d be a hermit or misanthrope, but
perchance find a people destitute of the gospel. He would bring it to
them. He must preach Christ till death. This should be his joy and
comfort; henceforth no other love should come between his soul and
his dear Master.

And he found his work, as if an unerring path had been marked out
straight to the little log church in the woods.

While Vida sat in a lofty temple of arches and massive pillars, the
sunlight toned to the appropriate dimness, as it stole through the
stained windows, the same hour her husband stood in the log church of
the wilderness, its arches and pillars outside--the tall old trees
locking arms overhead. Nature softened the fierce rays in this temple
as well, for they filtered through thick green boughs, and flecks of
light fell here and there, a stray one resting halo-like upon the
minister's head, transfiguring him in the eyes of the hungry souls
whose upturned faces drank in the words of life.

This unlearned, simple people with whom he had cast his lot, had
their faults, but to the refreshment of his soul, they had no card or
dancing parties, theatre or opera to steal the soul from Christ after
the manner of more cultured Christians. The church was the apple of
their eye. They made sacrifices for it, and travelled weary miles in
the worst of weather, rather than lose a "meeting."

The young gifted pastor of St. Paul's Church was never more
appreciated than now by these hardworking, warm-hearted pioneers. It
was their daily wonder and thanksgiving that such a man should ever
have been sent to them. Nothing that they could do for him was too
much, and their loving devotion was like balm to his weary soul. His
people were scattered for miles away, but the pastoral calls were as
faithfully made as when they were comprehended within the limits of a
few squares. The mild winter climate of that region was like one long
autumn of the Eastern States. Mounted on his faithful pony, he spent
a large part of every day riding over the prairies. The blue skies
and the bright sunshine were tonics to the heart as well as to the
body. Sometimes his route lay for miles through the woods, where
perfect solitude reigned but for the chatter of birds that circled
about him. In these long rides his heart went back over the past,
reviving the memory of those first precious days with Vida. They
seemed far away, and their recollection, like the perfume of wilted
flowers plucked from t