’It is true I have seen this coming for a year or two, and have seen no way of preventing its coming upon me—­no one else has come out; the Bishop feels he cannot work his present diocese and Melanesia:  he is satisfied that he ought to take New Zealand rather than the islands; that the time is come for settling the matter while he is able to settle it; and I had nothing to say, for all personal objections he overruled.  So then, if I live, it is settled; and that, at all events, is a comfort....  Many of my Melanesians have heavy coughs—­some twelve, but I don’t think any of them seriously ill, only needing to be watched.  I am very well, only I want some more exercise (which, by the bye, it is always in my power to take), and am quite as much disposed as ever to wish for a good game at tennis or fives to take it out of me.

’Your loving Brother,

‘J.  C. Patteson.’

The birthday letter of February 11 is a happy one, though chiefly taken up with the business matters respecting the money required for the Mission, of which Sir John was one trustee.  Life was pleasant then, for Patteson says:—­

’I do feel sometimes that the living alone has its temptations, and those great ones; I mean that I can arrange everything—­my work, my hours, my whole life—­after my own pleasure a great deal more than probably is good for me; and it is very easy to become, in a manner, very self-indulgent.  I think that most likely, as our work (D.V.) progresses, one or two men may be living with me, and that will supply a check upon me of some kind.  At present I am too much without it.  Here I am in my cosy little room, after my delicious breakfast of perfect coffee, made in Jem’s contrivance, hot milk and plenty of it, dry toast and potato.  Missionary hardships!  On the grass between me and the beach—­a distance of some seventy yards—­lie the boys’ canvas beds and blankets and rugs, having a good airing.  The schooner lies at anchor beyond; and, three or four miles beyond the schooner, lies Eangitoto, the great natural breakwater to the harbour.  With my Dollond’s opera-glass that you gave me, I can see the master and mate at their work refitting.  Everything is under my eye.  Our long boat and whale boat (so-called from their shapes) lie on the beach, covered with old sails to protect them from the sun.  The lads are washing clothes, or scrubbing their rooms, and all the rooms—­kitchen, hall, store-room, and school-room.  There is a good south-western breeze stirring—­our cold wind; but it is shut off here, and scarcely reaches us, and the sun has great power.

’I have the jolliest little fellows this time—­about seven of them—­ fellows scarcely too big to take on my knee, and talk to about God, and Heaven, and Jesus Christ; and I feel almost as if I had a kind of instinct of love towards them, as they look up wonderingly with their deep deep eyes, and smooth and glossy skins, and warm soft cheeks, and ask their simple questions.  I wish you could have seen the twenty Banks Islanders as I told them that most excellent of all tales—­the story of Joseph.  How their eyes glistened! and they pushed out their heads to hear the sequel of his making himself known to his brethren, and asking once more about “the old man of whom ye spake, is he yet alive?”