The life of the Reverend Titus E. Laurie contained two active principles. The first of these was a tireless enthusiasm for the propagation of the principles of Methodist Christianity, and this had moved him ever since he could remember. The second was solicitude² for his daughter Margaret, which, necessarily, had been operative for only the last twenty years. During these twenty years he had been absent from America almost all the time; the total number of weeks he had spent with Margaret would scarcely have aggregated³ a year; so that his affection was obliged to take the form of voluminous letters from out-of-the-way places in Asia and Polynesia, and of remittances⁴ of more money than he could afford.  
But his religious work took always first place in his mind. There never was, one might suppose, a man more clearly “called to the work” than Titus E. Laurie. He cared little for theology. He had never had any doubts of anything; if he had had them, they would not have troubled him. His temper was purely⁵ practical, and the ideal which filled his soul was the redemption of the world from its state of sin and death by the forces of the gospel as systematized by John Wesley. He was tolerant of other Protestant churches, but not of Roman Catholicism. He had preached when he was fifteen; at eighteen he was a “local preacher,” and at twenty he was in full charge of a church of his own in South Rock, New York.
 
He was shifted about on that “circuit” according to the will of the Conference till the opening of the war, when he went to the front as an army nurse. In three months, however, he came back, vaguely⁶ in disgrace. It appeared that he had been unable to resist the entreaties⁷ of his patients, and had supplied them surreptitiously with tabooed chewing tobacco and liquor. But this was an error of kindness and inexperience; it was easily condoned⁸ by his supporters, and he resumed his more regular pastoral work. In 1866 he was much in demand as a revivalist.
 
Mr. Laurie had charge of the funds of his church as well as of its souls. It was hard for a non-producer to live in the period of high prices succeeding the war. Just what he did with the money in his custody⁹ was never definitely ascertained¹⁰; probably he could not have said himself; but he was unable to restore it when the time came. He did not face his parishioners; he left in the night for Mexico, leaving behind a letter of agonized¹¹ remorse¹² and promises of amendment¹³.
 
In Mexico he worked for two years in the mines and on a coffee plantation¹⁴, and sent home the whole amount of his embezzlement¹⁵ in monthly instalments. At the same time he undertook to conduct Methodist prayer-meetings among the mine labourers, who were chiefly Indians and half-castes. This brought him into collision with his employer, the local priest, and his prospective¹⁶ converts. He was threatened, stoned, ducked, and menaced with murder, but he persisted and actually succeeded in establishing a tiny Methodist community, which survived for six months after he left it.
 
Laurie was forgiven by his church, and returned to the North, but not to resume pastoral work. He became a bookkeeper in New York; but the evangelist’s instinct was too strong for him, and he took to mission work on the lower East Side. After a year of this, he succeeded in getting himself sent to the Sandwich Islands as a missionary¹⁷, from which post he returned in five years, in disgrace once more. There were rumours¹⁸ of a shady transaction in smuggled¹⁹ opium²⁰, in which he had been involved, though not to his own pecuniary²¹ benefit.
 
He remained in America this time for three or four years, and married a lady much older than himself. These domestic arrangements were broken up, however, by his leaving once more for the South Seas, having been able to secure another appointment for the mission field. He never saw his wife again. She died a year later in giving birth to a daughter, who was taken in charge by an aunt living in the West.
 
Since that time his labours had extended over much of Polynesia, with digressions into Africa and China. He had sailed the first missionary schooner²², the Olive Branch, among the Islands, and he had preached on the beach to brown warriors²³ armed to the teeth, who had never before seen a white man. But the Reverend Titus E. Laurie escaped with his life. He thrived on danger, from the Fiji spears to the typhoons that came near to swamping his wretchedly found vessel²⁴ on every voyage.
 
And yet he did not escape scathless. It was rumoured²⁵ that the fascinations²⁶ of certain of his female converts in Tahiti had proved too much for him; a scandal was averted²⁷ by his leaving the station. He was accused of pearling in forbidden waters; and in the end he had to resign his command of the Olive Branch, as it was conclusively²⁸ proved that the missionary schooner had run opium in her hold with the connivance²⁹ of her chief. The Rev¹. Titus E. Laurie, in fact, was granite³⁰ against hostility³¹ when in the regular line of his work. He was made of the stuff of martyrs³², but responsibilities found him weak, and he could no more make head against a sudden strong temptation than he could deliberately³³ plan a crime.
 
Elliott gleaned³⁴ these details of Mr. Laurie’s career by scraps³⁵ in the course of the next three weeks, but just how the missionary had come to change his name and settle in Victoria was a mystery to him. At any rate, Laurie, or Eaton, as he persisted in calling himself, had secured a position as accountant in the godown of one of the largest English importing firms, and seemed to propose to spend the remainder of his life in that station. He had now been there for over two months, and Elliott presently discovered that he was already in the habit of visiting the mission settlement at Kowloon and taking part in the meetings held there. The missionaries³⁶ on duty found him a valuable assistant, and, as Elliott discovered, had made proposals to him to join them; but these Eaton had refused.
 
Accustomed to the tropics, the heat did not affect him much, but Elliott at once insisted that a house must be rented upon the Peak for Miss Margaret. Coming directly from the sparkling air of the American plains, the girl could never have lived in the hot steam of the lower town. Laurie demurred³⁷ a little on the score of expense,—not that he grudged³⁸ the money, but because he did not have it. Elliott said nothing, but began to look about, and was lucky enough to obtain the lease of a cottage upon the mountain-top at a nominal³⁹ figure, considering the locality. It had been taken by a retired⁴⁰ naval⁴¹ officer who was unexpectedly obliged to return to England and was glad to dispose of the lease, so that Elliott bound himself to pay only eighty dollars a month for the remainder of the summer.
 
He had the lease transferred to Laurie’s new name. “If you say a word to your daughter about this,” he warned him when he handed over the document, “I’ll tell her about your sporting life in Macao.”
 
The missionary smiled uneasily, and then looked grave. “I can never begin to thank you, much less repay you. I am not much good now,—nothing but a weak old man, but my prayers—”
 
“Oh, cut it out!” said Elliott, impatiently.
 
Laurie flushed.
 
“I beg your pardon; I didn’t mean that, of course. Only, you know, your daughter and I are old friends, and you mustn’t talk of gratitude⁴² for any little thing I do.”
 
“But there is one thing I wish,” replied the old man, after an embarrassed moment. “I insist that you share the cottage with us.”
 
Elliott hesitated, wondering whether it would be judicious⁴³, and yielded.
 
“Certainly I will,” he said, “and glad to have the chance.”
 
Margaret was delighted at the appearance of the cottage, a tiny bungalow⁴⁴, deep-verandahed, standing⁴⁶ amid a grove⁴⁷ of China pines that rustled⁴⁸ perpetually with a cooling murmur⁴⁹. The highway leading to it was more like a conservatory⁵⁰ than a street.
 
“You dear old papa!” she exclaimed, sitting down rapturously upon the steps, after having rushed through the building from front to rear, startling the dignified⁵¹ and spotless Chinese cook which they had inherited from the former tenants⁵².
 
“How good you are to get all this for me! It must have cost such a lot, too. Mr. Elliott says that houses up here cost two hundred dollars a month. You didn’t pay all that, did you? Now we must be very economical, and we’ll all work. I’m going to discharge that Chinaman.”
 
“You can’t work. You’d scandalize the Peak,” said Elliott.
 
“I don’t care anything for the Peak. I’m going to fire that Chinee first of all. I’m afraid of him, he looks so mysteriously solemn, as if he knew all sorts of Oriental poisons, and I never can learn pidgin-English. No, I’m going to cook, and I’ll make you doughnuts and fried chicken and mashed⁵³ potatoes and real American coffee and all the good old United States things that you haven’t tasted for so long.”
 
“But you can’t do anything like that. No white woman works in this country,” Elliott expostulated.
 
“But I shall,” she retorted, firmly.
 
And she did,—or, rather, she tried hard to do it. But it turned out to be difficult, and often impossible, to procure⁵⁴ the ingredients for the preparation of the promised American dishes, and she was by increasing degrees forced back upon the fare of the country, which she did not quite know how to deal with. It did not matter,—not even when it came to living chiefly upon canned goods, which usually were American enough to satisfy the most ardent⁵⁵............