it through:  it came out clean.  The pain was very great, he trembled and shivered:  we gave him brandy, and he recovered.  I poulticed the wound and went to Edwin.  Atkin had got out the splinter from his wound; the arrow went in near the eye and came out by the cheek-bone:  it was well syringed, and the flow of blood had been copious from the first.  The arrows were not bone-headed, and not poisoned, but I well knew that lock-jaw was to be dreaded.  Edwin’s was not much more than a flesh wound.  Fisher’s being in the wrist, frightened me more:  their patience and quiet composure and calm resignation were indeed a strength and comfort to us all.

’This was on Monday, August 15.  All seemed doing well for a day or two, I kept on poultices, gave light nourishing food, &c.  But on Saturday morning Fisher said to me, “I can’t make out what makes my jaws feel so stiff.”

’Then my heart sank down within me, and I prayed earnestly, earnestly to God.  I talked to the dear dear lad of his danger, night and day we prayed and read.  A dear guileless spirit indeed.  I never saw in so young a person such a thorough conscientiousness as for two years I witnessed in his daily life, and I had long not only loved but respected him.

’We had calm weather and could not get on.  By Saturday the jaws were tight-locked.  Then more intense grew the pain, the agony, the whole body rigid like a bar of iron!  Oh! how I blessed God who carried me through that day and night.  How good he was in his very agonies, in his fearful spasms, thanking God, praying, pressing my hand when I prayed and comforted him with holy words of Scripture.  None but a well-disciplined, humble, simple Christian could so have borne his sufferings:  the habit of obedience and faith and patience; the childlike unhesitating trust in God’s love and fatherly care, supported him now.  He never for a moment lost his hold upon God.  What a lesson it was! it calmed us all.  It almost awed me to see in so young a lad so great an instance of God’s infinite power, so great a work of good perfected in one young enough to have been confirmed by me.

’At 1 A.M. (Monday) I moved from his side to my couch, only three yards off.  Of course we were all (I need not say) in the after cabin.  He said faintly, “Kiss me.  I am very glad that I was doing my duty.  Tell my father that I was in the path of duty, and he will be so glad.  Poor Santa Cruz people!  “Ah! my dear boy, you will do more for their conversion by your death than ever we shall by our lives.  And as I lay down almost convulsed with sobs, though not audible, he said (so Mr. Tilly afterwards told me), “Poor Bishop!” How full his heart was of love and peace, and thoughts of heaven.  “Oh! what love,” he said.  The last night when I left him for an hour or two at 1 A.M. only to lie down in my clothes by his side, he said faintly (his body being then rigid as a bar of iron), “Kiss me, Bishop.”  At 4 A.M. he started as if from