do not
understand. We are rejoicing, and this is just our poor woman's way of
doing it."

"I see, I see," said the jovial Doctor. "Well, now wipe away your tears,
and give God all glory. He has sent me, a poor weak mortal, simply as a
messenger to administer that which will save you from a loathsome
disease and death. All glory be unto Him."

He then began singing softly and reverently, the others joining:

"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform,
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs.
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head."

"And now, Mrs. Barton, you must come out and see the chariot in which
the Lord sent us," cried Dr. Jones gayly.

The poor invalid stood in the door and looked up at the great globe that
shimmered and glistened like burnished silver in the rays of the
setting sun. How proudly and serenely it rode above their heads as if
conscious of its own unparalleled beauty, and its blessed mission in
this present instance. She gazed upon it a few moments in speechless
rapture, her poor emaciated hands clasped upon her breast.

"This is too marvelous for me," she cried. "What am I that God should
send deliverance to me in so glorious and majestic a ship of the skies!
I am lost in wonder and praise. Glory be to His holy name forever and
forever."

"Amen!" responded the listeners fervently.

The canoe party returned at four o'clock, P.M. All were tired and ready
to sit about the generous fire; for evening was at hand, and the air was
already sharp and frosty.

"And how did it happen, Mr. Barton, that you came to settle away up in
this barren wilderness?" asked Professor Gray.

"I do not know that I know myself," returned Mr. Barton. "I was taken
sick at a boarding-house in Montreal, and was sent to a hospital. I was
at that time master of the bark Twilight, a Liverpool craft. Mrs. Barton
was then a beautiful girl--don't blush so, Mrs. Barton. Jennie there is
a perfect reproduction of you as I first saw you, and I should not be
ashamed of our Jennie anywhere on earth. Well, as I was saying, Mrs.
Barton, named at that time Miss Constance Schmidt, the daughter of a
Moravian missionary, visited the hospital frequently as