“Who is there?” said the voice inside.

“A friend,” replied Woodward, in a low, cautious tone; “a friend, who wishes to speak to you.”

“I can’t spake to you to-night,” replied Sol; “you’re disturbin’ me at my prayers.”

“But I wish to speak to you on particular business.”

“What business?  Let me finish my padereens and go to bed like a vile sinner, as I am—­God help me.  Who are you?”

“I don’t intend to tell you that just now, Solomon; do you wish me to shout it out to you, in order that the whole neighborhood may hear it?  I have private business with you.”

“Well,” replied the other, “I think, by your voice and language, you’re not a common man, and, although it’s against my rule to open at this time o’ night to any one, still I’ll let you in—­and sure I must only say my prayers aftherwards.  In the manetime it’s a sin for you or any one to disturb me at them; if you knew what the value of one sinful sowl is in the sight of God, you wouldn’t do it—­no, indeed.  Wait till I light a candle.”

He accordingly lighted a candle, and in the course of a few minutes admitted Woodward to his herbarium.  When the latter entered, he looked about him with a curiosity not unnatural under the circumstances.  His first sensation, however, was one that affected his olfactory nerves very strongly.  A combination of smells, struggling with each other, as it were, for predominance, almost overpowered him.  The good and the bad, the pleasant and the oppressive, were here mingled up in one sickening exhalation—­for the disagreeable prevailed.  The whole cabin was hung about with bunches of herbs, some dry and withered, others fresh and green, giving evidence that they had been only newly gathered.  A number of bottles of all descriptions stood on wooden shelves, but without labels, for the old sinner’s long practice and great practical memory enabled him to know the contents of every bottle with as much accuracy as if they had been labelled in capitals.

“How the devil can you live and sleep in such a suffocating compound of vile smells as this?” asked Woodward.

The old man glanced at him keenly, and replied,—­

“Practice makes masther, sir—­I’m used to them; I feel no smell but a good smell; and I sleep sound enough, barrin’ when I wake o’ one purpose, to think of and repent o’ my sins, and of the ungrateful world that is about me; people that don’t thank me for doin’ them good—­God forgive them! amin acheernah!”

“Why, now,” replied Woodward, “if I had a friend of mine that was unwell—­observe me, a friend of mine—­that stood between me and my own interests, and that I was kind and charitable enough to forget any ill-will against him, and wished to recover him from his illness through the means of your skill and herbs, could you not assist me in such a good and Christian work?”

The old fellow gave him a shrewd look and piercing glance, but immediately replied—­