CHAPTER III.

RECONCILED.

"But ties around this heart were spun

That could not, would not, be undone!"

When Mrs. Townsley entered the parlor her face was pale and careworn.

As she seated herself some little distance from the table, bearing the

precious parcel upon which so many hopes were now founded, she looked

up at the clock.

"I could not go out to-night; he will be leaving soon"--there was a

touch of wistfulness in her voice. She sat for a little time sadly

turning round and round the plain gold ring on her left hand. "If he

had threatened anything else but to desert me," she went on again

presently, "I could go to him; but it's no use in trying, I cannot do

it."

She rose with a weary sigh and went over to the table and listlessly

took up the parcel. She had no curiosity as to its contents, as was

shown by her sitting down again without opening it. Resting her chin

on her hand she drifted into thoughts that plainly were not happy

ones. Finally she again sighed deeply and leaned back in her chair.

Her eyes fell upon the parcel. Indifferently she slipped off the cord

and began to unwrap the paper. Something slipped on her lap, and she

looked mechanically down; the paper and string, which was still in her

hand, fluttered to the floor, her lips parted, her eyes dilated and

her face grew pitifully pale. As though fascinated, she continued to

gaze at the poor soiled little boots. Her laboring heart at last threw

off its torpor and drove the rich color once more back to her face,

and then with a cry, full of unutterable love she caught up the

precious little things, kissed, cooed, wept and fondled them

passionately. "My dear, dead darling," she sobbed. Sinking on her

knees by the side of the chair, she fondled them afresh and pressed

her lips hungrily to the spot where the inquisitive little toe had

forced an opening.

Presently the sound of footsteps fell upon her ears. She sprang to her

feet. "It is Harold!" she exclaimed excitedly. In her new tender mood

she had almost forgotten her resentment toward him. Then an impulse

flashed suddenly into her mind--happily she acted upon it. Hastily

wrapping up the boots again, she hurriedly placed them on the table,

in a position which she thought would attract her husband's attention,

and then she sped across the room and hid behind the heavy curtains

which screened the deep bay window. She had not been mistaken--it was

her husband.

He was wearing his great-coat and had evidently been preparing to go

out. She could see from her hiding-place that his absent mood was

still strong upon him.

"I--I wish," he said, thoughtfully, to himself, as he entered the

room, "that John had thought to bring the parcel; this room is filled

with memories of her, and it makes it harder to go." He stopped and

looked regretfully around the room; then, noticing the parcel, he

walked listlessly over to the table, took it up and ponderingly began

to unfold it; the secret the roughly folded paper held was quickly

revealed. As he held out the wee boots in the palm of his strong hand,

his lips moved for a few moments, but they gave forth no sound. When

the words at last came they were pitifully broken: "His, _his_ boots!

My poor, poor darling!" Over and over again he repeated the words as

he passionately stroked the frayed little toes.

His strength seemed suddenly to desert him and he sank weakly on a

chair, "How I loved him! My God!" Then there flashed back to him the

memory of his wife's deep, true love, and sorrow for the lost one,

and of how he had added to their sorrow, and how they were now about

to separate, and the regret and pity of it all broke down all

self-control and caused sobs to break from his lips, such as only

strong men who seldom know what tears are, can ever utter.

When the storm had spent itself he rose and carefully wrapped up the

boots. "I will take them with me," he said, "they will keep me from

growing narrow and morose again. Ah, if I had but kept them when I was

passing through the dark days! I should have had more sympathy with

her, have understood myself and her better, and this never would have

happened." He looked around the room for the last time: "No, she never

was so dear to me as she is to-night; I never understood her so well."

As he was moving sadly toward the door some belated organ-grinder, in

an adjacent street, began to play the weird refrain of that song which

has touched the hearts of so many who have loved home:

"Home, home, sweet, sweet home--."

He stopped and listened to the music as it stole plaintively from the

distance into the room. When he began to move toward the door again he

was absently repeating the haunting refrain:

"Home, home, sweet, sweet home--."

The music, as well as his words, had floated to the deep bay window;

the curtains had swiftly and noiselessly parted, and she was stealing

after his retreating figure with an expression mantling her face

which brought out every detail of its great beauty.

As he raised his hand to open the door the organ drifted from the

refrain to the air.

He began sadly to repeat the pathetic words:

"An exile from home--."

Two warm, loving arms had stolen around his neck from behind and

smothered the words on his lips: "Not an exile from home, Harold; no,

no, not that, dear! The boots--we understand better now--forgive me,

Harold. Don't go. I----."

Once more the organ had reached the refrain:

"Home, home, sweet, sweet home--."

As he folded her passionately in his arms she drew his face down to

hers and said, with the happy light still glowing and beautifying her

face: "We will take it as a good omen; to us, now, there shall be no

place like home, shall there, dear?"

As he looked into her eyes he answered by lovingly repeating the

refrain which was now dying softly away in the distance:

"Home, home, sweet, sweet home--."

* * * * *

A Prairie Episode.

The fierce rays of the sun, which had turned the prairie grass into a

lifeless-looking dusty brown, continued to pour pitilessly down on the

horde of perspiring workmen, exhausted Indian ponies, and long-eared

morose mules.

At intervals, gusts of hot parching winds bent the rank grass, which

gave forth a dry, almost rasping sound, very different from its usual

musical rustle.

"In ten minutes more it will be noon, and we can get out of this into

the shade for an hour," said Joe Swan, a huge muscular laborer, as he

pushed the nose of the steel scraper into the earth.

The words were addressed to a pale-faced young man who was driving the

pair of mules hitched to the scraper. The only reply was a tired tug

on the reins, and the next moment the scraper had torn up half a yard

of the tenacious prairie sod and cast it to one side. As he turned the

mules around to get them into position again, Joe glanced covertly at

the weary face, shook his head in a troubled manner, and muttered, "It

ain't the work that's breaking him up like this; it's her, and it's

going to end in trouble long before we reach the Rockies."

It was a strange, almost fantastic life these two men, with hundreds

of others, were leading away out here on the vast prairie, whose long

solitude was now being broken by the babel that attends track-laying,

and whose vast bosom, for the first time, was being girded with a band

of steel which was to connect the Atlantic with the Pacific, and bring

home most forcibly to the Mother Country the value of her great

Canadian colony.

Stretching away in front of and behind the two men were hundreds of

other scrapers, tearing up the sod, while closely following them came

gangs of track-layers, who laid the ties and fastened the rails to

them as quickly as the sod was removed. It was easy work track-laying

on the flat expanse, where grading for hundreds of miles at a stretch

was practically unnecessary. Such, indeed, was the rapidity with which

the rails were laid that camp had to be moved from two to three miles

westward every day, so that the men never knew what it was to sleep

twice in the same place.

As Joe was about to scoop up another load, a gunshot echoed and

re-echoed across the prairie. "Dinner time; just what we have been

waiting for!" shouted Joe, as he let go the handles of the scraper,

unhitched the mules, sprang on the back of one of them, and stooping,

swung Harry Langdon, his delicate-looking driver, laughingly across

the back of the other. The next moment they were dashing towards the

camp half a mile away. Other laborers, similarly mounted, were

straining every muscle to reach the same place, for they knew that the

rule of "first come, first served," would be religiously adhered to.

A fast friendship had sprung up between the huge scraper-handler and

his young driver. The very day the little fellow had wandered into

camp, two months before, with his hands and face swollen with mosquito

bites, and asked for a job, big-hearted Joe took a liking to him. It

was owing to Joe's influence with the foremen that he was at last,

grudgingly, given work, as his slim, girlish figure told strongly

against him among such a crowd of sinewy, hardy men.

Had he been put driving for any other scraper-handler than Joe he

would never have succeeded; for before he had been in camp a week the

thick tepid surface water, which they all had to drink, coupled with

the intense heat, told on him, and for weeks he was so ill that he

could scarcely drag his feet along.

Owing to the custom of each scraper being compelled to clear a certain

distance every day, it was impossible--on account of the great stretch

to be covered by all the scrapers--for the foremen to more than two or

three times a day visit the works, and thus it was that Joe, unknown

to the foremen, was able to let his little driver lie for hours, when

he was at his weakest, in the thick grass, while he wrestled with the

stubborn mules and the scraper at the same time.

At last the evening of the torrid day with which this story opens, had

arrived. Those who had been fortunate enough to get to the surface

holes first, and get a little water, were washing their shirts, while

the less fortunate were lounging around the little tents--of which

there were hundreds--welcoming the cool breeze which the dark, ominous

clouds had brought up. Suddenly there was a blinding flash, followed

by a loud report, and then from the warring clouds the longed-for rain

began to pour in heavy sheets.

For some time before the storm broke, Joe had been standing in the

opening of the tent, gazing with furrowed brow, through the gathering

darkness, toward a tent much larger than those of the ordinary

laborers, in the shadow of which was dimly outlined the forms of a man

and a woman. He at once recognized the woman as Nellie Shuter (the

only white woman in camp), daughter of Bill Shuter, a general

storekeeper and purveyor of smuggled and doctored whiskey. The man

with her he knew was his mate, Harry Langdon.

The moment the rain began to fall, Nellie ran into the large tent--her

father's store--and left Harry, who, regardless of the storm, stood

for fully a minute looking after her. As he was about to turn, a

figure, muffled in a gaudy colored blanket, emerged from behind an

adjacent tent and touched him, in a supplicating manner, on the

shoulder. He turned hastily, and seeing who it was, pushed the

intruding hand away. As he did so the blanket fell away from the head

and shoulders of the figure, and there stood revealed a young Indian

girl belonging to the Cree tribe, several of whom--both Indians and

squaws--had for weeks been following the encampment.

Instead of leaving him, she raised her hands in an imploring manner,

and her lips moved. Her pleading evidently had no effect upon Harry,

as he turned and left her abruptly. With an angry gesture she turned

and vanished in the direction of the Indian encampment.

After Harry had returned, Joe sat for quite a long time with a

troubled look on his face, silently pulling at his pipe. Harry seemed

too much engrossed in thought to be aware of his companion's unwonted

silence.

"I seed you again, to-night, with Bill Shuter's daughter," began Joe

at last, breaking a silence that had begun to grow painful to him.

The reference to the girl caused a flush to steal over Harry's face,

and he said, as he sat down by the big fellow's side, "You are very

good, old fellow, to take the interest you do in me. I should have

been in a queer way now had it not been for you; yet, old chap, I

cannot bring myself to believe that Nellie Shuter and her father are

as bad as you have hinted several times." As he concluded he walked to

the opening of the tent and looked out: it was still raining heavily.

"I guess, Joe," he went on awkwardly, without turning, "that I shall

take a run over to Shuter's store for a little while."

"I'd like to say a few words to you before you go."

Harry turned good-humoredly, and sat down on the bench again.

Covering his companion's knee with his great hand, Joe said gravely,

as he looked down into his face: "I've not had much edication, as you

know, Harry; but I've larned a mighty lot that schools don't teach,

and one thing that I've got a mighty good hold of is sizin' up people,

and if ever I met a bad egg Bill Shuter's one. You must know something

about him yourself by this time, for he got you to gamble, and he's

well-nigh won all you've made since you came to camp. If he'd won it

fairly it'd been bad enough--seein' you were a greenhorn--but in my

heart I believe he cheats you. I've tried to catch him at it, but he's

too mighty sharp."

Joe's sombre countenance and equally sombre words were more than Harry

could stand, and leaning his head against the giant's shoulder, he

laughed incredulously.

"I happen to know," Joe went on doggedly, when his companion's

laughter had died away, "that you don't gamble because you love it;

but to please his daughter Nellie, who"--his remarks were interrupted

by Harry springing to his feet and nervously pacing the tent.

But Joe had warmed up to his subject, and was not to be stopped; "As I

said," he went on, "you gamble only to please his daughter, who is in

league with her father. I've heard that she's told others, that are as

sweet on her as you, that the best way to keep the old wolf quiet, and

allow her to be courted, is to gamble with him. I tell you, Harry,

that she's foolin' you, and that in truth she's as bad as he is,

and--"

The interruption this time was effective enough: "It's cowardly of

you, Joe Swan, to speak of her like that." Harry's eyes were gleaming

with anger. "You are presuming on the kindnesses you have done me," he

went on, halting in front of him, "and if her father and a few of his

friends had been here, you would not have dared to speak in that

manner. You know I love Nellie Shuter, and nothing you can say will

make me break with her."

With this he almost ran out of the tent, leaving Joe dragging at his

heavy blonde moustache and gazing at the patches in the canvas tent.

The minutes sped on, and still he continued to think. Finally he took

the pipe out of his mouth, put it absently into his pocket and said to

himself, as though he had solved a difficult problem, "The lad was

right; I had no business to speak to him in that way, but what I said

about them both I believe to be the truth, gospel truth, and sooner or

later there's going to be trouble for him in Shuter's dive; and I'm

going to be with him when it comes, although he did give me that hard

rub about bein' afraid of Shuter and his friends."

He slowly picked up his hat, and was about to step out into the

darkness when the Indian girl, whom he had seen accost Harry,

noiselessly entered the tent, and drawing the wet blanket from her

head, said passionately, in quaint broken English, as she pointed in

the direction of Shuter's store, "He go dare again--Harry--for see de

white girl, Nellie; I see him go, and she no love him."

As Joe looked at her he saw she was far more prepossessing than the

other squaws; while against her character he had not heard a word. He

had seen her for the first time about three months ago, when she came

to camp with some old squaws, to sell prairie chickens and ducks,

which the braves had shot, and Indian-like had sent them to sell.

Her acquaintance with Harry had not been of long duration. The first

time she met him he was lying in the deep rich grass, for it was the

time the fever was upon him. Joe was away in the distance taking care

of both the mules and the scraper. So unexpectedly had she come across

him, that her moccasined foot touched his hand before he was aware of

her presence.

In his gentlemanly way he had risen and told her he was sorry he had

been in her way, and then had sunk weakly back again. The suffering on

his pinched boyish face went straight to her heart, which awoke to

longings never known before.

Every day after this little adventure, on one pretext or another, she

managed to encounter him. At first, he nodded and smiled and had a

kindly word for her, but suddenly he ignored her altogether, for word

of her infatuation had reached Nellie Shuter's ears, and she had acted

as though she were displeased.

For a time the girl stayed away, and Harry thought she would not

return; but one night, when he was walking alone on the prairie, she

ran suddenly up to him, and pointing to the swiftly-flowing Red

River, told him in the figurative language of her people, that because

of him her heart was as troubled as the river was in the

spring-time--when the melting snow vexed it so that it burst its

barriers and flowed over the prairie. She went on in her childish,

earnest way to tell him that she could not help loving him, and that

if he would take her to be his wife she should work for him as long as

she lived.

As he did not reply, a gleam of hope crept into her heart, and baring

her dark arm, she showed him how strong it was, how it never grew

weary, and how, if he would throw in his lot with her people, he

should never have to work, as the squaws always worked for the braves.

It was no uncommon thing for French-Canadians to marry squaws, neither

was it uncommon for squaws to offer themselves in marriage, and thus

she did not know how strangely unnatural her proposition sounded to

him. It never, in his inexperience, occurred to him to make any

allowance for her on account of her life and environments, and he

judged her as he would have judged a white girl.

As she looked up into his blue eyes and saw the look of dismay and

contempt there, her intuitions told her her words had sounded unseemly

to him, and that he abhorred her for them; and in her keen distress

and anger she turned and fled.

Had he loved no other woman, it might have been the stoicism of her

race would have saved her from further humiliation, but when she saw

him walking with Nellie Shuter, saw the love-light in his eyes when

he looked at her, and noted how flippantly, in return, Nellie treated

him, her love swept away all feelings of pride, and she seized every

opportunity of speaking to him. Naturally such a course only added to

his distaste for her.

Joe had guessed that she had contracted a liking for Harry, but never

until her visit to their tent had he imagined her falling so

helplessly in love with him. And as he stood and looked into her dark,

passionate face, this new complication of Harry's affairs made him

feel more ill at ease than ever. "Well, and if he has gone to Shuter's

tent to see Nellie, what business is that of yours?" he asked sharply.

He would have liked to answer her kindly, and would have done so, had

he not feared fanning into a keener flame her hopeless passion.

The bronzed cheeks of the Indian girl flamed into a still deeper hue

as she heard his words. But conquering her passion, she told him again

how dearly she loved Harry, while she was sure the white girl did not;

and she had come to ask him to tell Harry this.

Joe, who could not trust himself to reply, pointed--with a sorry

attempt at dignity--to the opening in the tent.

For a few moments she stood and looked at him with clenched hands and

compressed lips, and then, without another word, turned and left, as

he had silently ordered.

As Joe trudged through the darkness and rain in the direction of

Shuter's store, he repeated several times, "It was pretty small to

treat her like that; I never felt such a mean cuss before; but what in

the world was I to do?"

As he finally entered Shuter's tent, which bore the dignified title of

store, a scene that would have appeared strangely fantastic to

dwellers in cities, presented itself. Congregated together were about

fifty sunburnt laborers, arrayed in coarse woollen shirts. To their

despondent-looking trousers the blue tenacious prairie mud clung like

glue. Several nationalities were represented in the motley assembly,

for it was the time of the great North-West boom, and men had been

drawn from far and near.

In one corner of the tent was a quaint table or counter, constructed

of three old boards and two trestles, upon which were deposited a lot

of rolled Canadian smoking and chewing tobacco, clay pipes, and

several long-necked bottles. Pinned to the tent, behind the counter,

was a card, on which was scrawled, in characters which scorned all

laws of proportion, "Mild Drinks." It was owing to the abhorred

fashion of the North-West Mounted Police, of confiscating drinks that

were not mild, that Shuter was led to display this prevaricating sign.

Behind the counter stood Nellie Shuter, a dashing, good-looking young

woman of about twenty-three, while seated at a number of rude tables

were laborers throwing dice and playing poker. Leaning nonchalantly on

the counter were two or three young men, who were making themselves

agreeable to the fair attendant behind it.

Joe quietly edged his way through the tent till he came to a table

near the counter, at which were seated his mate, Harry Langdon, and

Bill Shuter. Shuter was a tall, spare man, with a somewhat receding

chin and small, very light-colored blue eyes, which had a habit of

looking past one while their owner was speaking. A glance at Harry's

face was sufficient to show that he had been drinking heavily.

Although Shuter had drunk sparingly, there was a strange irritable

expression about his face.

Seating himself some little distance from the two men, Joe covertly

watched the play. He soon perceived that Harry was paying little or no

attention to the game--although it was poker--his attention being

almost entirely fixed on Nellie, who was flirting outrageously with

her admirers. Every time her flippant laugh reached him a pained look

crossed his sensitive face, but she pretended to be as unconscious of

it as she appeared to be of his reproachful glances.

Despite his loose play, however, Harry drew a number of hands that a

child could have won with. Finally he laid down his cards and said, "I

guess I won't play any more to-night, Shuter."

"Bring us a drink, Nellie," was Shuter's response.

As Harry raised to his lips the glass of reddish-looking fluid which

Nellie brought, Shuter said insolently, "It's not the custom of men in

this country to run away when they are winning." His daughter heard

the words--as he had intended--and looking Harry full in the face,

shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. No plan of attack could have

been more subtle. Harry's face flushed violently, and sitting down

hastily, he said: "You know it would take me weeks to win back the

money I have lost with you; but it's all right; deal the cards."

As Joe sat and watched this by-play, he was so enraged that he could

scarcely keep from springing to his feet and laying his huge hands on

Shuter.

The biting insult appeared to somewhat sober Harry, and he watched his

play more carefully. As his run of luck still continued, Shuter's

ill-humor increased, till it was quite marked. After the fifth or

sixth deal the crucial game arrived. Both players began to bet heavily

on their hands. Harry met his opponent's bets without a tremor of

excitement, and twice Shuter hesitated as though he would throw up the

game--seeing he could not bluff Harry into doing so, and,

consequently, forfeiting what was already on the table. Suddenly

Shuter said, with an air of quiet confidence, "The stakes are pretty

high now; what do you say to having only one raise more and then

showing our hands? We evidently can't bluff each other, and the best

hand will then have to win."

This subtle effort to discourage his opponent, and make him afraid of

the next raise, failed, as Harry merely nodded and said, "Make your

raise."

There was silence for a few seconds, and then Shuter said, "I will

raise you thirty dollars better." Before this advance the stakes had

run up to about forty dollars, so the raise, among such men, was a

most unusual one. If Harry lost, it meant the forfeiture of his entire

month's salary. Joe was now so intensely interested that he was

leaning eagerly forward; he was suspicious of Shuter, and was watching

him as a cat watches a mouse.

The heavy raise caused a slightly startled look to shoot into Harry's

face; but he was now in it to the death and answered, "All right, I'll

take you up; there's my cards" (four aces); "show me yours."

Joe saw a dangerous look leap into Shuter's eyes as Harry leaned

forward, expectantly, to see what cards Shuter held.

Stretching out his hand, as if with the intention of also exposing his

cards, Shuter deftly managed to knock off the table the remainder of

the pack. As he did so he uttered an exclamation, as though his action

had been accidental, and stooping began to gather up the cards; but

while doing so dexterously dropped two of his own cards and replaced

them with two others, thus giving himself a royal flush--a hand

impossible to beat.

Quickly as the trick had been done it was detected by both Harry and

Joe, and the next instant Harry was on his feet, his face convulsed

with anger and his slight frame quivering with excitement.

Shuter also sprang to his feet, and as his thin lips parted into a

forced, uncomprehending smile, Harry struck him with his fist, full in

the face. Before Harry could draw back Shuter had seized him by the

throat, and was fumbling in his pocket for an old sailor's knife

which he was always known to carry; but before he could draw it he was

swung violently off his feet and brought down with a thud on the

table. He was little better than a child in Joe's grasp. The next

instant the place was in an uproar, and a dozen men sprang on Joe; but

it was only after a long struggle that they succeeded in drawing his

terrified victim from his grasp.

As Shuter at last staggered to his feet, his daughter ran to his side.

The sight of the girl made Harry forget his resentment, and he walked

toward her with the intention of apologizing; but the moment her eyes

fell upon him she burst forth furiously, "Get out of this, you little

fool; I am sick of making a fool of you. There's not a man in the tent

but knows how I have been laughing at your attempts at love-making."

Pointing her finger derisively at him she continued ironically, "What

do you think, men, of _that thing_ making love to me?"

All eyes were turned on her unhappy little lover, whose face was now

pitifully white and drawn. The jeers which she expected, to her

surprise did not come, for the little fellow's appreciation of his

trying position was so painfully apparent in his drooping figure and

pallid face, that there was not a man among them who did not feel more

like gathering him in their strong arms than jeering at him. Never

before had they realized what a weakly, effeminate little soul he was.

"It's all right, boys, you can let go." It was Joe who broke the

silence. They had almost forgotten they were still holding him lest

he should lay hands again on Shuter. Without a word they released him,

for they knew by the tone of his voice, and from the pitiful look he

gave his little driver, that he had forgotten all about his enemy. As

Joe strode toward Harry, and the yellow glare from the coal lamps,

fastened to posts behind the counter, fell athwart his powerful,

weather-beaten face and massive figure, they realized as they had

never done before the striking physical difference between the

scraper-handler and his driver, and wondered vaguely how two such

dissimilar characters could attract each other so powerfully.

"Don't mind her, Harry, don't mind her; she's not worthy of you. Let's

go." As arm and arm they strode out of the tent the men quietly

parted.

"I'll have a reckoning with that cub of yours some other time, Joe

Swan," shouted Shuter, with an attempt of bravado, as they were

disappearing. He had mistaken the humor of the men; one of them told

him to shut his cursed mouth.

Before the two silent figures had taken a dozen steps in the thick

darkness toward their own tent, the storm broke out afresh. The

turbulent clouds, unobstructed for hundreds of miles by either hills

or trees, were now hovering over the very sod, and at short intervals

vivid, sinuous gleams broke from them, and, serpent-like, went

writhing and glistening through the matted grass, while the roar of

the thunder made the apprehensive earth tremble perceptibly.

Joe had seen two such dread storms before, and so paid but little

attention to them. Thinking his companion might be afraid of the

appalling sight, he said, as he glanced down at his drawn face, "It's

only on the prairies one sees storms like these; and I've seen men as

didn't fear a revolver get mighty scared at a sight like this. First

time I saw it I felt queer enough."

"No, Joe, you misunderstand; if my face is white it's not because I'm

afraid of the lightning. I have been hurt to-night, Joe, worse than it

could ever hurt me."

Utterly forgetful of the warring elements, Joe halted abruptly, and

throwing his great arm around the slender shoulders of his companion,

said fiercely, "For God's sake, Harry, don't talk like that; it makes

me feel like going back and choking the life out of both of them."

While he was speaking, a flash of lightning, more vivid than its

fellows, shot across the prairie and revealed the two troubled figures

to some of the laborers who were in the act of leaving Shuter's store,

and their hearts--unluckily for Shuter--hardened against him for the

part he that night had played.

The deep thrill in Joe's voice went to Harry's heart like a balm, and

he said gratefully, "You're an awful decent fellow, Joe, and it's too

bad of me bringing my troubles into your life in this way."

Joe's only reply, as they again hurried along, was to hug the little

arm more closely. When they finally reached their tent Joe uttered an

exclamation, for one of the flashes revealed that it was at least two

feet deep in water. Groping his way into the tent, Joe lit a candle,

and holding it high above his head, looked around. "This is hard

luck," he said to his companion, who was standing in the opening;

"we've pitched the tent in a little hollow, and the water's drained

into it. There'll be no sleeping here for us to-night; we shall have

to move the tent and stretchers to higher ground."

Half an hour later the tent was pitched several acres away. Had the

lightning not died away, they would have seen that they were near two

other tents of exactly the same size as their own.

It was about five o'clock when Joe awoke, and looking out of the tent

saw the sun was already casting a warm glow in the east. Seeing Harry

showed no signs of waking, he slipped quietly from his stretcher,

dressed, and stealing past his mate, left the tent. Signs of life were

already visible in camp. In another hour the entire camping outfit

would be loaded on the waiting flat-cars and taken to the end of the

track--which again stretched over two miles westward--and a new

camping-ground found, after which breakfast would be served and the

phenomenal track-laying be again continued.

"It's a great country," Joe muttered, as his gaze swept across the

broad expanse, "and if it hadn't been for the trouble my little mate's

had, I should have been happy out here."

Turning, he saw for the first time the two small tents, and at once

recognized them as the ones Shuter and his daughter slept in. While he

was thinking how queer it was that above all other spots they should

have chosen this to pitch their tent, Shuter came out of one of the

tents, and in a loud voice called to his daughter, in the other, to

get up. Not wanting to speak to him, Joe hurried back into his own

tent and began to wash.

By some mischance the tin bowl upset and fell noisily to the ground.

Expecting to see Harry start up, Joe looked across at him as he

stooped to pick up the wayward bowl, but the quiet form did not move.

"Sleeping mighty sound," Joe soliloquized, as he vigorously began to

scour his face with a coarse, unsanitary-looking towel. Suddenly the

towel fell from his hands, and a startled, curious look shot into his

face; it had come to him that the scanty clothing which covered his

little driver neither rose nor fell.

For a few moments he stood gazing at the dimly outlined figure in the

yet uncertain light, a feeling of growing terror stealing over him. He

tried to convince himself that his eyes were deceiving him, yet his

laboring heart would not be comforted. Twice he opened his mouth to

call Harry's name, but his parched throat refused to utter any sound.

He could endure the growing horror no longer, and with set, terrified

gaze began to move toward the stretcher. When at last his laggard

steps reached it he had not the courage to shake the slim figure, but

in a voice, which sounded strangely unnatural, called his mate's name.

The quiet of the tent was broken by no response. With pitiful

hesitancy he finally stretched out his hand till it rested on the wan

face; then he uttered a great cry--it was as cold as the face of the

dead!

In his terror and excitement he was about to snatch him up in his

arms, when a sight, which made him start back with an exclamation of

horror met his eyes: in the side of the tent against which the body

rested was a sinister cut, stained with blood. Pushing the canvas

back, the whole treacherous story stood out as clear as daylight;

while sleeping, his companion had been stabbed through the folds of

the tent.

"There's only one man under God's heaven, who'd do a deed like this,

and that's Bill Shuter." There was something weirdly ominous in the

tones in which he uttered the words; in his dogged manner as he strode

out of the tent, cut several of the ropes that fastened it to the

ground, pieced them together, tried them to see if the knots were

firm--especially those which formed the noose at the end of the

line--and then winding the rope around his huge arm, strode into Bill

Shuter's tent.

Scarcely had he entered it when a man's cry of terror rang out on the

quiet morning air, and roused the few who already had not risen.

Before the echo had died away, Nellie Shuter ran out of her tent

toward her father's; but before she could reach it Joe Swan emerged

from it, his massive hands grasping the rope, which was now wound

tightly around her father's throat. In vain Shuter struggled to utter

another cry, and to thrust away the avenging hand which grasped the

rope.

With a terrified scream Nellie sprang upon Joe and endeavored to stop

his march toward the derrick in the near distance, the ponderous arm

of which stretched enticingly out some nine feet above the ground.

Without swerving an inch to the right or the left, Joe hurried on

toward it, while with his disengaged hand, and without apparently

using any force, he kept Nellie aside.

Before he had got half-way to it, however, shouts fell upon his ears,

and glancing hastily backward, he saw over a hundred laborers running

toward him. For a brief space he stopped, measured with his eyes the

distance he was from the arm of the derrick and his pursuers, then

stooped, threw Shuter across his shoulder, and started off on a brisk

run. Nellie made another desperate effort to stop him, but this time

he pushed her to the earth and sped on.

Despite his great weight, and the burden which encumbered him, he was

the first to reach the derrick--although the crowd had been close

behind him when he began to run. He had deftly thrown the end of the

rope over the arm of the derrick, and was about to hoist Shuter into

mid-air, when the crowd was upon him. The rope was wrenched from his

hands, and the noose unloosened from the man's throat. "For heaven's

sake, what does all this mean?" asked a foreman, turning toward Joe.

Before he could reply Shuter gasped, "He's mad, he's mad; he ran into

my tent, and without a word wound that rope about my neck and then

tried to hang me." As he looked at his implacable enemy he edged

towards the foreman.

"He pretends," began Joe, in a compressed voice, "that he don't know

why I was going to hang him; he's a liar; yes, a million times worse

than a liar--he's a murderer! I thought I'd save you the trouble of

helping me to string him up, for when you hear what he's done you'll

riddle him full of holes and string him up as well!"

The crowd had now gathered about the speaker, and were gazing at him

with growing excitement. "There's a lot of you," Joe went on, "who saw

him last night, in that gambling whiskey dive of his, try to draw his

knife on Harry Langdon, and heard him shout after me that he'd have a

reckoning some other time with that cub of mine; and, boys, he's kept

his word, for Harry lies in his tent there, dead, stabbed to the

heart, in the dead of night, through the folds of the tent, by that

cuss there that you were so afraid I'd string up."

Angry exclamations followed this fierce tirade, and a rush was made

for Shuter.

"It's a lie! I swear it's a lie! I never stabbed the lad!"

But his words were cut short by the rope, which was again being wound

around his throat. As they dragged him towards the derrick Nellie once

more threw herself across her father's body and begged piteously for

mercy. The sight of the girl's intense grief somewhat cooled the

unreasoning rage which had been kindled in their hearts by Joe's rude

eloquence, and they hesitated as though they hardly knew what to do.

"Let's see the body before we string him up, anyway," cried a voice.

The fairness of the proposition appealed to the men--more especially

as they had begun to realize that they had acted impulsively. There

was a general move toward the tent where the body lay.

In the rush none of them noticed the rapid approach of the Indian

girl, who so prodigally, and unasked, had given her heart to the

murdered boy. As they entered the tent she was close behind Joe, whose

huge body hid Shuter and his daughter, who were in front of him, from

her view.

As Joe stepped forward to remove the coat he had thrown across the

dead face, a low cry, full of the keenest apprehension and fear,

sounded behind him. Turning, his eyes fell upon the Indian girl, who

was crouching close at his feet, her palsied hands raised as though to

guard off some deadly apparition or danger, while her eyes, full of

the most intense fear and horror, were fixed on Nellie Shuter.

Joe's temper had been sorely tried, and laying his hand heavily on her

shoulder, he said fiercely, "What's the meaning of this?"

Instead of trying to escape from his grasp, she caught him

hysterically by the arm, and pointing at Nellie, said wildly, in her

queer broken English, "See, see, de Great Spirit send her back to me!

She's dead."

As Nellie stood and continued to gaze in amazement at her, the insane

terror of the Indian girl rose to an ungovernable height, and burying

her face in the grass, she screamed to Joe to send her away. The deep

superstition in her nature--bred by her people--had been stronger than

the love of revenge or the fear of punishment. Joe was the first to

read the meaning of her superstitious horror, knowing as he did her

hatred of Nellie and her love for Harry. And suddenly pointing at the

grovelling figure, he said in a shocked voice: "Boys, I see it all

now; she's the murderer. She meant to stab Nellie, her rival, and

would have done it if we hadn't in the darkness last night pitched our

tent next to Nellie's. The tents are alike, and she mistook ours for

hers."

The mention of Harry's name brought a gleam of reason to the

distracted girl's face, and springing to her feet--apparently now

forgetful of Nellie's presence--she begged Joe to take her from the

tent to Harry. Not for a moment did she appear to realize the dreadful

mistake she had made.

"He's there!" said Joe, pitilessly, pointing to the stretcher.

Thinking in her half-crazed manner that he was sleeping through it

all, she ran to the stretcher, and tore away the sheet that covered

the face she loved. It was not till she had caught the dear head to

her bosom and pressed her face to his, that the truth broke upon her

clouded mind. They had been drawing near her; but as she let his head

fall back, they all--except Joe--drew away from her; the heart-broken,

insane look on her face was more than they could bear. As she stood,

wildly pressing her hands to her forehead, Joe pointed at the gash in

the tent and then at the blood-stained clothing at Harry's side. Then

with fascinated gaze they watched the rapid changes which sped across

her face, for reason had not yet altogether flown, and they saw that

she was recalling the fearful mistake she had made. Suddenly her hands

slid to her side, and in doing so encountered the handle of the knife

which lay concealed beneath her blanket. That was the connecting link

which brought home to her the whole truth of the tragedy, and with a

cry that haunted many of them for years afterwards, she drew the

knife, gave one glance at the stained blade that had robbed her of him

for whom she would willingly have died, stabbed again and again the

fatal gash in the canvas, and then throwing away the knife, caught up

the lifeless body in her arms and began madly to chant a wild, weird

song which her people sang when they had triumphed over their enemies.

* * * * *

She was so violently insane when she reached Winnipeg that they

decided a trial was unnecessary, so she was placed at once in an

asylum.

After they had buried his little mate on the great silent prairie, Joe

tried to forget and to do his work as usual; but the odor of the

newly-severed sod, the cracking of the drivers' whips, the shouting to

the stubborn mules, the stampede over the prairie at noon, the hateful

sight of Shuter and his daughter--in fact, everything around him--made

the longing for the company of his little driver so keen that he could

not bear it, and a week after his death he drew his wages and slipped

away, none knew whither.

* * * * *

A Daughter of the Church.

It had been a severe Canadian winter, but the bright spring sunshine

was now honeycombing the great snow-heap, which all winter had beset

farmer Frechette's farm-house, and which, on this early March morning,

was still banked almost as high as the kitchen window.

Glinting through the old-fashioned narrow panes, the generous rays

fell upon the white bowed head of farmer Frechette, who sat warming

himself at the square box wood-stove, gazing the while with furrowed

brow at the roystering wood sparks, as at short intervals they shot

aggressively from the partly open door.

Suddenly there floated through the raised window the joyous chimes of

church bells. With an angry exclamation the old man sprang to his

feet, hurried to the window, and violently drew it down. His extreme

weakness made the anger that convulsed his thin, wrinkled face painful

to see. Straightening up his bent frame, he shook his hand at the

church, which he could see in the distance, and uttered anathemas

against it. As he did so, the door leading from the little bedroom at

the back of the kitchen was burst open, and his wife, a woman many

years younger than he, ran over to his side, dragged down his still

uplifted arm, and led him over to his seat. She then sat down beside

him, and burying her face in her hands, began to cry.

Her distress moved him and he told her somewhat doggedly, but not

unkindly, to cease. "Do you know what the bells are ringing for?" he

asked cynically, after a short pause.

"Why worry about it? We must submit," she answered, trying to keep out

of her voice the discontent that assailed her.

"They are ringing," he went on in a hard voice, "for farmer Cadieux's

daughter, who is to take her life vows to-day. Already he has one

daughter a nun, and his honor among French-Canadians will increase. I

have lived in St. Jerome all my life, and have neither daughter nor

son in the Church; they pity me. It was only yesterday we received the

letter from Quebec telling us of the honor that had come to my brother

through his daughter taking the veil. None of our neighbors were more

passionately attached to their children than we; yet death passed by

their doors, came to ours, and took them all. Continued disappointment

has made me weary of life. The sound of the church bells, which I have

heard so often sing honor for others, drives me to outbursts of

shameful anger. At times I think I shall go mad. As for the Church, I

have nearly lost all faith in it."

As he ceased, his wife rose, kissed his cheek and said, with a little

break in her voice, "We have suffered much, Hormisdas; would to the

Virgin we had not been so sorely afflicted."

"Such affliction is nothing but cruelty," he went on, scornfully. "It

was cruel when death took all our little ones in childhood. But it was

still more cruel, when we had grown old and were striving to be

content and kiss the rod, for the Virgin to give us another daughter;

to let us keep her till she had grown into womanhood; till we had

given her an education which would have fitted her to be the

superioress of a convent, and then strike her with a fatal illness

just as she was about to take the veil, and once more ruthlessly crush

out all our hopes."

"So long as Adele lives there is hope," said his wife, trying to be

brave.

"Doctor Prenoveau says she will die," he answered fiercely.

"She was resting easier when I came down to you. I cannot get the idea

out of my mind, that if we got Doctor Chalmers from Montreal, he would

cure her. They say, although he is young, he is very clever. As for

Doctor Prenoveau, you know people say he is too old to practise now."

"When Doctor Prenoveau said the others would die, they died," he

replied, looking at her as though he feared she would no longer argue

with him.

With a hopeful ring in her voice the brave mother said, "That is true,

but this time he may be mistaken; Doctor Chalmers would know."

"If we only dared hope," he said under his breath.

"Doctor Chalmers would know," she repeated eagerly.

"Send for him," he replied, turning his face away.

The sun had hardly sunk behind the Laurentian range of mountains,

which for hundreds of miles towers above the great St. Lawrence River,

and dictates its course to the Gulf, when the wind from the north,

bringing with it flurries of fine snow, began to blow cold and strong.

Doctor Chalmers drew the buffalo robes tighter about him, and settled

back in a corner of the sleigh; he had three miles yet to drive before

he reached farmer Frechette's house. "Had I known it was going to be

this cold I would have arranged for some other doctor to take up the

case," he muttered. Had he only done so, how different his life would

have been!

"We were afraid you would not come to-day," said Madame Frechette as

she led him into the kitchen, where the stove was throwing out a

genial heat.

"Had the message been less urgent, I should not have done so," he

replied, stooping and warming his benumbed hands. Farmer Frechette sat

facing the doctor at the opposite side of the stove, furtively

glancing at the young physician, dissatisfaction imprinted on every

line of his face; he was bitterly disappointed. "He is little better

than a boy," the old man repeated to himself, over and over again.

"This is the doctor from Montreal, Adele," said the mother, bending

over her sick daughter. Doctor Chalmers drew near the bed, and as the

light from the coal-oil lamp fell across Adele's face, he could not

help but think how beautiful she was even in her illness.

For a long time nothing could be heard in the kitchen but the loud

ticking of the yellow-faced clock, hung high above the old deal table,

and the occasional murmur of voices in the sick girl's room. Unable

any longer to sit and endure the suspense, the farmer rose, and began,

fretfully, to walk to and fro. Finally he stopped at the window, and

his gaze travelled across the great expanse of white, beautified by

the pale light of the early moon, to the tin-clad church tower in the

distance, which shone like burnished silver as the moon's rays fell

upon it.

"If she dies there is no Virgin and the priests have deceived us," he

said, looking steadily at the tower; "but if she lives"--and he

straightened out his bent figure--"I shall die happy in the faith. I

will leave money to help build the new church which Father Sauvalle so

long has wished to have built." Hearing a slight noise behind him, he

turned quickly. His wife, followed by the doctor, was entering the

room.

"Well?" he queried, in a peculiar tone, looking at the doctor as

though he knew he would tell him there was no hope.

"She certainly is very ill, but I cannot agree with Doctor Prenoveau,

if he says there is no hope." The words were kindly spoken, for he had

noticed how the old man trembled and how poorly assumed was his air of

defiance.

"You really think she may not die, doctor?" he asked, almost

incredulously.

"I really think not."

Farmer Frechette sank heavily on his chair. "I am beginning to feel

old, very old, doctor," he said weakly.

Never before had Doctor Chalmers taken so keen an interest in a case.

Inch by inch he contested with death for the life of the young girl

upon whose recovery was founded so many hopes.

It was a beautiful June day when, for the first time since Adele's

illness, she ventured out of the house, supported on the young

doctor's arm, and walked as far as the little garden at the back of

the house. Very lovely she looked in her light-colored, soft, clinging

dress, large brimmed straw hat, the health color struggling back to

her cheeks, her sweet lips parted, and her heavily fringed dark eyes

lighted up with hope and happiness.

Among his friends, Doctor Chalmers was known as a man not prone to

many words. Could they but have heard him this afternoon as he sat by

her side on the quaint garden seat, they simply would have been

astounded.

It had come so gradually, this love of his, that before he was quite

aware, it had taken possession of his heart so that no reasoning could

have forced it to withdraw. He saw no reason, indeed, why he should

wish to banish it; besides being beautiful and winning, she had

received an excellent education, and was in every way fitted to be his

wife. Of Adele's dedication to the Church from her birth, he knew

nothing, so that no misgivings assailed him. Little wonder then that

his heart should be light, and that the primitive garden should appear

to him the most beautiful spot he had ever seen.

After this little walk and chat in the garden, life seemed to come

back to her with strides. By the end of August Adele was quite strong

again. The change in her health made a new man of her father; from the

day Doctor Prenoveau had said she would not recover, until the day

Doctor Chalmers had pronounced her out of danger, he had not entered

the doors of the church. Now all was different; twice a week he went

to confession, and almost every day knelt before the altar and asked

forgiveness for the dreadful sins of the past. It had never struck him

as being strange that Doctor Chalmers should continue to visit his

house after she had recovered. He had a hazy idea that the doctor's

triumph over his daughter's disease was the cause of the interest he

took in her. The preposterous thought that anyone should want to marry

Adele no more entered his imagination than would the idea of anyone

wanting to marry one of the dark-robed nuns at the convent.

Everyone in St. Jerome knew that she was to take the veil. If his wife

at times had fears, she never mentioned them to him.

And Adele? She was very happy. Like most French-Canadian women, she

was passionately attached to the Church. At times her happiness was

dimmed by the thought that she was not looking forward to taking the

veil with that eagerness that she had felt before her illness. She

comforted herself with the thought that the change, somehow, was the

result of her illness, and that by and by the old longings would

surely return. Why her heart should beat so when Doctor Chalmers

called, and what the meaning was of her looking so eagerly forward to

his visiting days, she never stopped to think.

The time of her awakening was at hand!

Had Adele's thoughts been less engrossed one afternoon, as she sat on

the porch, she would have noticed approaching the house, in the middle

of the narrow, dusty road that ran to the church, Father Sauvalle,

with his arm linked in that of her father's, both talking eagerly. The

priest's hand was on the latch of the gate before she raised her head;

her face lighted up, and she ran to meet them. The aged priest had

known her all her life, and patted her head with fatherly affection.

As they walked toward the house, he told her, impressively, that his

visit this time was solely on her account.

"Yes, solely on your account, solely on your account, blessed be the

Virgin!" broke in her father with strange ecstasy. She could not

account for the unhappy feeling which swept over her.

They went into the little parlor, where hung the great carved wooden

crucifix, which was said to be the most costly in the town, with the

exception of the one in the church.

Scarcely were they seated, when her father began to tell her the great

news. With eyes beaming with religious enthusiasm and pride, he told

her how Father Sauvalle had received a letter from the bishop, stating

that when the daughter of Hormisdas Frechette had taken the veil at

the convent at St. Jerome, the honor should be bestowed upon her of

being removed to the convent of the Sacred Heart at Montreal. Father

Sauvalle was to be thanked for this.

Very proudly and with much solemnity the priest took a letter from the

folds of his robe, and as he opened it, impressively told her the

letter he held was the very one which had brought the great news. As

he read it to her, his face beamed with smiles. Little wonder they

were pleased, for it was an honor indeed to the little town of St.

Jerome to be able to say that one of its daughters had been admitted

to this convent, noted as it was for its exclusiveness and the

severity of its discipline.

"The convent!" she exclaimed falteringly.

They noticed how pale her face had suddenly grown. They were not

surprised; it was meet that the sudden news of the honor in store for

her should cause some emotion.

"We have talked the matter over," continued the priest, graciously,

"and have decided that, as you already have served your novitiate, you

may as well return to the convent in a few days. In a month or so

later you will be ready to take your final vows. Your father is an old

man now and has been sorely tried, and has sinned deeply--yea, even

uttered anathemas against the Church. But the Blessed Mother heard

the prayers of the Church for your recovery, and so his soul was saved

from--"

"He anathematised the Church because of me?" Adele interrupted, fear

gleaming in her eyes.

For a few moments no one spoke. The painful silence was broken by her

father struggling to his feet. Beseechingly he looked at the great

crucifix, made the sign of the cross on his bosom, and then turned his

wavering gaze on his daughter, who had shrunk back in her chair and

covered her eyes, as though she dared not look at him.

"I had not meant you to know this," he said, tightly clutching the arm

of his chair for support. "I think I must have been mad when I did it;

I had set my heart so on having a daughter in the Church, and had been

disappointed so often. When they said your illness was fatal, I said,

in my misery, that there was no Virgin, or she would not let such

suffering fall upon me. Even now, wrong as I know it to be, I fear if

anything should happen that you did not take the veil, I should drift

back again into unbelief."

"Cease, cease! Hormisdas," cried the priest, raising his hand

authoritatively.

The old man walked weakly over to his wife. The priest turned his

attention to Adele, and said to her soothingly, "There is nothing to

fear now; all will be well with him. It is a great honor to you that

your life was spared in order that your father's soul might be saved.

The bishop knows of this, and is greatly pleased. Already many of the

parish priests have been told of your miraculous recovery, and have

repeated it to those whose faith was weak, and they have been

blessed. You have been honored above most women. In time, I believe

you will rise to be the superioress of a convent."

As he turned from her, Adele rose and left the room. As the door was

closing behind her she turned and looked back. Before the crucifix, on

their knees, were her aged father and mother, while towering above

them, with hands outstretched toward the cross, was the white-haired

priest, invoking blessings on those bowed at his feet. She knew it was

her duty to be by their side. Stifling the choking tears, she was

about to re-enter the room, when the haunting refrain of a song that

she had heard Doctor Chalmers sing, rang in her ears:

"To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,

Or be crushed in its ruins to die."

The words seemed sacrilegious to her, when compared with the

supplicating tone of the priest's voice. With all her might she strove

to banish them. Twice she stretched out her hand to turn the handle of

the door, but the sound of the voice that had sung the words seemed to

grow more distinct instead of vanishing, and her hand fell to her

side. At last, with a stifled cry of despair, she fled from the house

into the little garden, shocked at the wickedness of her heart.

For a long time she sat with closed eyes, her little ivory

prayer-beads in her hands. She pleaded for pardon for not being able

to fix her attention on holy things, and asked grace to cease

thinking of him who had taken from her the love for the life of

seclusion to which she had been taught to look forward.

At last she heard the clang of the garden gate, and knew the priest

had gone. She did not return to the house, but continued battling with

her sins. Suddenly her supplications ceased; she sprang to her feet

and looked along the road. She had not been mistaken; away in the

distance was a light buggy, rapidly approaching. Doctor Chalmers had

said he might be down that day! Her heart seemed to stop beating; she

would have run into the house had not her strength failed. Had the

evil one been approaching, she could not have begun to pray more

earnestly for aid.

When the vehicle, covered with dust, reached farmer Frechette's house,

the rattle of wheels ceased.

"To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life."

She heard him whistling his favorite refrain as he swung up the gravel

walk. He had seen her white dress, and was walking straight toward

her. She heard him coming, and her treacherous heart began to beat

joyously. With an exclamation of despair, she sank to her knees by the

side of the garden seat, deeming herself the very chief of sinners.

For a few moments he stood and looked down at her in utter amazement,

then stooped quickly and raised her. When he saw how white her face

was, he was sure she was seriously ill, and held out his arm to

support her to the house.

With averted face, Adele told him that she was only a little nervous

and unstrung, but she would be herself again. Her pathetic face and

helplessness appealed strongly to him, and his heart went out to her,

as a man's will to the woman he loves, and whose sufferings are his.

As he sat down by her side, he could scarcely refrain from gathering

her in his arms and comforting her.

Her clamoring conscience caused her involuntarily to draw away from

him to the end of the seat. Her strange manner caused an uneasy

feeling to sweep over him, yet accentuated the keen longing to win

her. Almost before he was aware of it, he was by her side again, and

was telling her the story that is ever new, though so very old. She

would have given the world to have let her heart run riot, as the

loving words came pouring from his lips. She learned how she had first

grown dear to him, as he had fought with the great reaper for her

life, and how the sight of health returning to her dear face had been

sweeter to him than he could ever tell her. He told her, too, he was

positive that he would never have been called to play the important

part in her life which he had done, had it not been ordained from the

beginning that his life was to be knit with hers.

"To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life."

The haunting words were still ringing in Adele's ears, and made it

ten-fold harder for her to tell him that he was not to prevail in the

cause dearer than life, as it was to him.

As she sat, with face buried in her cold hands, and listened and

tried to fight down the singing of her heart, she knew that nothing he

could say could make her deny the Church and imperil the soul of her

father once more.

"Or be crushed in its ruins to die."

"Marie, pity us! for that is the answer I have for him," she

whispered. Ah! how she wished Doctor Prenoveau had been a true

prophet, and that she had died.

As he ceased, she took the little silver crucifix which hung around

her neck, pressed it tightly to her bosom, and turning her woe-begone

face to him, said, as she rose, "You do not know, or you would not say

such things to me."

He had expected something so different. "I--I do not understand," he

said, wonderingly, rising and walking toward her.

She clutched the cross tighter and stepped back as he approached. He

was sorely perplexed and apprehensive, and she saw it, and her heart

ached for him.

"I am going," she began weakly, "to be a nun. I have been in the

convent before, and shall return in a few days. In less than two

months I shall take the veil."

Dear heart! Fight as she would for conscience' sake, she could not

keep out of her eyes the pity and love for him, as she saw the look of

amazement and misery which flashed into his face, and noted how

unsteadily his hand sought the back of the garden bench.

Suddenly their eyes met, and then he knew, and hope flew back, and

with a glad ring in his voice he said, "You love me, Adele!" He

started forward and imprisoned the hand with the crucifix in his own.

His apprehension had all vanished now, and boldly he told her that if

she loved him she had no right to sacrifice their happiness. Then his

tone changed, and he pleaded with her; and as she looked into his

eager eyes, listened, and saw how dear she was to him, her rejoicing

heart deadened the lashings of her conscience; she forgot all about

her promise to Father Sauvalle and to her parents; forgot all about

the convent of the Sacred Heart; yea, even forgot the anathemas

uttered by her father against the Church, in this, the first great

happiness of her life.

He thought he had won her, and raising her head, looked teasingly into

her face and said softly, yet triumphantly:

"To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,

Or--"

Adele wrenched her hand from him and started back. Her face was

ghastly pale, while her eyes dilated and shone with terror. "If I do

not enter the convent," she said fearfully, "I shall be responsible

for the loss of my father's soul!"

For a space he looked at her as though he thought her mind was

affected. She read his look, and remembering that he did not

understand, told him all her father's dread story, how he had told

her, not an hour ago, that if anything should happen that she did not

take the veil, it would be impossible for him to believe.

She told him, too, that even were her parents willing she should marry

him, she could never be perfectly happy. Her conscience would never

cease to upbraid her; from her childhood she had been taught to look

forward to being a nun. She kissed the cross passionately as she

ceased.

He noted the religious light in her eyes, and something told him that

it was useless to argue; that nothing he could say would break down

her strong religious convictions. The sudden revulsion from great

happiness to despair was bitter indeed, and sitting down he buried his

face in his hands.

Adele walked rapidly away a few steps, then turned and looked back.

His dejected attitude smote her sorely. Again she turned, as though

she would leave him, but turned again and looked at him pityingly.

Well she knew that in the long quiet years which were to come, that

lonely figure in the quaint garden would haunt her, and that the

memory of his great sorrow would be the heavy cross she would have to

bear as long as life lasted.

So quietly did she steal behind him, that he was not aware she had

returned. Her lips moved as though she were about to speak to him, but

no sound came from them. It was so hard not to lean forward and rest

her hand on the thick dark hair, and tell him how much easier it would

be for her to bear her lot if he would only say he forgave her and

would try and think kindly of her. It came to her at last how,

perhaps, she might ease his sorrows. She unclasped the little silver

crucifix from around her neck, kissed it, and then gently slipped it

into the pocket of his coat, which hung over the side of the bench.

She then turned and fled along the grass to the house.

* * * * *

Once more the sound of church bells floated into the little cottage

and fell upon the expectant ears of farmer Frechette and his wife,

while a proud look lit up their faces.

"At last!" said the old man, exultantly, going to the window and

looking at the church and the convent nestling at its side. The bells

no longer mocked him, and he had ceased to hate them. Once more he

stretched his gaunt arm toward the glistening tower. "The Church has

not deceived us," he said humbly. Then he turned to his wife, who was

waiting for him at the door.

Very slowly, arm in arm, with heads erect and graciously acknowledging

the bows of the neighbors, Hormisdas Frechette and his wife walked

down the narrow crooked road leading to the church.

The overcast sky looked burdened with snow, and the leaves rustled

complainingly as they were ground beneath the feet of those hurrying

to witness the honor about to fall upon the house of Hormisdas

Frechette. Sweet to the old man was the moaning of the wind as it

jostled the barren trees, while the ungarnished landscape seemed

fairer to him this day than ever before even in harvest time.

As the aged couple entered the church, with its many pictures of

saints and its gorgeous towering altar, the organ began to play

softly. Presently the narrow door near the altar slowly opened, and

four nuns, in black array, with clasped hands and bowed heads,

repeating a psalm of renunciation, entered the church. Following them,

arrayed in a spotless white veil which fell to her feet, came she who

had saved a soul from unbelief. Eagerly the congregation bent forward,

anxious to catch a glimpse of her whom the bishop had promised to

honor. To be a sister of the convent of the Sacred Heart! She knew not

how many envied her.

With closed eyes and radiant face sat farmer Frechette, repeating

prayers of thanksgiving. She who had given birth to such a daughter

praised the Virgin that she had known the pangs of motherhood.

The sweet face had lost all its roses. Her eyes were downcast as she

walked up to the altar; but that was as it should be, with one who was

about to renounce the pleasures of the world, and whose eyes evermore

must humbly seek the earth.

Just as she was repeating her final vows, one who had told himself a

thousand times that he would not witness the ceremony, drove rapidly

down the road, and halted some little distance from the church near

the convent. Just as he reached the door of the church he saw Father

Sauvalle solemnly raise both hands and bless her.

With set lips he went back to the buggy, and stood behind the horse

in a position which he thought would prevent him from being seen.

Eagerly he watched the door, and his heart beat furiously as he saw

the four dark-robed nuns step from the church and wait for their new

sister. At last she came, with hands clasped and head bowed so very,

very low. The nuns divided, formed around her, and then began the walk

to the convent, near where the silent figure still waited, screened by

the horse.

Just as she was about to enter the convent yard, her attention was

attracted by the white feet of the horse, and instantly she knew to

whom it belonged. Wrong as she knew it to be, she could not help

raising her head. Their eyes met:

"Or be crush'd in its ruins to die!"

The words came to them both at the same moment. One of the nuns put

out her hand as she saw her falter; but she recovered herself and

entered the yard. The rusty hinges creaked weirdly as the door closed

behind her. A moment later, he heard the metallic click of the lock.

The snow began to fall in great flakes, and the boisterous wind drove

them violently into the faces of the sightseers as they hurried from

the church. None of them saw the horse on the far side of the road;

the snow was blinding.

As he heard their voices die away in the distance, Dr. Chalmers' head

drooped till it rested on the animal's mane. Patiently the beast

whisked away the snow and tried to hide its head from the vicious

wind.

It was growing rapidly dark, but he did not notice it: he was thinking

of the fight he had made for her life, and of the love that had come

to him in the summer days when health came back to her to make amends.

"To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life!"

The mocking refrain seemed to have been shouted into his ears; he

started as though he had been struck, seized the reins, and dashed

into the gathering storm.

* * * * *

A Perilous Encounter.

It is not because I am unduly sensitive of my altered appearance that

I have told so few the story of the ugly scar that disfigures my face,

but on account of the horror that I yet experience when recalling the

terrible incidents that led to my receiving it. How many lives were

saved by that wound I shall never know.

The great Canadian Pacific Railway, which to-day connects the Atlantic

Ocean with the Pacific, was in the year 1882 built only about two

hundred miles west of Winnipeg, leaving a huge gap of several hundred

miles of untouched prairie before one of the world's wonders, the

famed Rocky Mountains of British Columbia, was reached.

Such was the rapidity with which the rails were laid and telegraph

offices erected, that when winter set in, fifty telegraph operators

were needed to take charge of the empty stations.

The management found it hard to induce men to go out and bury

themselves for the winter in the vast prairie, which was only then

being opened up. To-day, men are only too happy to make homes in this

wonderful country, which has very aptly been termed the future granary

of the world.

Money is a loadstone that few men can resist, and when I heard that

$80 a month was being paid out there for operators, I resigned my

position in Montreal, and with $20 and a pass in my pocket started for

Manitoba.

On reaching Winnipeg, I was at once sent out to Elkhorn, a bit of a

station 150 miles farther west. When I took charge, in November, four

inches of snow already hid the earth, which did not see the sun again

till March.

Two passenger trains a day, and an occasional construction train,

formed the only break in the monotonous life which I led. It was a

dreadfully solitary existence. I was alone in the station, and as

December began to wane, and the dread blizzards commenced their wild

revelry, heaping the snow into such huge mounds on the tracks that the

trains were delayed for days, I got as homesick and nervous as a girl

of fourteen instead of a young man of twenty.

Christmas eve ushered in bitter weather. All day it had been snowing

and storming. At 1 a.m. the glass showed twenty-two below zero. The

storm had risen and risen until it was blowing a perfect blizzard from

the west. The riotous wind, as it swept along the vast prairie,

unobstructed for scores of miles by houses or trees, caught up the

newly-fallen snow in its mad embrace, and drove it with amazing force

against the little telegraph office which sheltered me from its

deathly embrace, as though enraged against this earnest of approaching

civilization. So fierce, at times, was the onslaught that the tense

telegraph wires could be heard humming even above the demoniacal glee

of the storm.

I knew it was unmanly, but I could not help it: the tears would start

to my eyes. It was Christmas, and I was spending it in such a queer

manner! My thoughts had been with mother and dear old London, where I

had left her two years before to try my fortune in Montreal. I knew

she was thinking of her eldest born.

"Christians, awake, salute the happy morn."

All I had to do was to close my eyes, and I could hear my companions

singing that grand old hymn in the greatest city in the world.

It was a relief to hear the telegraph instrument, which had been quiet

for hours, call my office. Both passenger trains were nearly ten hours

late, and were slowly struggling towards my station. It was just 2

a.m. when I received the order from the dispatcher at Winnipeg to

detain the east-bound train at my station when she arrived, till the

west-bound express crossed her--double tracks are yet unknown out

there.

I replied back that I understood the order, and was just about to let

the red lantern swing round from the station and face the track, when

I was startled by hearing a tremendous kicking and howling at the

door. In my surprise, I forgot to turn the lamp which was to signal

the engineer to stop at the station for orders.

Little wonder I was agitated. The nearest house was seven miles away,

and no white man could have walked a tenth of that distance in such a

blizzard and have lived. Had the shouting and kicking been less

imperative, I might have been superstitious. With trembling hands I

drew the bolt. Before I could step aside the door was thrown violently

open, and to my dismay two stalwart Cree Indians burst into the little

office. It was the manner of the savages in entering that made me feel

nervous. It was no uncommon thing for me to have Indians drop into the

station at night, and to see roaming bands of them pass the station at

all hours; but two drunken Cree Indians, even a native scout might

have been pardoned for fearing had he been unarmed and placed in my

position.

Without appearing to notice me, the braves walked over to the glowing

wood stove and began to warm themselves. I wanted to show that I

trusted them, and brought two chairs and asked them to be seated. As I

spoke they both turned their wicked, black eyes on me, but did not

deign to speak. Kicking the chairs to one side they began taking off

their great skin-coats and caps and red-and-white blankets.

As the taller of the two petulantly threw his wraps down, something

hard struck the floor heavily. He gave a cry of greedy exultation,

felt in the pocket of the coat, drew out a bottle of whiskey, and

proceeded without delay to break off the neck on the stove. It was

contrary to the law to sell liquor to Indians, but that did not matter

much, they always managed to get it.

Just as he was about to raise the ragged mouth of the bottle to his

lips, the telegraph instrument began to work. It had the effect that I

feared. Both the Indians, with superstitious dread in their eyes,

involuntarily took a couple of steps back toward the wall, where I was

sitting, devoutly hoping they would wrap themselves up in their

blankets and go off to sleep. No such good fortune.

The room was about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long. In the centre

was the stove, and near the door, about six feet to the right, was the

instrument. I was sitting facing the door at the opposite side of the

room. Pretending that I thought they were going to back up against me,

I rose and calmly began to walk toward the instrument.

I had not passed them two feet when they both caught me violently by

the shoulders, and in excited, guttural tones, began in a threatening

manner to say something to me. Seeing that I did not understand, the

tall brave, pointing the bottle, which he still tightly clutched in

his left hand, at the talkative instrument, said fiercely, "No go

there! no go there!"

I quickly understood what they meant; the Indian's fear of telegraph

instruments, and his inability to understand electricity, were known

to every operator west of Winnipeg.

In their drunken fear they imagined that if I got possession of the

wires I would have it in my power to do them an injury.

As easily as I could have lifted an infant, the great savage with his

unengaged hand swung me from my feet, and contemptuously dropped me on

my chair again, after which he took a long draught out of the bottle,

and then handed it to his companion. The effect of the liquor upon

their savage natures showed itself almost immediately; they began to

yell and shout, and putting their hands around their mouths uttered

cries like prairie wolves. I shrank closer to the wall.

In ten minutes they had finished the bottle, and were become nothing

better than howling maniacs. They joined hands and capered round the

stove, stamping the floor viciously with their moccasined feet. Again,

they would wave their long arms about their heads in the most

grotesque manner, uttering at the same time the most blood-curdling

war-whoops.

In their eyes was the baleful light of the wild beast. The coal-oil

light, which but dimly lit up the room, threw a yellow shade upon

their dark, brutal faces, making them look like emissaries from the

evil one, dancing in fiendish glee over some evil deed. The storm, as

though in sympathy with the savage scene, had risen to a hurricane,

shrieking like a mad thing, and through the casement and

ill-constructed door piled up miniature snow-banks.

Every moment I expected my unwelcome visitors would seize me, and in

their insane glee practise upon me some savage torture. Would they

never cease? For nearly thirty minutes I sat still as death, where

they had flung me. Safety lay in not attracting their attention; but a

dreadful ordeal was in store for me.

The instrument, which had been silent for a time, again awoke to life.

The dispatcher was calling my office. Like a flash the order to detain

the down express that he had sent came back to my memory, and with a

thrill of horror I remembered that I had omitted to turn the red lamp.

The dispatcher, I knew, wanted to ask me if the train had arrived.

Involuntarily I started to my feet.

The only sounds now to be heard were the ticking of the instrument and

the ceaseless cries of the storm. The Indians, the instant they heard

the former, ceased their uncivilized mirth, again looked

apprehensively at the mysterious instrument, and hurriedly glanced at

me. Their treacherous, suspicious natures were thoroughly aroused on

seeing me looking eagerly toward the instrument. I knew not how near

the train might be; act I must. I thought of the fearful loss of life

which would surely occur unless I could reach the cord that hung above

the instrument, and with one pull swing round the red lamp and let it

beam across the track. I had received the order to expose the light,

and unless I did so I knew full well the Company would hold me

responsible for any accident that might occur. I had written the order

in the order-book when receiving it.

All this passed through my mind like a flash. I did not dread the

Company, but I could not let scores of lives be sacrificed in order to

save my own. I had always thought I was not the stuff brave men are

made of, but when put to the test I gloried in finding that I was not

a coward.

I was quite calm as I began carelessly to walk over to the instrument.

The drunken savages were upon me almost immediately. As they felled me

to the floor, my ears caught the distant rumbling of the east-bound

locomotive. The Indians also had heard the noise, and as they turned

to listen I once more sprang to my feet and dashed past them. One of

them I passed in safety, but as I dodged the big brave he struck

viciously at me with the broken bottle.

His aim was but too true; the ragged mouth of the bottle opened my

face like a conical bullet. I had only a few more steps to go. Before

I fell I knew that I had turned the light.

* * * * *

The conductor put me on the train and took me to Winnipeg, where I

remained in the hospital for three weeks.

The Indians had gone when he entered the station. He had seen the

order in the book, and had waited the arrival of the west-bound

express, which arrived five minutes later. Had he not seen the red

light he would have gone on, and the trains would have met about two

miles east of the station.

The detectives tried to trace the two brutal savages, but did not

succeed.

Yes, as long as I live I shall remember that Christmas when I was

employed in the far west by the great Canadian Pacific Railway.

* * * * *

Le Loup-Garou.

The fear of it is killing me, Baptiste, for it is on my mind all the

time. Think of it: for seven long years he has neither been to

confession nor partaken of the blessed sacrament, and he is drinking

and growing wickeder every day. This is the last night of the seventh

year, and the curse may fall upon him now at any moment. She buried

her wrinkled, fear-stricken face in her thin trembling hands, and wept

as though her heart was breaking. "O Marie, blessed Virgin!" she

whispered, "save our son, our Pierre; let not the fate of the

loup-garou fall upon him." A thin stream of light shone through an

ancient crack in the old-fashioned box-stove, and fell caressingly

across the bowed head, making its silvery hair look pathetically thin.

The bent shoulders of the sorrowing mother shook convulsively.

Baptiste gazed with a troubled look at the bar of light on his wife's

head, and his heart went out to her as only a husband's can to a wife

who for half a century has borne with him the joys and trials of the

passing years. As he looked at the thin white hair, memory drifted

back to the time when it was as black as a raven's wing, and fell in

great glossy folds far below her waist. A tender smile stole into his

face as he remembered how, on account of the waywardness of the

beautiful hair and its rebellion against imprisonment, he had more

than once heard her chide it; yes, and at times when more than usually

arrogant, threaten to use the shears upon it. He observed, too, how

round her shoulders had grown, and noted many other signs of old age

which the glow from the stove made so cruelly apparent. It had taken

sixty years of life just to streak her hair with grey; but the past

seven years had remorselessly thinned and whitened it, and now not

even one black hair was to be seen. All these things and many more he

thought of as he gazed upon his sorrowing wife.

Distressfully the old man put his hand to his forehead, and then

thought reverted to himself, and he recalled the days when his head

was subject to his will and did not, with painful persistency, nod and

tremble the long day through. The infirmity of age was strong upon

him; seventy years is a long time to have lived and toiled as

French-Canadian farmers toil in eastern Canada. He thought, too, how

much he had aged the last seven years, and of the one who had caused

those years to be fraught with so much suffering to them both. He

realized, indeed, that sorrow ages more quickly than years!

"Pierre, Pierre, my son!" he muttered brokenly, "better that you had

never been born, than after reaching manhood's estate to have

forgotten all our teachings and become a drunkard and an outcast from

the Church." A stifled sob from his wife again changed his rambling

thoughts, and painfully rising he walked over to her side. Gently he

laid his hand on the hair that he so dearly loved, although so much

changed, and bending tenderly down said, bravely, trying to check the

tremor in his voice, "There, wife, don't fret." And then he drew her

head to his shoulder in a way he used to do when they were both in the

noonday of life. She remembered, and her grief grew less. "The Virgin

is good, wife, and we have prayed so much to Her about him. Surely She

will hear us, and not let what you fear fall upon our Pierre. Father

Benoit has been praying to Her all these years, and we are told that

the Virgin sooner or later answers the prayers of the priests of our

Church. Then special prayers will be offered for our son to-night by

the priest, for he knows how you feared for him because this was the

last night of the seventh year."

A shudder ran through her frame as the anxious mother started to her

feet and said fearfully:

"Yes, in another hour a new day will dawn, and then seven years will

have passed since our son went to confession, and then the curse may

fall at any time."

Dropping his voice almost to a whisper, and looking with superstitious

dread out of the window into the moonlight, which made the newly

fallen snow glisten on the road with almost supernatural whiteness,

and trying to speak in a tone of conviction, her husband said:

"Perhaps the priest may be right, wife, and this about loup-garou may

not be true. He told us that he did not believe in it, and that the

Church had uttered no such curse against those who for seven years did

not confess; although if they died in that sinful state there was no

hope of salvation for them. As for the devil, you remember the priest

said that he had not the power to change a man into a wolf or an

animal of any kind, and--"

"Speak not like that, Baptiste," broke in his wife with fear in her

eyes; "the evil one may hear what you say, and out of mockery to the

Church, cause the evil to fall upon him." With piteous haste she made

the sign of the cross on her bosom, and instinctively her husband did

the same.

Although it was near midnight they had not lit the lamp, for the moon

that poured in at the window made the cottage almost as light as

noonday.

"Husband," she went on in a tone of conviction, "why should we try to

deceive ourselves? for we know that it is true. Father Benoit is sorry

for us and would give us comfort. It may be that the curse is not from

the Church, but the devil knows when human beings are forsaken by the

blessed Church, and if he can change them into animals and keep them

so till death, then he is sure of their souls; even the blessed Mother

then can do nothing for them."

Baptiste raised his hand beseechingly, as though he would fain have

her cease, but she only drew still closer to him and continued

quickly:

"Have we not known it since we were children? Did not our parents

believe in it? Even if we had not been told these things, we know it

is true. Have you forgotten Arsene Bolduc, Baptiste?"

Again he raised his hand, mutely protesting, but she did not heed him.

"It is only three years ago that it happened to Arsene. He, like our

boy, had not partaken of the blessed sacrament for seven years. You

know how he blasphemed and drank, and grew wickeder every year, till

finally the very last night of the seventh year came, and just a few

minutes before twelve he became possessed of the devil, and beat his

mother, and then ran out of the house and was never seen again. And

why was he never seen again, Baptiste?" She was getting strangely

excited, and her voice was rising.

"For the love of the Virgin, cease, wife?"

But she was now far too excited for him to have control over her, and

went on:

"When Arsene did not come back, his father thought the evil one had

turned him into a wolf; but his mother said she believed he had been

changed into a bull, and we know she was right, for a few days later

you helped, with the other men, to drag out of the river the bull that

was found drowned. Did not all the village folk talk about it, and

regret that someone had not met the beast before it was drowned, and

drawn blood from it so as to release Arsene? Has he ever been seen

since? We have known of others like him who have disappeared and have

never been seen again. How can we deceive ourselves and say there is

no loup-garou? There is; and we must not sleep this night till our son

returns. This night above all others he should not have been out late.

He must be drinking heavily in the village. We do not know what may

happen, Baptiste. I fear some evil is about to befall him, for my

heart is full of fear."

Her voice had a pitiful break in it as she concluded.

"Let us pray the good God to protect him this night, wife," answered

Baptiste, no longer pretending that he did not believe in this strange

legend, in which nearly all his race in his station in life have

faith.

While they were on their knees praying, the yellow-faced clock behind

the stove struck the hour of midnight.

"_Mon Dieu!_ twelve o'clock!"