column with a mute
gesture, which he took to be one of invitation. A fierce protest of
scorn and indignation swelled to his throat, but died upon his lips. Yet
he had strength enough to erect his gaunt emaciated figure, throwing out
his long arms and extended palms in the attitude of defiant exorcism,
and then rush swiftly from the church. As he did so he thought he saw
a faint smile cross the shopkeeper's face, and a whispered exchange of
words with a neighboring worshiper of more exalted appearance came to
his ears. But it was not intelligible to his comprehension.

The next day he wrote to his doctor in that quaint grandiloquence of
written speech with which the half-educated man balances the slips of
his colloquial phrasing:

Do not let the purgation of my flesh be unduly protracted. What with the
sloth and idolatries of Baal and Ashteroth, which I see daily around
me, I feel that without a protest not only the flesh but the spirit is
mortified. But my bodily strength is mercifully returning, and I found
myself yesterday able to take a long ride at that hour which they here
keep sacred for an idolatrous rite, under the beautiful name of "The
Angelus." Thus do they bear false witness to Him! Can you tell me the
meaning of the Spanish words "Don Keyhotter"? I am ignorant of these
sensuous Southern languages, and am aware that this is not the correct
spelling, but I have striven to give the phonetic equivalent. It was
used, I am inclined to think, in reference to MYSELF, by an idolater.

P.S.--You need not trouble yourself. I have just ascertained that
the words in question were simply the title of an idle novel, and, of
course, could not possibly refer to ME.

Howbeit it was as "Don Quixote"--that is, the common Spaniard's
conception of the Knight of La Mancha, merely the simple fanatic and
madman--that Mr. Stephen Masterton ever after rode all unconsciously
through the streets of the Mission, amid the half-pitying, half-smiling
glances of the people.

In spite of his meditations, his single volume, and his habit of
retiring early, he found his evenings were growing lonely and tedious.
He missed the prayer meeting, and, above all, the hymns. He had a fine
baritone voice, sympathetic, as may be imagined, but not cultivated. One
night, in the seclusion of his garden, and secure in his distance from
other dwellings, he raised his voice in a familiar camp-meeting hymn
with a strong Covenanter's ring in the chorus