We got our own mules put into a good portrero of Para grass just below the town, resisting our host's invitation to leave them with him, fearing he might use them instead of feeding them.

A was a member of my Church, and lived on what was called the Portrero, in the southern part of the city, beyond the Long Bridge. It was after night when I reached the little cottage on the slope above the bay. "He is dying and delirious," said a member of the family, as I entered the room where the sick man lay.

When I saw the announcement of his death, a few days afterward, I asked myself the solemn question, Whether I had dealt faithfully with this lighthearted, gifted man when he was within my reach. His last rook is before me now, as I pencil these lines. "John A is dying over on the Portrero, and his family wants you to go over and see him." It was while I was pastor in San Francisco.