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No; the parson did not know it. But he put on his new hat, whose moth-holes had been skillfully blackened over with ink, and turned towards the door.

“It’s nothing to me, of course,” continued Mr. Marx, with a liberal wave of his dirty hand; “all your religions are alike to me, I’m free to say. But I wonder yer and Saul don’t work together, parson. Yer might do a heap of good if yer was to pull at the same oar, now.”

The words echoed in the parson’s ears as he walked down to the beach, the only promenade in Algonquin free from stumps. Could he do a “heap of good,” by working with that ignorant, coarse, roaring brother, whose blatant pride, dirty shirt, and irreverent familiarity with all things sacred were alike distasteful, nay, horrible to his sensitive mind. Pondering, he paced the narrow strip of sand under the low bluff; but all his efforts did not suffice to quicken or warm his chilled blood. Nevertheless he expanded his sunken chest and drew in long breaths of the cold night air, and beat his little hands vigorously together, and ran to and fro.”Aha!” he said to himself, “this is glorious exercise.” And then he went home, colder than ever; it was his way thus to make a reality of what ought to be.

Passing through one of the so-called streets, he saw a ruddy glow in front of the school-house; it was a pine-knot fire whose flaring summons had not been unheeded. The parson stopped a moment and warmed himself, glancing meanwhile furtively within where Brother Saul was holding forth in clarion tones to a crowded congregation; his words reached the listener’s ear, and verified the old proverb.”There’s brimstone and a fiery furnace for them as doubts the truth, I tell you. Prayin’ out of a book–and flowers–and candles–and night-gownds ‘stead of decent coats–for it’s night-gownds they look like though they may call them surpluses,” (applause from the miners,)–“won’t do no good. Sech nonsense will never save souls. You’ve jest got to fall down on your knees and pray hard–hard–with groaning and roaring of the spirit–until you’re as weak as a rag. Nothing else will do; nothing,–nothing.”

The parson hurried away, shrinking (though unseen) from the rough finger pointed at him. Before he was out of hearing, a hymn sounded forth on the night breeze–one of those nondescript songs that belong to the border, a favorite with the Algonquin miners because of a swinging chorus wherein they roared out their wish to “die a-shouting,” in company with all the kings and prophets of Israel, each one fraternally mentioned by name.

Reaching his room, the parson hung up his cloak and hat, and sat down quietly with folded hands. Clad in dressing gown and slippers, in an easy chair, before a bright fire, a reverie, thus, is the natural ending for a young man’s day. But here the chair was hard and straight-backed, there was no fire, and the candle burned with a feeble, blue flame; the small figure in its limp black clothes, with its little gaitered feet pressed close together on the cold floor as if for warmth, its clasped hands, its pale face and blue eyes fixed on the blank expanse of the plastered wall, was pathetic in its patient discomfort. After a while a tear fell on the clasped hands and startled their coldness with its warmth. The parson brushed the token of weakness hastily away, and rising, threw himself at the foot of the large wooden cross with his arms clasping its base. In silence for many moments he lay thus prostrate; then, extinguishing the candle, he sought his poor couch. But later in the night, when all Algonquin slept, a crash of something falling was heard in the dark room followed by the sound of a scourge mercilessly used, and murmured Latin prayers, the old cries of penitence that rose during the night-vigils from the monasteries of the Middle Ages. And why not English words? Was there not something of affectation in the use of these medieval phrases? Maybe so; but at least there was nothing affected in the stripes made by the scourge. The next morning all was as usual in the little room save that the picture of Santa Margarita was torn in twain, and the bracket and vase shattered to fragments on the floor below.