to feel justified in the belief that there never was a religion like that preached by the good apostles, when such rural spots as this (he points to his encampment) were chosen for its administration.  Everything round him made him feel so good, so much like the purest christian of the olden time.  He tells her, with great seriousness, that we must serve God, and not forget poor human nature, never!  To the world he would seem labouring under the influence of those inert convictions by which we strive to conceal our natural inclinations, while drawing the flimsy curtain of “to do good” over the real object.

He winks and blinks, rubs his eyes, works his face into all the angles and contortions it is capable of, and commences searching for his hat and spectacles.  Both are necessary adjuncts to his pious appearance; without them there is that in the expression of his countenance from which none can fail to draw an unfavourable opinion of his real character.  The haggard, care-worn face, browned to the darkest tropical tints; the ceaseless leer of that small, piercing eye, anxiety and agitation pervading the tout ensemble of the man, will not be dissembled.  Nay; those acute promontories of the face, narrow and sharp, and that low, reclining forehead, and head covered with bristly iron-grey hair, standing erect in rugged tufts, are too strong an index of character for all the disguises Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy can invent.

“One minute, my dear madam,” he exclaims, in his eagerness for the lost ornaments of his face.

“Never mind them, Elder; never mind them!  In my eyes you are just as well without them,” she rejoins, an ironical smile invading her countenance, and a curl of contempt on her lip.  “But,—­tell me what are you doing here?”

“Here! my dear madam?  Doing good for mankind and the truth of religion.  I claim merit of the parish, for my pursuit is laudable, and saves the parish much trouble,” says the Elder, beginning to wax warm in the goodness of his pursuit, before anyone has undertaken to dispute him, or question the purity of his purpose.

“Still speculating in infirmity; making a resurrection man of yourself!  You are death’s strongest opponent; you fight the great slayer for small dollars and cents.”

“Well, now,” interrupts the Elder, with a serious smile, “I’d rather face a Mexican army than a woman’s insinuating questions,—­in matters of this kind!  But it’s business, ye see! according to law; and ye can’t get over that.  There’s no getting over the law; and he that serveth the Lord, no matter how, deserveth recompense; my recompense is in the amount of life I saves for the nigger.”

“That is not what I asked; you evade my questions, Elder! better acknowledge honestly, for the sake of the country, where did you pick up these poor wretches?”

“I goes round the district, madam, and picks up a cripple here, and a cancer case there, and a dropsy doubtful yonder; and then, some on em’s got diseases what don’t get out until one comes to apply medical skill.  Shan’t make much on these sort o’ cases,—­”