'Very well; but I did not suppose you would be in such haste to part
with Silver,' said Waring, unable to resist showing his comprehension
of what he considered the manoeuvres of the old man. Then, waiving
further discussion,--'And where shall we find a clergyman?' he asked.

'There is one over on Beaver.'

'He must be a singular sort of a divine to be living there.'

'He is; a strayed spirit, as it were, but a genuine clergyman of the
Presbyterian church, none the less. I never knew exactly what he
represented there, but I think he came out originally a sort of
missionary.'

'To the Mormons,' said Waring, laughing; for he had heard old Fog tell
many a story of the Latter-Day Saints, who had on Beaver Island at
that time their most Eastern settlement.

'No; to the Indians.--sent out by some of those New England societies,
you know. When he reached the islands, he found the Indians mostly
gone, and those who remained were all Roman Catholics. But he settled
down, farmed a little, hunted a little, fished a little, and held a
service all by himself occasionally in an old log-house, just often
enough to draw his salary and to write up in his semiannual reports.
He isn't a bad sort of a man in his way.'

'And how does he get on with the Mormons?'

'Excellently. He lets them talk, and sells them fish, and shuts his