwoods, and so could only lead you all a rood or two beyond their fringes of maple. The true guide is one that hath been on every forest track and can tell by the tinges on the tree trunk in what direction his feet tend. What a pity 'tis, my dear, that we cannot be so guided through this great tangled forest of life that we are travers-. ing now on to the place of light that is far beyond--a place where there is no darkness--a shelter but no shadow! There, you see, I begin to preach to the first person whom I overtake. That is the way of the man who feels laid upon him the command to preach.” “It does not sound like preaching, sir,” said the girl. “I would not tire listening to words like that.” “That is how you know preaching from--well, from what is not preaching: you tire of the one, not of the other?” said he, smiling down at her. She hung her head. Somehow in the presence of this man all her readiness of speech--sharpness of reply--seemed to vanish. “I do not say that you have not made a very honest and a very excellent attempt to convey to me what is the impression of many people,” he resumed. “But there is a form of preaching of which you can never grow weary. I have been listening to it since our good friend Hal Holmes helped me to mount the horse that he had just shod.” “Preaching, sir?” she said. “There are not many preachers hereabouts. Parson Rodney gives us a good ten minutes on Sunday, but he does not trouble us on week-days.” “Doth his preaching trouble you on Sunday, child? If so, I think more highly of your parson than I should be disposed to think, seeing that I have heard nothing about him save that he is the best judge of a game-cock in Cornwall. But the sermon that makes a listener feel troubled in spirit is wholesome. Ah, never mind that. I tell you that I have been listening to sermons all this lovely morning--the sermon of that eminent preacher, the sun, to the exhortation of the fields, the homily of the bursting flowers, the psalm of the soaring lark, the parable of the butterfly. I was thinking upon the butterfly when you appeared.” “You are different from Parson Rodney, if it please you, sir.”