I remembered the case then, and immediately set about tracing Morrison, a task which would have been easy indeed if I had thought for a moment of him being identical with “the broken missionary.” At length I came upon a solicitor who occasionally employed Morrison to copy deeds, and by him was referred to the tradesman who employed the broken man to keep his books. It was only when we were near the hovel which Morrison called his home that the idea flashed upon me that the broken missionary was the man I was after. I knew where he lived, and went straight to the house, which tallied perfectly with the description given by the tradesman. When we knocked at the door a low voice told us to “Come in,” and on entering we saw only a child of eighteen months creeping about the floor in great glee, with a doll of rags in its hands. But a glance round showed us where the voice had come from. There was a bed behind the door, and in that there was a pale, bloodless face, and a pair of shiny eyes, bearing a shadowy resemblance to the man we sought. The broken missionary feebly attempted to raise himself upon his arm, while the deacon rushed forward, dropped on his knees before the bed, and hid his face and tears in the thin wasted hands he had clasped. “My poor wronged minister!” he exclaimed; “say you forgive me. We have found out the lady who sent you the £5 note; and I know I have been cruel and wicked——” A strange convulsion passed over the ghastly face and sunken features of the missionary, while his great eyes appeared to shine out with a perfect radiance. “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name!” he fervently exclaimed, as the great eyes became soft and beautiful with tears. The child on the floor crowed with delight, and hammered vigorously on the floor with the head of its doll of rags. The deacon gathered the thin form of the sick man in his arms, and hurriedly breathed out all his plans for reparation. He would carry him back with him to his own home; he would care for him, and send him away to the country, to fresh green fields and cool shady woods, where he would have nothing to do but take his fill of the balmy air, and draw health from the glorious sunshine. But the grey head was shaken on his breast in quiet demur, with a pitiful look in the great eyes as they rested on the laughing face of the neglected child on the floor. “I am going to fair fields and a glorious country,” he feebly gasped, “but not there—not there. God has sent his sunshine into my soul, and I can depart in peace.” He fainted away as he spoke, and it was long before he could be restored. The deacon had a nurse and a doctor there in an hour, but they came too late. In the dead of night, with the deacon clasping his hand and wetting it with his repentant tears, the missionary went quietly to his rest.