house was a stone
cottage, covered with trailers, and standing well back from the road.
In the same inclosure, surrounded by a grove of firs, was a little
stone chapel with high pitched roof and rustic belfry. In front of the
house I spied a figure which I recognized as Berkeley. He was in his
shirt-sleeves, and was pecking away with a hoe at the gravel walk,
whistling meanwhile his old favorite "Bonny Doon." He turned as I came
up the driveway, and regarded me at first without recognition. He, for
his part, was little changed by time. There was the same tall,
narrow-shouldered, slightly stooping figure; the face, smooth-shaved,
with a spot of wintry red in the cheek, and the old humorous cast in
the small blue eyes.

"You don't know me from Adam," I said, pausing in front of him.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, directly. "Polisson, old man, upon my conscience
I'm glad to see you, but I didn't know you till you spoke. You've been
having the yellow fever, haven't you? Come in--come into the house."

We passed in through the porch, which was covered with sweet-pea vines
trained on strings, and entered the library, where Berkeley resumed
his coat. The room was lined with book-shelves loaded to the ceiling,
while piles of literature had overflowed the cases and stood about on
the floor in bachelor freedom. After the first greetings and
inquiries, Berkeley carried my valise upstairs, and then returning,
said:

"I'm a methodical though not methodistical person, or rather parson
(excuse the Fullerism); and as you have got to stay with me till I let
you go, that is, several days at the least (don't interrupt), I'll
keep a little appointment for the next hour, if you will excuse me. A
boy comes three times a week to blow the bellows for my organ
practice. Perhaps you would like to step into the church and hear me."

I assented, and we went out into the yard and found the boy already
waiting in the church porch. Berkeley and his assistant climbed into
the organ loft, while I seated myself in the chancel to listen. The
instrument was small but sweet, and Berkeley really played very well.
The interior of the little church was plain to bareness; but the sun,
which had fallen low, threw red lights on the upper part of the
undecorated walls, and rich shadows darkened the lower half. Through
the white, pointed windows I saw the trembling branches of the firs. I
had been hurrying for a fortnight past over heated railways, treading
fiery pav