not dry when it closed. After a prayer, and a song,
and a collection, the Bishop stood up again before the people, and said:

"I have just received a message which makes it necessary for me to
return to San Francisco immediately. I am sorry that I cannot remain
longer, and participate with you in the hallowed enjoyments of the
occasion. The blessing of God be with you, my brethren and sisters."

His manner was so bland, and his tone so serene, that nobody had the
faintest suspicion as to what it was that called him away so suddenly.
When he drove off with the stranger, the popular surmise was that it was
a wedding or a funeral that called for such haste. These are two events
in human life that admit of no delays: people must be buried, and they
will be married.

The Bishop reported to General Mason, Provost-marshal General, and was
told to hold himself as in duress until further orders, and to be ready
to appear at headquarters at short notice when called for. He was put on
parole, as it were. He came down to San Jose and stirred my congregation
with several of his powerful discourses. In the meantime the arrest had
gotten into the newspapers. Nothing that happens escapes the California
journalists, and they have even been known to get hold of things that
never happened at all. It seems that someone in the shape of a man had
made an affidavit that Bishop Kavanaugh had come to the Pacific Coast as
a secret agent of the Southern Confederacy, to intrigue and recruit in
its interest! Five minutes' inquiry would have satisfied General
McDowell of the silliness of such a charge--but it was in war times,
and he did not stop to make the inquiry. In Kentucky the good old Bishop
had the freedom of the whole land, coming and going without hinderance;
but the fact was, he had not been within the Confederate lines since the
war began. To make such an accusation against him was the climax of
absurdity.

About three weeks after the date of his arrest, I was with the Bishop
one morning on our way to Judge Moore's beautiful country-seat, near San
Jose, situated on the far-famed Alameda. The carriage was driven by a
black man named Henry. Passing the post-office, I found, addressed to
the Bishop in my care, a huge document bearing the official stamp of the
provost-marshal's office, San Francisco. He opened and read it as we
drove slowly along, and as he did so he brightened up, and turning to
Henry, said:

"Henry, were you ever a s