The letter that pleased me so much was from Galt Roscoe, who, as he had
intended, was settled in a new but thriving district of British Columbia,
near the Cascade Mountains. Soon after his complete recovery he had been
ordained in England, had straightway sailed for Canada, and had gone to
work at once. This note was an invitation to spend the holiday months
with him, where, as he said, a man "summering high among the hills of
God" could see visions and dream dreams, and hunt and fish
too--especially fish. He urged that he would not talk parish concerns at
me; that I should not be asked to be godfather to any young mountaineers;
and that the only drawback, so far as my own predilections were
concerned, was the monotonous health of the people. He described his
summer cottage of red pine as being built on the edge of a lovely ravine;
he said that he had the Cascades on one hand with their big glacier
fields, and mighty pine forests on the other; while the balmiest breezes
of June awaited "the professor of pathology and genial saw-bones." At the
end of the letter he hinted something about a pleasant little secret for
my ear when I came; and remarked immediately afterwards that there were
one or two delightful families at Sunburst and Viking, villages in his
parish.
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