"This Enschede—the missioner. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. "I don't see how I can improve it. —'They can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's unconstitutional. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart.
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