“I never tried it,” said he.  “Were you to have been espoused by Brother Jarrum?” he asked, of Susan Peckaby.

“No, sir, I was not,” she answered, in much anger.  “I did not favour Brother Jarrum.  I’d prefer to pick and choose when I got there.  But I had a great amount of respect for Brother Jarrum, sir, which I’m proud to speak to.  And I don’t believe that he has served me this shameful trick of his own knowledge,” she added, with emphasis.  “I believe there has been some unfortinate mistake, and that when he finds I’m not among the company, he’ll come back for me.  I’d go after them, only that Peckaby’s on the watch.  I never see such a altered man as Peckaby; it had used to be as I could just turn him round my little finger, but he won’t be turned now.”

She finished up with a storm of sobs.  Jan, in an Ecstasy of mirth yet, offered to send her some cordials from the surgery, by way of consolation; not, however, the precise one suggested by Peckaby.  But cordials had no charm in that unhappy moment for Mrs. Peckaby’s ear.

Jan departed.  In quitting the door he encountered a stranger, who inquired if that was Peckaby’s shop.  Jan fancied the man looked something the cut of Brother Jarrum, and sent him in.  His coat and boots were white with dust.  Looking round on the assembled women when he reached the kitchen, the stranger asked which was Mrs. Peckaby.  Mrs. Peckaby looked up, and signified that she was.

“I have a message from the saint and elder, Brother Jarrum,” he mysteriously whispered in her ear.  “It must be give to you in private.”

Mrs. Peckaby, in a tremble of delight, led the stranger to a small shed in the yard, which she used for washing purposes, and called the back ’us.  It was the most private place she could think of, in her fluster.  The stranger, propping himself against a broken tub, proceeded, with some circumlocution and not remarkable perspicuity of speech, to deliver the message with which he was charged.  It was to the effect that a vision had revealed to Brother Jarrum the startling fact, that Susan Peckaby was not to go out with the crowd at present on the wing.  A higher destiny awaited her.  She would be sent for in a different manner—­in a more important form; sent for special, on a quadruped.  That is to say, on a white donkey.[A]

    [Footnote A:  A fact.]

“On a white donkey?” echoed the trembling and joyful woman.

“On a white donkey,” gravely repeated the brother—­for that he was another brother of the community, there could be little doubt.  “What the special honour intended for you may be, me and Brother Jarrum don’t pertend to guess at.  It’s above us.  May be you are fated to be chose by our great prophet hisself.  Any how, it’s something at the top of the tree.”

“When shall I be sent for, sir?” eagerly asked Mrs. Peckaby.

“That ain’t revealed neither.  It may be next week—­it mayn’t be for a year; you must always be on the look-out.  One of these days or nights, you’ll see a white donkey a-standing at your door.  It’ll be the messenger for you from New Jerusalem.  You mount him without a minute’s loss of time, and come off.”