’Very sincerely yours,

’J.  C. Patteson, Missionary Bishop.

’P.S.—­I hope to baptize that dear boy Tagalana on his own island in the course of the winter.  I should wish to make the service as impressive as possible, in the presence of as many islanders as I can bring to the spot, under the shadow of a mighty banyan tree, and above the sparkling waves of the great Pacific.’

The ‘Dunedin’ was patched up into sailing with the new Bishop for his cathedral—­the banyan tree of Mota.

It carried him away to his work, away from all knowledge of the blow that was preparing for him at home, and thinking of the delight that was in store for his family in a visit from Mrs. Selwyn, who, immediately after his Consecration, had returned home to spend a year in England on business.

Sir John Patteson’s happiness in his son’s work and worth were far greater than those of the actual worker, having none of the drawbacks that consciousness of weakness must necessarily excite.  The joy this gave his heart may, without exaggeration, be deliberately said to have been full compensation for the loss of the presence so nobly sacrificed.  On January 22 he had written to the Bishop of New Zealand:—­

’You write most kindly touching him, dear fellow, and truly I am to be envied, qui natum haberem tali ingenio praeditum.  Not for a moment have I repented of giving my sanction to his going out to New Zealand; and I fully believe that God will prosper his work.  I did not contemplate his becoming a Bishop, nor is that the circumstance which gives me the great satisfaction I feel.  It is his devotion to so good a work, and that he should have been found adequate to its performance; whether as a Bishop or as a Priest is not of itself of so much importance.

’Perhaps he may have been consecrated before I am writing this, though I am puzzled as to the time....

’May God bless with the fullest success the labours of both of you in your high and Christian works!’

There had for more than a year been cause of anxiety for Sir John’s health, but it was not the disease that had then threatened which occasioned the following calm-hearted letter to be written to his son:—­

’Feniton Court:  March 22, 1861.

’My own dearest Coley,—­I promised always to tell you the truth respecting myself, and will do so.  About a month ago, on my rising from reading prayers, the girls and the Dawlish party who were here exclaimed that my voice was broken, at which I laughed.  Whitby was in London, but his partner happened to call, and looking at my throat found it relaxed, and recommended a mustard poultice on the front.  When we came to put it on, we discovered that the glands of the throat were much swelled and in hard knots.  Whitby returned in two days, and was much alarmed.  He declared that it was serious, and nothing but iodine could check it.  I had been unable to take iodine under Watson some