There was altogether a fine air about the letter; the writing was in
fine, small hand, the tone was fine, and there was something fine in the
signature--"Arthur Wellington Moore." He was glad to know that there was
a school and a teacher in Swan Creek, for a school meant children, in
whom his soul delighted; and in the teacher he would find a friend,
and without a friend he could not live. He took me into his confidence,
telling me that though he had volunteered for this far-away mission
field he was not much of a preacher and he was not at all sure that he
would succeed. But he meant to try, and he was charmed at the prospect
of having one sympathizer at least. Would I be kind enough to put up in
some conspicuous place the enclosed notice, filling in the blanks as I
thought best?


"Divine service will be held at Swan creek
in ---- ----- at ---- o'clock.
All are cordially invited.
Arthur Wellington Moore."


On the whole I liked his letter. I liked its modest self-depreciation
and I liked its cool assumption of my sympathy and co-operation. But I
was perplexed. I remembered that Sunday was the day fixed for the great
baseball match, when those from "Home," as they fondly called the land
across the sea from which they had come, were to "wipe the earth" with
all comers. Besides, "Divine service" was an innovation in Swan Creek
and I felt sure that, like all innovations that suggested the approach
of the East, it would be by no means welcome.