not so great as its motive, nor yet as its results; the beneficent
deed is not so great as the beneficence of which it is but a fruit; yet
we cannot see beneficence, nor motives, nor far-reaching results. We
cannot see the greatest forces, which in hidden places, act and
counteract to bring great things without observation; we see some broken
fragments of their turmoil which now and again are cast up within our
sight.

Notwithstanding this, which we all know, the average man feels himself
quite competent to observe and to pass judgment on all that occurs in
his vicinity. In the matter of the curious experience which the sect of
the Adventists passed through in Chellaston, the greater part of the
community formed prompt judgment, and in this judgment the chief element
was derision.

The very next day, in the peaceful Sunday sunshine, the good people of
Chellaston (and many of them were truly good) spent their breath in
expatiating upon the absurdity of those who had met with the madman upon
the mountain to pray for the descent of heaven. It was counted a good
thing that a preacher so dangerously mad was dead; and it was
considered as certain that his followers would now see their folly in
the same light in which others saw it. It was reported as a very good
joke that when one white-clad woman had returned to her home, wan and
weary, in the small hours of the night, her husband had refused to let
her in, calling to her from an upper window that _his wife_ had gone to
have a fly with the angels, and he did not know who _she_ might be.
Another and coarser version of the same tale was, that he had taken no
notice of her, but had called to his man that the white cow had got
loose and ought to be taken back into the paddock. Both versions were
considered excellent in the telling. Many a worthy Christian, coming out
of his or her place of worship, chuckled over the wit of this amiable
husband, and observed, in the midst of laughter, that his wife, poor
thing, had only got her deserts.

In the earlier hours of that Sunday morning rumour had darted about,
busily telling of the sudden freak the drunkard's violence had taken,
and of Father Cameron's death. Many a version of the story was brought
to the hotel, but through them the truth sifted, and the people there
heard what had really occurred. Eliza heard, for one, and was a good
deal shocked. Still, as the men about the place remarked that it was a
happy release for Father Ca