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“You don’t know ‘Juliana’–neither tune nor words? Nor did I when I set foot in Eucalyptus; but I lived on pretty close terms with it for the next two months, and it ended by clearing me out of the neighbourhood. It was a sort of nigger camp-meeting song, and a hybrid at that. It went something like this:”

‘O, de lost ell-an’-yard is a-huntin’ fer de morn’–

The lost ell-and-yard is Orion’s sword and belt, I may tell you–

‘Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-holy!
An’ my soul’s done sicken fer de Hallelujah horn,
Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-ho!
Was it weary there,
In de wilderness?
Was it weary-y-y, ‘way down in Goshen?

‘O, de children shibber by de Jordan’s flow–
Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-holy!
An’ it’s time fer Gaberl to shake hisself an’ blow,
Hey, Juliana, Juli-he-hi-ho!
For it’s weary here
In de wilderness;
Oh, it’s weary-y-y, ‘way down in Goshen!’

That was the sort of stuff, and it had any number of verses. I never heard the end of them. Also there were variants–most of them unfit for publication. The tune had swept up the valley like an epidemic disease: and, after a while, it astonished no dweller in Eucalyptus to find his waking thoughts and his whole daily converse jigging to it. But the new-comer was naturally a bit startled to hear the same strain put up from a score of houses as he walked down the street.

“I found the house, No. 67, easily; and knocked. It looked neat enough, with a fence in front and some pots of flowers in a little balcony over the porch, and clean muslin curtains to the windows. The fence and house-front were painted a bright blue, but not entirely; for here and there appeared patches of green daubed over the blue, much as if a child had been around experimenting with a paint-pot.

“‘Open the door and come upstairs, please,’ said an English voice right overhead. And, looking up, I saw a slim young man in a minister’s black suit standing among the flower-pots and smiling down at me. I saw, of course, that this must be my patient; and I knew his complaint too. Even at that distance anyone could see he was pretty far gone in consumption.

“As I climbed the stairs he came in from the porch and met me on the landing, at the door of Miss Montmorency’s best parlour– a spick-and-span apartment containing a cottage piano, some gilded furniture of the Second Empire fashion, a gaudy lithograph or two, and a carpet that had to be seen to be believed.

“‘I had better explain,’ said I, ‘that this is a professional visit. I met Miss Montmorency just outside the town, and have her orders to call. I am a medical man.’

“Still smiling pleasantly, he took my hand and shook it.

“‘Miss Montmorency is so very thoughtful,’ he said; then, touching his chest lightly, ‘It’s true I have some trouble here– constitutional, I’m afraid; but I have suffered from it, more or less, ever since I was fourteen, and it doesn’t frighten me. There is really no call for your kind offices; nothing beyond a general weakness, which has detained me here in Eucalyptus longer than I intended. But Miss Montmorency, seeing my impatience, has jumped to the belief that I am seriously ill.’ Here he smiled again. ‘She is the soul of kindness,’ he added.

“I looked into his prominent and rather nervous eyes. They were as innocent as a child’s. Of course there was nothing unusual in his hopefulness, which is common enough in cases of phthisis– symptomatic, in fact; and, of course, I did not discourage him.

“‘You have work waiting for you? Some definite post?’ I asked.

“He answered with remarkable dignity; he looked a mere boy too.

“‘I am a minister of the gospel, as you guess by my coat: to be precise, a Congregational minister. At least, I passed through a Congregational training college in England. But nice distinctions of doctrine will be of little moment in the work before me. No, I have no definite post awaiting me–that is, I have not received a call from any particular congregation, nor do I expect one. The harvest is over there, across the mountains; and the labourers are never too many.’