"You don't know 'Juliana'--neither tune nor words? Nor did I when I set foot in Eucalyptus; but I lived on pretty close terms with it for the next two months, and it ended by clearing me out of the neighbourhood. It was a sort of nigger camp-meeting song, and a hybrid at that. It went something like this:" 'O, de lost ell-an'-yard is a-huntin' fer de morn'-- The lost ell-and-yard is Orion's sword and belt, I may tell you-- 'Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-holy! An' my soul's done sicken fer de Hallelujah horn, Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-ho! Was it weary there, In de wilderness? Was it weary-y-y, 'way down in Goshen? 'O, de children shibber by de Jordan's flow-- Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-holy! An' it's time fer Gaberl to shake hisself an' blow, Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-ho! For it's weary here In de wilderness; Oh, it's weary-y-y, 'way down in Goshen!' That was the sort of stuff, and it had any number of verses. I never heard the end of them. Also there were variants--most of them unfit for publication. The tune had swept up the valley like an epidemic disease: and, after a while, it astonished no dweller in Eucalyptus to find his waking thoughts and his whole daily converse jigging to it. But the new-comer was naturally a bit startled to hear the same strain put up from a score of houses as he walked down the street. "I found the house, No. 67, easily; and knocked. It looked neat enough, with a fence in front and some pots of flowers in a little balcony over the porch, and clean muslin curtains to the windows. The fence and house-front were painted a bright blue, but not entirely; for here and there appeared patches of green daubed over the blue, much as if a child had been around experimenting with a paint-pot. "'Open the door and come upstairs, please,' said an English voice right overhead. And, looking up, I saw a slim young man in a minister's black suit standing among the flower-pots and smiling down at me. I saw, of course, that this must be my patient; and I knew his complaint too. Even at that distance anyone could see he was pretty far gone in consumption. "As I climbed the stairs he came in from the porch and met me on the landing, at the door of Miss Montmorency's best parlour-- a spick-and-span apartment containing a cottage piano, some gilded furniture of the Second Empire fashion, a gaudy lithograph or two, and a carpet that had to be seen to be believed. "'I had better explain,' said I, 'that this is a professional visit. I met Miss Montmorency just outside the town, and have her orders to call. I am a medical man.' "Still smiling pleasantly, he took my hand and shook it.