Ritchie touched his arm.
"This is your parish, Mackay," he whispered smilingly.
And then for the first time since he had started on his long,
long journey, the young missionary felt his spirit at peace. The
restlessness that had driven him on from one Chinese port to
another was gone. This was indeed HIS parish.
Suddenly out swung a signal; the tide had risen. Up came the
anchor, and away they glided over the now submerged sand-bar into
the harbor.
A nearer view showed greater charms in the Beautiful Isle. On the
south, at their right, lay the great Quan Yin mountain, towering
seventeen hundred feet above them, clothed in tall grass and
groves of bamboo, banyan, and fir trees of every conceivable
shade of green. Nestling at its feet were little villages almost
buried in trees. Slowly the ship drifted along, passing, here a
queer fishing village close to the sandy shore, yonder a
light-house, there a battered Chinese fort rising from the top of
a hill.
And now Tamsui came in sight--the new home of the young
missionary. It seemed to him that it was the prettiest and the
dirtiest place he had ever seen.
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