rear of the platform,
between the missionary and the chairman of the committee for the
evening. The missionary appears to be explanatory and apologetic,
the chairman flushed. In a moment a hand is placed on Dr. Parsons's
shoulder. He starts, half rises, and turns abruptly.

There has been, it seems, an unfortunate misunderstanding. Through some
mistake Mr. Martin has been asked to make the address upon the life
of Saint Patrick, and has prepared himself with care. He is one of
the Mission's most influential friends; his church is among its chief
benefactors. It is an exceedingly painful affair; but will Dr. Parsons
give way to Mr. Martin?

So it is all over. The Doctor takes his seat and looks out again upon
those hard, dreary faces,--his no longer. He has not realized until
now how he has been looking forward to this evening. But the vision has
fled. No ripples of uncouth laughter, no ready tears. No reaching these
dull, violated hearts through the Saint whom they adore: that privilege
is another's.

But the chairman again draws near. Will Dr. Parsons make the opening
prayer?

The Doctor bows assent. He folds his arms and closes his eyes. You can
see that he is trying to concentrate his thoughts in preparation for
prayer. It is doubtless hard to divert them from the swift channel in
which they have been bounding along.

Now all is ready. The missionary touches a bell, the signal for silence.

The Doctor rises. For a moment he stands looking over the rows on rows
of hardened faces,--looking on those whom he has so longed to reach. He
raises his hand; there is a dead silence, and he begins.

It was inevitable, at the outset, that he should refer to the occasion
which had brought us together. It was natural to recall that we were
come to celebrate the birth of an uncommon man. It was natural to
suggest that he was no creature of story or ancient legend, floating
about in the imagination of an ignorant people, but a real man like
us, of flesh and blood. It was natural to add that he was a man born
centuries ago; that the scene of his labors was the green island across
the sea, where many of us now present had first seen the light. It was
natural to give thanks for that godly life which had led three nations
to claim the good man's birthplace. It was natural to suggest that
if about the sweet memories of this man's life fancy had fondly woven
countless legends, we might, with a discerning eye, read in them all
the