As to Mr. St John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally and rapidly between me and his sisters did not extend to him.  One reason of the distance yet observed between us was, that he was comparatively seldom at home:  a large proportion of his time appeared devoted to visiting the sick and poor among the scattered population of his parish.

No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions:  rain or fair, he would, when his hours of morning study were over, take his hat, and, followed by his father’s old pointer, Carlo, go out on his mission of love or duty —­ I scarcely know in which light he regarded it.  Sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable, his sisters would expostulate.  He would then say, with a peculiar smile, more solemn than cheerful —­

“And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me aside from these easy tasks, what preparation would such sloth be for the future I propose to myself?”

Diana and Mary’s general answer to this question was a sigh, and some minutes of apparently mournful meditation.

But besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier to friendship with him:  he seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, and even of a brooding nature.  Zealous in his ministerial labours, blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity, that inward content, which should be the reward of every sincere Christian and practical philanthropist.  Often, of an evening, when he sat at the window, his desk and papers before him, he would cease reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, and deliver himself up to I know not what course of thought; but that it was perturbed and exciting might be seen in the frequent flash and changeful dilation of his eye.

I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that treasury of delight it was to his sisters.  He expressed once, and but once in my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, and an inborn affection for the dark roof and hoary walls he called his home; but there was more of gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roam the moors for the sake of their soothing silence —­ never seek out or dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they could yield.

Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an opportunity of gauging his mind.  I first got an idea of its calibre when I heard him preach in his own church at Morton.  I wish I could describe that sermon:  but it is past my power.  I cannot even render faithfully the effect it produced on me.