horns; and I see corn land that might yield good oats or barley in
Scotland. The land is well enough; it is the people I find fault
with."

"Moodie's verdict on Portugal," said L'Isle, "can be summed up in four
little words: '_Bona terra, mala gens_.'"

"What pleasure," continued Moodie, not heeding the interruption, "can
a Christian man find in traveling in a land where the people grovel in
ignorance and a besotted superstition, which manifests that God has
given them over to a reprobate heart. I cannot speak their language; I
can only look on their wanderings in the dark, and think of the wrath
to come."

"And so here is a missionary lost!" Mrs. Shortridge exclaimed.

"But, according to Moodie's favorite dogma," said L'Isle, "were he
gifted with the purest and most eloquent Portuguese, or had he the
gift of St. Francis Xavier, who, when thrown among any strange people,
was soon found exhorting them in their own tongue, he could be to this
people only a prophet of evil. You say that they are given over to a
state of reprobation. Do you, like a great English philosopher,
believe in election and reprobation by nature?"

"Not exactly; nor do I know any thing of your English philosopher; but
since I have been among these people, I have seen much to lead my
thoughts that way. And we have example for it. Had not God his chosen
people of old? And the seven nations of Canaan, were they not swept
off as utterly reprobate from the face of the earth?"