e about the same height, and lest the
chaplain should see or smell the tobacco, the little blasphemer was
obliged to turn his head aside, hoping the conversation would soon
end. But the little parson happened to be in a loquacious mood, and the
interview was painfully prolonged. Next Sunday there was a withering
sermon on "infidels," who were described as miserable persons that "dare
not look you in the face."

Parson Plaford seemed to be on very intimate terms with his maker. If
his little finger ached, the Lord meant something by it. Yet, although
he was always ready to be called home, he was still more ready to accept
the doctor's advice to take a holiday when he felt unwell. The last
sermon I heard him preach was delivered through a sore throat, a chronic
malady which he exasperated by bawling. He told us that the work and
worry were too much for him, and the doctor had ordered him rest, if he
wished to live. He was going away for a week or two to see what the
Lord meant to do with him; and I afterwards heard some of the prisoners
wonder what the Lord _was_ doing with him. "I speak to you as a dying
man," said the chaplain, as he had said several times before when he
felt unwell; and as it might be the last time he would ever preach
there, he besought somebody, as a special act of gratitude, to get saved
that very day.

One of the prisoners offered a different reason for the chaplain's
temporary retirement. "He ain't ill, sir. I knows what 'tis. I was down
at the front when your friend Mr. Ramsey went out. There was a lot of
coaches and people, and the parson looked as white as a ghost. He thinks
ther'll be more coaches and people when you goes out, and he's gone off
sooner than see 'em."

During the chaplain's absences his _locum tenens_ was usually a
gentleman of very opposite characteristics. He was tall, thin, modest,
and even diffident. He slipped into your cell, as I said before, with
the deferential air of an undertaker. His speech was extremely soft and
rapid, although he stuttered a little now and then from nervousness.
"I suppose you know," I asked on his first visit, "what I am here for?"
"Y-e-s," he stammered, with something like a blush. I said no more, for
it was evident he wished to avoid the subject, and I really think he
was sorry to see me persecuted in the name of Christ. He had called, he
said, to see whether he could do anything for me. Could he lend me any
books? I thanked him for the proffe