d to be as I could just turn him round my little finger, but he
won't be turned now."

She finished up with a storm of sobs. Jan, in an Ecstasy of mirth yet,
offered to send her some cordials from the surgery, by way of
consolation; not, however, the precise one suggested by Peckaby. But
cordials had no charm in that unhappy moment for Mrs. Peckaby's ear.

Jan departed. In quitting the door he encountered a stranger, who
inquired if that was Peckaby's shop. Jan fancied the man looked
something the cut of Brother Jarrum, and sent him in. His coat and boots
were white with dust. Looking round on the assembled women when he
reached the kitchen, the stranger asked which was Mrs. Peckaby. Mrs.
Peckaby looked up, and signified that she was.

"I have a message from the saint and elder, Brother Jarrum," he
mysteriously whispered in her ear. "It must be give to you in private."

Mrs. Peckaby, in a tremble of delight, led the stranger to a small shed
in the yard, which she used for washing purposes, and called the back
'us. It was the most private place she could think of, in her fluster.
The stranger, propping himself against a broken tub, proceeded, with
some circumlocution and not remarkable perspicuity of speech, to deliver
the message with which he was charged. It was to the effect that a
vision had revealed to Brother Jarrum the startling fact, that Susan
Peckaby was _not_ to go out with the crowd at present on the wing. A
higher destiny awaited her. She would be sent for in a different
manner--in a more important form; sent for special, on a quadruped. That
is to say, on a white donkey.[A]

[Footnote A: A fact.]

"On a white donkey?" echoed the trembling and joyful woman.

"On a white donkey," gravely repeated the brother--for that he was
another brother of the community, there could be little doubt. "What the
special honour intended for you may be, me and Brother Jarrum don't
pertend to guess at. It's above us. May be you are fated to be chose by
our great prophet hisself. Any how, it's something at the top of the
tree."

"When shall I be sent for, sir?" eagerly asked Mrs. Peckaby.

"That ain't revealed neither. It may be next week--it mayn't be for a
year; you must always be on the look-out. One of these days or nights,
you'll see a white donkey a-standing at your door. It'll be the
messenger for you from New Jerusalem. You mount him without a minute's
loss of time, and come off."

But that Mrs. Peckaby's