The anxious mother sprang to her feet, r_A Lover in Homespun And Other Stories

standing on the steps shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked

earnestly down the long snow-clad road in the direction of the little

village of St. Pascal. Behind her stood Baptiste, also shading his

weak eyes and looking. Not a human being was in sight. The

zinc-covered spire of the little village church, nearly half a mile

away, glittered and shone in the fairy light like burnished silver.

The quaint whitewashed cottages that dotted the road to the village

looked far different from what they did in the daytime; somehow the

charitable moon had forgotten to reveal the cracks and stains that

time in its relentless march had made. The lines, too, that age and

care had made on the two eager watching faces were also, by the great

ruler of the night, tenderly smoothed out.

"I cannot see him, Baptiste," she said presently, lowering her hand

from her eyes.

"Neither can I, wife; neither can I. Let us go into the house and

wait." He laid his hand persuasively on her shoulder. As she turned

the moon shone full in her face. She stopped and looked at it for a

few moments like one fascinated, then slowly raised her hand and

pointed at it.

"Baptiste," she said in an awed voice, with the superstitious light

again in her eyes, "do you remember once before when it was as bright

as this?"

He tried to draw her toward the door, but she resisted, and looking

hurriedly up into his face, said:

"Ah; I see you, too, remember! It was the night Arsene Bolduc went out

never to return. The devil is surely abroad this night, and our Pierre

is not yet home."

"Talk not of the evil one while the moon shines full in your face,

wife, for it is an evil omen."

Quickly he drew down her hand, which was still pointing upward, then

put his hand over her eyes to shut out the sight of the moon, made the

sign of the cross, drew her into the house and shut the door.

Once more they seated themselves near the stove and began their

anxious wait for the erring one. For nearly half an hour they sat

without speaking, but at short intervals glanced at the clock, whose

loud ticking broke the stillness of the night with painful

distinctness. Every relentless tick jarred on the nerves of the aged

watchers. Suddenly they started to their feet with blanched faces,

looked at each other, and apprehensively bent their heads in a

listening attitude. Again there came floating on the still air the

mournful sound that had startled them--the weird wail of a dog! A

marvellous change came over the mother as she listened; the look of

fear vanished and was succeeded by one of intense determination. The

change in her was so great that one would surely have thought that she

had partaken of the fabled elixir of life; her bent shoulders seemed

to grow straight once more, while her steps, as she ran to the door

and wrenched it open, were as firm and elastic as those of a young

woman. For a moment she stood in the open door and looked: One glance

was sufficient--coming toward the house across the field was a large

hound, which was baying the moon. Firmly she picked up a knife from

the kitchen table, thrust another into the hand of Baptiste, and drew

him to the door.

"See, Baptiste!" she said, standing erect and pointing the knife at

the dog, "I am right; the curse has fallen, as I feared it would. The

devil has turned our Pierre into a hound, and the beast is coming this

way. Even a scratch, if it draws blood, will be sufficient to release

him from the curse and restore him to us again. The dog must not

escape us; if it does, our son is lost to us forever. Pray the holy

Mother to help us now, husband."

She made a weird picture as she stood in the open door, with her thin

white hair streaming about her face, grasping the knife, which

glittered ominously in the moonlight.

The huge hound, which was still coming direct toward the house, was

now only a field away. Separating the field from the road was a stone

wall about three and a half feet in height. Anyone crouching behind

it, on the side of the road, could not be seen from the field. The

one, and only chance of intercepting the animal, flashed across her

mind, and calling Baptiste to follow her she ran across the road and

crouched behind the portion of the wall over which the animal must

jump, unless it quickly altered its course. Baptiste made a pitiful

effort to follow her, but his weary limbs were unable to bear the

strain any longer, and he fell unconscious to the floor.

As she ran across the road, had she glanced down it toward the village

she would have seen a man, only a few rods distant, walking somewhat

unsteadily toward the house. He stopped abruptly and raised his hand

in amazement as he saw the woman, knife in hand, hurry across the road

and crouch behind the wall. He ran toward her calling "Mother!" but

the baying of the hound drowned his voice. Before he could reach her

she sprang to her feet just as the dog rose into the air from the

opposite side of the wall. She was exactly in front of it. The beast

uttered a howl of terror as the strange apparition so unexpectedly

rose up before it. Bravely she seized with her left hand one of the

paws of the animal, and as it fell, the knife in her right hand

gleamed again and was buried deep in the shoulder of the dog. As she

fell, the enraged animal turned upon her and buried its teeth in her

arm. She did not feel the bite; the crisis had passed--the unnatural

strength born of intense excitement had now deserted her. Just as

unconsciousness was dimming her eyes, she saw a man towering above

her; she saw the stick in his hand fall with fearful force on the head

of the animal, which rolled over on its side without uttering a sound.

Then the figure, which was growing more and more indistinct, caught

her up in his arms, and a voice that she knew and loved so well called

"Mother, mother!" She opened her eyes wearily and looked into the face

of the man, and a smile, very beautiful to see, passed over her face.

"My Pierre; my son," she murmured. "I said I would release you. I saw

the blood on the knife, then I saw you spring up before me, and now I

am in your arms."

Her lips grew very white and her head fell back on his shoulder. As he

ran into the house with her he saw his father lying near the door, and

he uttered a cry so full of remorse and sorrow that it entered the

dulled ears of Baptiste and restored him to consciousness, and he

followed his son into the little bedroom, where Pierre laid the brave

little mother on the bed. Tenderly the old man put his arms around

his son's neck and kissed him, and then the wayward one knew that he

was once more forgiven, and that the past would be remembered against

him by his father no more.

They thought she had only fainted, and while Baptiste administered

simple remedies to her, Pierre, the erring one, knelt by the bedside

with his face buried in the hand that had held the knife so firmly and

that had struck the brute, lying so quietly out there in the

moonlight, so fierce a blow. Tears, the first that had fallen from his

eyes since he was a boy, fell and trickled through the fingers that

were now so wan and thin and that had toiled so hard for him. How she

had longed to see tears in his eyes and hear penitent words from his

lips, and now his tears were drenching her fingers, and he was telling

her in a choked voice how bitterly he repented of his drunkenness and

his disregard of the Church, and all his evil ways, and how he would

reform and be a son to her indeed; yet she heard him not.

So deep was his grief that he did not raise his head, or he would have

noticed how deathly pale her face was and how very light her breathing

had become. Suddenly his grief ceased; a great fear had entered his

heart--What caused the hand that his face was hid in to be so clammy

and cold? It had not been so when he first pressed it to his face.

"She is dead," whispered his heart brutally. "It is a lie, a wicked

lie! she is not dead," he muttered. "Raise your head and see, raise

your head and see," reiterated his heart monotonously. He had no

reply to make to such an answer as this. Slowly he raised his shaking

hands to his face, still not daring to look up, and again took her

hand in his. A chill seemed to emanate from it which reached his very

heart. Slowly his head began to rise. From the foot of the bed his

eyes gradually crept up and up, past her feet, past her knees, past

the bosom that had nourished him; inch by inch, higher and higher,

till at last they rested on her face, and then he uttered a great cry

and started to his feet.

As he stood and looked, his father entered the room, in one hand a

medicine bottle, in the other a bowl of water. He, too, saw the change

that had come over her since he had left the room to get the simple

remedies, and forgetting all about the things he was carrying, opened

his hands and stretched them out toward her, and would have fallen had

not Pierre caught him and led him over to the bed.

"Wife, wife!" he cried; but the quiet expression of her face did not

change.

The sight of his father's sorrow recalled Pierre out of the dazed

condition into which he had fallen.

"She is dead, father," he whispered falteringly.

"No, no, Pierre, she has only fainted!" he shouted fiercely. "You do

not know what death is. Quick, Pierre; quick, son, bring me the

medicine, the hot water; quick, quick, the--the--"

Poor old Baptiste! he could go no further. He ceased rubbing her

hands, staggered over to Pierre, who was standing with averted face in

the middle of the room, buried his head in his bosom and said

brokenly:

"No, Pierre, don't go for the medicine, nor for the water, nor for

anything now, for what you said is true. _Mon Dieu_, true, too true!"

And Pierre, erring Pierre, folded his arms around his father and tried

to comfort him like one would a sorrowing child. It was while his arms

were yet around him that her eyes slowly opened, and she saw the

precious sight. The dying embers of life, which so often flash up

before they expire forever, were burning in her now.

"Pierre, _mon garcon_; Baptiste, husband," she whispered.

For a moment they hesitated as though one from the dead had spoken to

them, then with glad cries they hurried to her side. With infinite

tenderness Pierre put his strong arms around her and bent his head to

catch the last words her lips would ever form. Baptiste, prayer-beads

in hand, knelt by his son's side, saying prayers for the dying.

"My son; my Pierre."

"Mother!"

"Oh, I am so happy that I released you from the spell the evil one

threw over you. For my sake, Pierre, return to the Church and be

forgiven."

"Before the sun sets, mother, I will go to confession and partake of

the blessed sacrament; and I will cease my evil ways and be a son to

my father. It was so noble of you, mother, to release me from the

spell as you did."

He would rather have had his tongue cut out than to let her know that

the great sacrifice she had made for him had been a sad, sad mistake.

And now the end was very near. "Baptiste?" she asked faintly.

He laid her in his father's arms and turned away. He did not hear what

she said to his father, but he heard him reply in a voice that sounded

strangely far away and weak, "Yes, soon; very soon, wife."

Then all was silent. With his back still turned to them he waited for

his father to call him; but the seconds sped on and the silence

continued. At last he turned. His father was kneeling on the floor

with his arms around her and his head lying on the pillow close to

hers.

"Come, father," he said softly, as he tried to raise him. There was no

reply. He bent over and peered into the two quiet faces. The legend of

the loup-garou had no place in the land they had entered.

* * * * *

A Christmas Adventure.

How vividly do I remember the Christmas eve and Christmas day of 1882!

Ten years make great changes in our lives. To-day I am a well-to-do

business man, and expect to spend Christmas in my cozy home, with wife

and family, and not on the wild, bleak prairies, expecting every

moment a dreadful railway catastrophe.

But I had better tell my story from the beginning. Back in 1882 the

liberal pay offered by the Canadian Pacific Railway to telegraph

operators induced a friend of mine and myself--as I have related

elsewhere--to leave Montreal and try our fortunes in the great

North-West. We were given free passes as far as Winnipeg. There was a

station which needed two operators, some fifty miles up the line, and

we were both sent there, arriving on Christmas eve. The train stopped

just long enough for us to jump on the platform, and then sped on.

There was not a human being to meet us. The station had been without

operators for three days, and was bitterly cold. We soon had a big

fire started in the telegraph room, and were sitting beside it,

discussing the loneliness of the place and the wildness of the night.

While we were talking, the busy little telegraph instrument began

busily ticking for our station. The call was answered and a message

received, saying that a weather report received by the dispatcher

stated that the night would likely be stormy, and my friend was asked

to stay up till about one o'clock in the morning, as he might be

needed to take a crossing order for two trains at his station. We did

not mind staying up, and whiled away the hours in pleasant

conversation as we sat as near as we could get to the glowing coal

fire. The storm increased and finally settled down into a blizzard. By

midnight it was something appalling. There was not a hill, nor even a

tree, for scores of miles, to break its force as it dashed against our

lonely station. The telegraph wires along the track hummed at

intervals loudly enough to be distinctly heard above the shrieks of

the wind which buffeted and held high carnival along them.

Frozen particles of snow rattled fiercely against the window panes,

carried by the relentless wind, which seemed to me to have conceived

the demoniacal intention of wrecking our not very stalwart but

exceedingly lonely home, out of revenge for daring to break even one

jot of its fury as it hurried madly on. We both lapsed into silence. A

feeling of isolation crept over me despite my efforts to fight it off.

How separated from the world I felt. It seemed to me to have been

years since I had mingled with a crowd. A great longing possessed me

to be away from this lonely spot, and walk the streets of some of the

large cities I had lived in. Unable longer to bear these thoughts, I

rose to go out on to the platform for a moment. No sooner, however,

had I raised the latch of the waiting-room door than the fierce wind

dashed it against me with great force, while the huge snow-drift which

had gathered against it fell upon me, almost burying me out of sight.

Laughingly my companion pulled me from under the chilly and unwelcome

covering.

I returned once more to the operating room, in a more contented frame

of mind, and with a keener appreciation of the comfortable temperature

within. A few minutes after one o'clock, the telegraph instrument,

which had been silent for some time, suddenly woke to life and

commenced imperiously ticking the call of our station. My friend

answered, and received from the dispatcher at Winnipeg a crossing

order for a west-bound passenger train and an east-bound engine. Our

station signal was displayed, and once more we commenced our weary

wait for the two iron horses, which were ploughing their way across

the wild prairie to meet and cross each other at our station, and then

continue their wild journey.

Two o'clock. Still no sign of the trains. We both fell asleep in our

chairs.

I seemed scarcely to have closed my eyes when I was startled by the

shriek of the east-bound locomotive. I glanced at the clock; it was

3.30. I looked at my companion. He seemed frozen with deadly fear.

The next instant he jumped wildly to his feet, rushed to the door, and

gazed out into the blinding storm after the engine. It was nowhere in

sight. I looked anxiously at him as he tore back into the room, and

with trembling hands called the dispatcher's office.

Perspiration was pouring down his face. He could hardly stand.

Promptly the instrument ticked back the return call.

"Where is the passenger train?" queried our office. The reply was

terrible. "Left for your station three minutes ago. Have you put the

engine on the side track?" Back went the answer: "The engine has

rushed past the station and has not waited for her crossing."

"My God!" replied the dispatcher, "the two trains will meet."

My companion sank on the chair. His face was ghostly.

"It will be a terrible accident," he said aloud, but to himself--he

seemed to have forgotten me in his great terror.

"God help them! God help them!" he reiterated. The situation was so

fearful to me that I could only sit and look spell-bound at my friend.

The furious storm made the horror of the situation tenfold more

unendurable.

It seemed to me that I had been sitting in this trance-like condition

for hours, when I was roused by hearing an engine give a certain

number of whistles, which indicated it wanted the switch opened. The

next moment a man rushed into the office. "Open the switch quick!" he

shouted, "the passenger train will be here in two minutes." It was the

driver of the engine! My companion sprang joyously to his feet.

Without asking a question he ran out into the yard, followed by the

engineer.

A few minutes later they both returned. The mystery was soon explained

by the driver. He had forgotten the order which had been wired to him,

and which he had put in his pocket when he received it, over two hours

before, away up the line. He probably would have remembered it when he

passed our station had he seen any signal displayed, but he had rushed

past. He must have been two miles past the station when, putting his

hand into his coat pocket to get his pipe, he felt the peculiar paper

upon which crossing orders are written. Like a flash the order to

cross with the passenger train at our station came back to his memory.

He could not see a yard ahead of him for the storm, and knew not but

the next instant he would be dashing into the passenger train with its

burden of precious lives--his heart seemed to cease beating. The

engine was instantly reversed, the sudden revulsion nearly tearing the

locomotive to pieces. She ran on for fifty yards or more rocking like

a ship in a storm. He had hurried back as fast as a full head of steam

could bring him, and thus averted a dreadful accident.

We found that our station signal light had been blown out.

Five minutes later both trains had departed, and we went to bed with

happy hearts, thankful for the almost miraculous prevention of a dire

calamity.

Christmas day, an incident occurred at the station which went a

considerable way toward settling our somewhat shattered nerves. The

station had not been scrubbed for quite a long time, and was beginning

to have anything but an inviting appearance.

After no end of inquiries as to where a washerwoman could be got, we

located one at the far end of the village. She was a full-blooded

squaw, and one of the most ill-favored specimens of the female sex I

had ever set eyes upon.

Two dollars a day was the price agreed upon. She must have made five

dollars every day she was at the station. She was a most industrious

thief; we could keep nothing in the place from her. Not only would she

unblushingly steal our groceries, but under the big loose blanket that

hung in folds around her tall, gaunt figure, she actually spirited

away our pots, kettles and pans.

She worked just as she pleased. Every half-hour or so she would squat

on the floor, pull out an intensely black clay pipe, and indulge in a

smoke. I love smoking, but I never failed to put as much distance as

possible between myself and the rank black fumes which poured with so

much gusto from her mouth. The last place she had to clean was the

telegraph office. She entered the office very reluctantly, and

furtively glanced at the telegraph instruments. "Me no like great

spirit," she said fearfully, pointing to the mass of wires under the

table. We talked to her for a long time and finally got her started

working. The instruments were cut out so as to make no noise.

Slowly the squaw drew nearer the table where the instruments were. As

she did so her coal-black eyes were actually glittering with nervous

dread. Just as she was stretching her long arm under the table, a

train steamed into the station. The conductor wanted orders. My

companion, forgetting the poor squaw, pulled out the switch and turned

on the current. Her arm must have been just touching the wires under

the table at that instant.

The next moment a terrific yell was uttered by our frantic

washerwoman, as she sprang to her feet and rushed for the door,

upsetting the bucket of dirty water in her meteor-like progress. Out

of the station, across the tracks, and away out on to the open prairie

she fled, never pausing till she reached the village, where she turned

into an Indian's house and was lost from view. The next morning her

son came to get the few articles belonging to her. He would not come

any nearer the station than the side-track, and we were compelled to

carry her belongings to him.

* * * * *

Narcisse's Friend.

Narcisse Lafontaine and Charlie Saunders became acquainted on their

way to the lumbering camp, which was situated some fifteen miles back

of St. John's. Charlie had only recently arrived from England, and

knew practically nothing about lumbering, while Narcisse had been born

in Canada, and felt as much at home in the woods as Charlie would have

done in London. Charlie took a liking to Narcisse the moment he saw

him, and Narcisse was not slow in responding to the friendly advances

of the young Englishman.

In appearance they were strikingly different. Narcisse was a typical

French-Canadian lumberman; he was about five feet eleven inches in

height, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, broad-shouldered, powerful and

good-natured. Not even the most imaginative, had they seen him in the

woods dressed in nondescript Canadian home-spun and swinging an axe,

would have associated him with anything but what was commonplace and

uninteresting; yet the great powerful, rough-looking fellow had a

disposition that was as sympathetic as a woman's. The weather never

affected him. With Charlie it was different. He was not accustomed to

Canadian winters, and the rough unvarying food that was daily dealt

out in the camp. He got to dread the sight of pork, which was the

staple article of diet the week round. His health at times was so poor

that he could not do heavy work, and it was then that the generous

disposition of the young French-Canadian showed itself. Narcisse was a

great favorite with the foreman, and by a series of adroit schemes

always managed to get Charlie put at easy work, although at times his

scheming resulted in his having to do far more than his own share of

the sawing and chopping.

Charlie was below the average stature, yet he was broad-shouldered and

looked strong. He had blue eyes, fair curly hair, a ruddy skin, and a

laugh that was most pleasant to hear. If they differed outwardly, they

were remarkably alike in disposition. Like Narcisse, Charlie was

light-hearted and sympathetic. All through the long winter they were

inseparable.

The warm, inquisitive sun had so discomfited the snow that for five

months had determinedly hid the earth, that it had begun to lose its

attractive whiteness and to assume a jaundiced hue, and, finally

succumbing to its ancient foe, was gradually retreating into the

earth--the vanishing of the snow meant the breaking up of the camp,

for without it the logs could not be hauled to the river.

It was a beautiful day at the latter end of March when Narcisse and

Charlie, with their winter's earnings in their pockets, left camp and

happily trudged off to the railway station, four miles away. They had

agreed to spend a month at St. John's, where Narcisse lived, before

going out to the North-West for the summer. Charlie had suggested that

they should go out west at once, but Narcisse somehow never took

kindly to the proposition, and had offered several excuses for not

hurrying away that seemed to Charlie to be a little hazy and certainly

not very weighty. One reason Narcisse dwelt upon for not going was the

good fishing there was at St. John's. Prior to this suggestion

Narcisse had never mentioned fishing; consequently the sudden outbreak

of this new passion in his friend provided Charlie, on more than one

occasion, with ample food for reflection.

Town life was wonderfully bright and attractive to them after the long

quiet of the woods. Narcisse knew many people in the pretty little

town, and wherever he went Charlie was always sure to be seen. Rev.

Father Pelletiere, the parish priest, who had christened Narcisse and

buried his parents, called the young men David and Jonathan. The

reverend father was a man thoroughly opposed to race prejudices, and

there could be no doubt but that the friendship between the two young

men had entirely bridged the artificial barriers so often raised

between men of different races and creeds.

The very day they arrived in town, Narcisse, in an off-hand manner,

told Charlie that they would go and call at a cottage that he had

occasionally visited before he went to the woods. There was something

in the tone in which Narcisse said this that gave Charlie the

impression that the house must be one of more than ordinary size and

importance. The more than usual time that Narcisse took in dressing

that day increased this impression. When finally, after wandering down

a series of little streets, Narcisse stopped at a small whitewashed

cottage with a slanting roof, and knocked at the door with a certain

amount of nervousness, Charlie's astonishment fairly overcame him, and

he was just going to ask Narcisse if he had not made a mistake in the

house, when the door opened. Then he was sure Narcisse had not made a

mistake. Never had he seen a more attractive girlish face. Her eyes

were deep blue, and were tenanted with such a merry, roguish gleam,

that Charlie's hitherto well-regulated heart beat in a most unruly

manner when she fixed her eyes upon his. Her brown, round, vivacious

face took on a deeper hue, as Narcisse eagerly shook hands with her

and introduced her to Charlie. "Jessie Cunningham is a very pretty

name," mused Charlie, as they followed her into the quaint little

kitchen, in the middle of which glowed an old-fashioned wood-burner.

On the long deal table, just behind the stove, were several loaves,

which evidently had just been taken out of the oven. Jessie's sleeves

were rolled up to the elbow, and her well-rounded arms were covered

with flour. She blushed and gave a nervous little laugh, as she

hurriedly pulled down her sleeves and explained that she had been

baking. Both Narcisse and Charlie hurried over to where the tempting,

warm, browned loaves were, and, after hurriedly glancing at them,

looked at each other in open-eyed wonder, and declared that never in

their lives had they seen finer loaves. After that all awkwardness was

swept away, and Jessie would not be content until they both accepted a

generous slice of the admired bread. The day was a little chilly, so

they drew their chairs near the stove, and Narcisse told Jessie, in

his quaint broken English, how he and Charlie had spent the winter in

the woods, how they had eaten and slept together, and how they had

taken a liking to each other the very moment they met.

Charlie was a good talker, too, and told her how they had felled some

wonderfully long trees, and how Narcisse was considered the best

chopper in the camp, and could make a tree fall within an inch of

where he wanted it.

As she listened, her eyes glowed and danced with excitement so as to

make them dangerously attractive. Little wonder indeed that both the

young men found them very pleasant to look into. To Charlie's intense

satisfaction, he decided, after shaking hands with her at the door,

that she had seemed just as anxious that he should come and see her

again as she did that Narcisse should. Narcisse took the invitation in

the most matter-of-fact manner, which created an impression in

Charlie's mind that Narcisse, perhaps, after all, only cared for

Jessie in a brotherly way.

Both Charlie and Narcisse soon got the reputation of being devoted

disciples of Izaak Walton. They were to be seen every day wandering

down to the river with divers devices to allure and entrap

unsuspecting fish. Their success in being able to catch little or

nothing soon caused much merriment among the boarders where they

stayed. Of course, none of the scoffers knew that a very generous

portion of the time that these ardent fishermen were supposed to be

employing in catching fish, was spent lying on the broad of their

backs on the fresh green grass discussing the virtues of the

blue-eyed, vivacious young woman with whom the reader is already

acquainted. Very naturally the young fishermen did not deem it their

duty to enlighten the boarders as to how they spent their time.

Three evenings a week, no matter what the weather was, they dressed up

in their best suits and visited the little whitewashed cottage. It

would have taken a very keen observer to decide which of the young men

she cared the most for, or whether, indeed, she had any tender feeling

for either of them. Both were always given a most cordial welcome. If,

however, Charlie had been a very close observer--which was unfair to

expect at such a time--he might, perhaps, have noticed that at long

intervals she stole a rapid glance at Narcisse when she knew his head

was turned away from her--a gentle, caressing look that either of them

would have been delighted to intercept.

The weeks fled rapidly by, and the month's vacation drew to a close.

Strange to say, for over a week neither of them had mentioned the trip

to the west. They went fishing together as usual, but her name very

rarely passed their lips now. Just exactly how the change had come

about neither of them could tell, but something had come between them.

The little cloud at first was promptly banished, and they tried to be

friendlier than ever. But the cloud was persistent, and returned again

and again, and each time it was harder to overthrow. At first it was

not larger than a man's hand, but before the month had elapsed it had

grown so that it had well-nigh separated them. They both secretly

mourned over the estrangement. They both well knew the birthplace of

the cloud--the little whitewashed cottage. Several times Charlie

generously made excuses for not wanting to go to the cottage, not

because he thought Jessie did not like him as well as Narcisse, but

because he was willing to sacrifice his interest in her on the altar

of pure friendship. He called to memory the numberless acts of

kindness he had received from Narcisse in the camp, and how he had

been introduced to her by Narcisse, who he now felt sure sincerely

liked Jessie.

Instinctively Narcisse knew why Charlie desired to cease his visits to

the cottage, and it made his heart sore. He decided that he would not

go and see her unless Charlie was with him. When Charlie would

complain of feeling tired, off would come Narcisse's coat, and he

would declare that he was feeling completely done up, too, and would

not bother going down to the cottage. No amount of persuasion would

make him alter his decision.

After they had a pipe of tobacco, Charlie would generally, in a most

matter-of-fact manner, suggest that they both take a walk. Right well

did Narcisse know where the walk would be to, and always acquiesced in

such an unconcerned manner that no one would ever have imagined that

they had fully made up their minds a few minutes previously not to go

out.

One day more, and the month's vacation would be gone. Charlie and

Narcisse had been indoors all day, to escape the rain that had been

falling in great sheets since early morning. An ill-disposed wind was

buffeting the rain in such a fierce, malignant manner as to make one's

room a most desirable place to be in. Charlie and Narcisse had sat and

smoked until their tongues were dry and sore. It was a relief for them

to smoke; not so much to kill time as to break the long awkward pauses

in their conversation. Inwardly they had both decided that it was

impossible any longer to bear the constraint that had come between

them.

During the long day neither of them had been able to muster courage to

refer to the proposed trip to the west, although the day set for it

was so close at hand. They had both decided that day, however, that

they would right themselves in each other's eyes. Narcisse believed

Charlie loved Jessie; Charlie felt sure Narcisse loved her. Charlie

was not sure whether Jessie loved him or Narcisse the better. Narcisse

had, however, a pretty good idea who Jessie had taken a liking to.

When ten o'clock came, Charlie knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and

said he was going to bed, and would have a long sleep, as he was

played out. Narcisse glanced sleepily at his own bed in the corner of

the room, stretched out his long legs and arms, opened his mouth

alarmingly wide, yawned vociferously, and declared that he was so

sleepy that he could hardly keep his eyes open. Before leaving the

room to go to his own, which was next to Narcisse's, Charlie pulled

off his coat and threw it over his arm. If Narcisse had entertained

any doubts as to whether or not Charlie was really as sleepy as he had

intimated, this partial unrobing must surely have dispelled it.

Notwithstanding his haste to get to bed, Charlie fumbled at the latch

an unusually long time before he succeeded in opening the door. And

finally, when it did swing open, his coat, without any apparent

provocation, perversely slipped from his arm and fell to the floor.

Charlie found it necessary, before he put it across his arm again, to

carefully dust and fold it.

Turning round as the door was closing behind him, he said, in a voice

that seemed a little strained, "Yes, we will go to bed and dream of

camp days, eh, Narcisse?" Then he was gone.

Narcisse walked over to the window, stood for a few moments with

folded arms, gazing out into the darkness, and then said softly, "Yes,

dream of de camp days."

When Charlie reached his room, he acted in a most peculiar manner; he

put his ear to the partition that separated his room from Narcisse's,

and listened intently; then walked over to his bed, sat on the edge

of it, took off his boots, held them aloof, and then let them fall on

the floor; laid his coat across the foot of the bed, stood still for a

few minutes, and then threw himself so heavily across the bed that it

groaned loudly enough to be distinctly heard by Narcisse, who nodded

his head in a satisfied manner.

Charlie lay on the top of the clothes, dressed, with the exception of

his boots, hat, and coat, with his eyes wide open and his head bent in

a listening attitude. Presently the sound of falling boots in

Narcisse's room also brought a look of relief to Charlie's face. After

hearing Narcisse blow out the light and get into bed, Charlie lay

perfectly still. An hour sped by; the only sounds to be heard were the

cries of the wind as it tore through the branches of the tree whose

long well-clad arms in summer protected Charlie's room from the fierce

rays of the sun. At short intervals, the branches tapped on the window

panes, as though craving protection from the storm. Inside the house

quietness reigned supreme. From a distance one would have been sure

Charlie was sleeping, but a closer inspection would have shown that

his eyes were wide open. It was 11.30. Charlie quietly raised himself,

pulled his coat to him, and took a railway time-table from it, then

ran his finger down a portion of it. The express left for the west at

12.05 a.m. He drew a line around the figures, and put the table back

into his pocket again. Then he got out of bed, on tip-toe stole to his

carpet-bag, which hung near the door, and quietly began to stow away

in it his modest belongings. So quietly did he gather up his things

that not a mouse, except by sight, could have known that he was in the

room. Every now and then he would pause, with his face turned toward

Narcisse's room, and listen. Twice a slight noise, which seemed to

emanate from Narcisse's room, disturbed him, and with contracted brow

he paused and listened longer than usual. The branches smote the

window, and he smiled at his folly. He was positive that Narcisse was

sound asleep. When the valise was packed, he cautiously turned the

light a little higher, got a sheet of paper and a pencil, and wrote in

a straggling hand: "Dear friend Narcisse,--I thought it better if I

went alone. I know you like her. You knew her before I did, and you

brought me here. I think she likes you better than me, too. She ought

to. That which has come between us has made me feel very bad. When I

am away I will try and think only of the camp days. She will make you

a good wife, Narcisse. Some day I will write and let you know how I am

getting along in the North-West.--CHARLIE."

He doubled the note carefully and addressed it to Narcisse. Then he

rolled some silver up in a paper and addressed it to his landlady.

Silently he put on his coat and hat, picked up his boots, seized his

carpet-bag, blew out the light, and in his stocking feet stole to the

door. "I will put on my boots at the bottom of the stairs," he

muttered absently.

He was half-way out of the door, when he stopped suddenly. Again that

slight noise which seemed to come from Narcisse's room! Could it be

possible that Narcisse was not in bed? Again the branches rattled on

the panes, and again he chided himself for his fancy. He softly closed

the door behind him, flitted along the narrow passage and began to

descend the stairs leading to the street. Reaching the bottom of the

stairs, he was just in the act of pulling on his boots, when the door

at the top of the stairs was pulled slowly open. There was no mistake

this time; someone was stealing down the stairs. The darkness was too

great to allow him to see who it was. There was no escape for him; his

boots were off, and his latch-key was in his pocket. Long before he

could open the door he who was descending would be with him at the

bottom of the stairs. Quickly he pulled a match from his pocket and

struck it. Instantly the dark stairway was made light. The sight he

saw fairly stunned him. Standing in the middle of the stairs was

Narcisse, his canvas valise in one hand and his boots in the other.

"Narcisse!" gasped Charlie.

"Charlie!" cried Narcisse, letting his boots and bag fall. The match

went out. For a few moments there was silence; then Narcisse descended

the remainder of the stairs. Without a word they both pulled on their

boots. They both understood now.

Charlie lit a match while Narcisse unfastened the door. As they

stepped out into the street Narcisse drew Charlie's arm through his.

"De train don't leave for twenty minutes yet," he said calmly, "no

need for hurry; eh, Charlie?"

Charlie halted. "No, no, Narcisse," he said with a little break in

his voice. "She likes you; you must not leave."

Narcisse was big and strong; he drew Charlie's arm again through his,

and again they began slowly to walk toward the station.

"So you try to leave me, Charlie?"

"I could bear that which came between us no longer, Narcisse. Then, I

thought you liked her."

"So you would go, because of friendship for me, Charlie?" They were

walking very close to each other now.

"And why are you here, Narcisse?"

"I know you liked her, Charlie." The great fellow's voice was very

sweet at times.

The weather was clearing. Through great rifts in the clouds, every few

minutes, the moon poured great floods of light.

"The clouds are going away, Narcisse."

"Dat so, Charlie." He looked up at the moon, which at that moment

broke through the clouds again. "And de cloud dat came between me and

you has now gone away, Charlie."

In the distance could be seen the headlight of the approaching

express.

"Yes, all gone, Narcisse; we shall have the camp days over again,

now."

They were just in time to get their tickets to Manitoba and get on

board. They sat up the remainder of the night, and smoked and talked

and made plans for the future. Never once did they speak of _her_,

although she was often in their thoughts. In Narcisse's pocket was a

note he had received from her a few days ago, which hinted that, if he

desired, he might call sometimes--alone. He was so afraid that Charlie

some day might find this note, that he had no peace until he had torn

it into numberless fragments, and when Charlie was not looking, he

covertly raised the car window and saw the mad wind carry the pieces

in a hundred different directions.

* * * * *

Another spring had come. Charlie and Narcisse were sitting in a

smoking-room in a small hotel in Winnipeg. Placidly Narcisse was

leaning back reading a paper that he had just got from St. John's.

They were better dressed and looked more prosperous than in the old

days. Occasionally they talked about her now. To Narcisse she seemed

but a dream, and he had no regrets. To Charlie it was different; to

him she was still very real.

Suddenly Narcisse uttered an exclamation of surprise, and let the

paper fall. Charlie, who had his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the floor,

looked up in surprise and asked what was the matter.

"Oh, dare is noting de matter," answered Narcisse, trying to look

unconcerned. "I tink I must have been asleep."

He gathered up the paper, and said he would go and stand at the door

for a few minutes.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he opened the paper again and

read the following in the marriage notices: "Married May 13th, 18--,

at St. John's, Miss Jessie Cunningham, to John White, farmer, of St.

John's."

Narcisse ran up to his room, tore out the notice and burned it.

"Dare," he said to himself, with a satisfied look on his face,

"Charlie won't know anything about dat now. No use for open de old

wound again. Well, she wait about a year. Dat pretty good," he said,

with a good-natured smile.

"Well, do you feel any better?" asked Charlie, as Narcisse entered the

room again.

"Oh, yes," replied Narcisse, puffing out his chest. "Dat fresh air do

me all de good in de world." And Charlie never guessed!

* * * * *

A Strange Presentiment.

While this strange story is fresh in my memory, I am writing it, just

as it was told me by my friend George B----, who a few years ago was

general manager of a well-known Canadian railroad. I had known George

for years, and had been superintendent of the same road. He told me

the history of his life one beautiful night in June as we were seated

in a sleeping car _en route_ for Montreal. For the first time I knew

why he had never married, a problem that had cost me many conjectures.

The story is founded on a presentiment. Presentiments are difficult

things to analyze, but for my part I believe the tale, and am content

to let the reader use his own judgment in the matter.

"I began my railway career," commenced George, "on the Old Colony

R.R., as operator at Shirley Junction, which at that time was one of

the most important crossing points on the whole road. Poor Herbert

Lawrence, who plays such a tragic part in this story, was the day

operator. It was at Shirley Junction that I met Julia Waine, the

station agent's niece. She was a singularly beautiful girl, and

naturally it was her beauty that first attracted me; but her

intelligence and sympathetic nature were the loadstones that drew my

heart to her as I came to know her better. A week after I arrived at

the Junction, the agent gave a party in honor of Julia's birthday, and

Herbert and I were among the invited guests. Julia looked very

beautiful and sweet, as she welcomed us in the quaint little parlor

over the telegraph office. I had not been in the room ten minutes

before I discovered that Herbert Lawrence loved Julia as unselfishly

as I did. Herbert, who was a gentlemanly fellow, was, on account of

his intensely nervous disposition, ill-adapted to the work of an

operator. He was extremely sensitive, and had a painful habit of

blushing that at times made him look almost ridiculous. He knew his

failing, and it was pitiful to see his struggles for self-command. All

the evening he sat in a corner of the parlor, like a faithful dog,

content to watch the being he so dearly loved. Once or twice during

the party I saw Julia go over to where he was sitting and speak to

him, and from her manner I knew his love was not returned. When

shaking hands with her at the close of the party I heard him say, 'I

hope I may be at your next birthday party.'

"'I hope so; I shall then be twenty-one, and I am beginning to feel

quite old already,' she replied brightly.

"Her next birthday party! God wisely hides the future from us! I had

been at the station a little over six months when the adventure that

I am about to relate occurred. November, 1873, ushered in weather that

railway men heartily dislike. All day a cold rain had fallen, coating

the rails with a thin layer of ice. Drivers of express trains had

their work cut out to keep on time, while freight trains straggled in

at all hours.

"When I came on duty that night, at seven o'clock, I saw that I was

going to have a busy time of it. Until that evening I can truthfully

say that I never knew what nervousness was; but scarcely had I entered

the station when I felt suddenly depressed. I attributed the feeling

to heat, and tried to pull myself together by poking fun at Herbert,

whom I accused of wilfully keeping the trains late in order to shirk

handling them. Every night Herbert gave me a written account of the

trains handled during the day, and especially drew my attention to any

crossing orders that had to be attended to. As Herbert was leaving the

room I glanced at the book and saw there were no orders on hand. This

should have satisfied me that everything was all right; but it did

not, and I called out to him and asked if there were any train orders.

He replied in a low, absent voice that there were none. I could not

help but notice his dejection, and a feeling of pity filled my heart

for him. The evening previous Julia had promised to be my wife.

Herbert did not know this, but I knew he had a presentiment that the

girl he so dearly loved cared more for me than she did for him. He did

not, however, show any resentment, but appeared strangely depressed.

After he had left the station, I tried to drive away from my mind the

foreboding of ill by reading; but, like Banquo's ghost, it would not

down. I began to think I was going to be seriously ill. Restlessly I

paced the floor, longing for, yet dreading, the approach of the

express train which was due at the station at 9 p.m. The wind had

risen and was buffeting the telegraph wires, making them hum in an

exasperating manner.

"As the minutes slowly wore away, my disquietude alarmingly increased.

I was charged with a nervous dread, for which I could not find the

slightest excuse; I knew, however, that in some strange way the

approaching express was the cause of it. I thought of Julia; surely

the demon of unrest would be banished if I saw her. With an almost

childish impulse I sought her presence. Before I had time to seat

myself, Julia, with a woman's keen perception, noticed my nervousness

and asked the cause of it. Man-like I laughed at her anxiety, and

tried to deceive her by being boisterously happy, but of course this

failed to allay her fears. Before five minutes had elapsed I was madly

anxious to get back to the operating room again, although I knew

perfectly well there was nothing for me to do. To this day I cannot

understand what power, despite all my common-sense, made me hurry

back, and again begin to hunt through the book for an order, which in

my heart of hearts I knew perfectly well was not there. After all, how

little we know of the great other world and the influences that may be

there at work!

"It was now 8.45. In fifteen minutes more the express would be in. I

was actually unable to endure the dreadful suspense, and had just made

up my mind to go and see Herbert, who boarded across the road from the

station, when the waiting-room door opened and he entered. Without

speaking to me he walked dejectedly over to the station agent's door,

and was just going to knock at it, when I reached his side and said to

him in deep agitation, 'Tell me, Herbert, are you quite sure you

received no orders to hold the express? she will soon be here now.' My

voice trembled with anxiety. Without looking at me or appearing to

notice my strange manner, he replied, 'No orders, if you received

none.' As the door closed behind him I could have cried out, so keen

was the feeling of dread that again swept over me. Just then I heard

the whistle of the locomotive, which seemed to stop my very heart from

beating. Like one bereft I ran back into the telegraph office, and

began to call the dispatcher's office. There was one more chance of

saving the express if it was in danger, and that was by asking if an

order had been sent to hold it for a crossing. I had waited until the

last minute before I could make up my mind to do this: because, if the

dispatcher had telegraphed an order, he would know by repeating it

that Herbert had forgotten to book it and turn the red light facing

the station on to the track. Such a grave omission would mean sure

dismissal. If he had not sent one he would want to know what made me

ask him such a strange question, and would at once get an inkling

that something was wrong. True it is that troubles never come singly!

For a full minute I stood desperately calling the dispatcher's office,

but got no answer. Either the wires had been crossed or the man had

for a few minutes left his post. I closed the key and sank weakly back

on my chair.

"As the door opened and old Conductor Rawlings, with the typical

railway man's good-natured bustle, entered the room and noisily banged

his lamp down on the desk, I buried my face in my hands, completely

prostrated by contending emotions. The feeling that the train should

not be allowed to proceed burned in me more fiercely than ever.

"'Here, there!' yelled Rawlings, 'hurry up and trot out that clearance

order.' If I had been chained to the chair I could not have been more

unable to move. Getting no answer from me, Rawlings walked quickly

into the telegraph office, and catching me unceremoniously by the arm,

said impatiently, 'Come, now, wake up and give me that order; what do

you mean by keeping me like this?'

"With a dazed feeling I staggered to my feet and took up a pad of

orders. If I signed and gave him one of them, I was responsible for

the safety of the train until it reached the next station. The orders

read that the track was clear of all trains, and that no instructions

had been received by the operator to detain trains for crossings. The

forms were printed. All the operators had to do was to sign them. With

averted face I seized the pen and tried to sign my name to one of the

slips, but so fearfully were my nerves unstrung that the pen fell

twice from my hand to the floor. The next thing I knew, Rawlings had

turned me round and was letting the glare of the lantern fall full on

my face.

"'I will report you for this detention. What is the matter with you?

You look wild enough to be put in an asylum.'

"Mechanically I completed the signature and handed him the order. Just

as he was about to step from the station to the platform, he suddenly

turned round, and said somewhat apprehensively, 'Of course you have

received no orders to detain me?' 'No,' I replied, in a voice that did

not sound like my own.

"As the train began to move slowly out of the station I sprang to my

feet, ran to the window, and gazed in terror at it.

"Just as Rawlings was about to jump on one of the cars, some impulse

made him pause and glance at the window where I was standing.

Something in my face must have strangely affected him, as he allowed

the car on which he was about to jump to go by, and without apparently

seeming to know what he was doing, swung his lantern from right to

left. If the engineer had seen this signal he would have stopped the

train. With an impatient shake of his head Rawlings jumped on to the

step of the next car. He stood on the step as he passed, and with

contracted brow again fixed his eyes on mine. The moment I lost sight

of the train the spell that bound me to the window was broken. An

involuntary cry came from my dry lips, and I dashed my hand through

the glass with the imbecile impulse of stopping the train. The

remarkable presentiment that the train should not go on had full

possession of me now.

"Like one possessed I ran out of the office, burst open the door

leading to the agent's house, mounted in bounds the stairs leading to

it, and ran through the sitting-room into the parlor, where I knew I

should find Herbert. Just before I entered the room I heard Herbert

say in a broken voice, 'Then there is no hope for me?'

"'No,' replied a choked voice, which I recognized as Julia's. An

embarrassing scene met my gaze; kneeling at Julia's feet with a look

of keen disappointment on his face was Herbert.

"As I rushed into the room he sprang to his feet with an exclamation

of anger and amazement. But when he saw my face, an expression of

deadly fear passed over his. Without stopping to think, I caught him

by the coat-collar with my wounded hand; instantly his white shirt was

stained with blood. 'Herbert,' I cried desperately, 'the express has

just left! For heaven's sake tell me that you are quite sure you got

no order to hold her. I am certain something is going to happen,

something dread--'

"I never finished the sentence. I pray that I never again may see such

a look of mortal agony on any face as passed over his, or again hear

such a scream as he uttered, when he rushed past me with uplifted

arms, and ran downstairs crying at the top of his voice, 'Stop her!

stop her!' This terrible scene had all been acted in less than a

minute. I bounded after him. Someone was following me, but I never

thought of stopping to see who. My mind was now quite clear. If the

express had not passed the semaphore she might yet be stopped. The

semaphore was nearly a quarter of a mile from the station, and the arm

was down. If the engine had passed it by a hair's breadth, ninety-nine

chances out of a hundred the engineer would go on. If I could let up

the arm before the engine reached it, all might be well. My main hope

was in the icy condition of the track; I knew it would take her much

longer than usual to get under way on such rails.

"As Herbert dashed out of the station I was not two feet behind him.

With naked head, and hands outstretched toward the rapidly departing

train, and still uttering impotent cries, ran the demented fellow, his

reason for the time being entirely gone. The rampant wind blew the

half-frozen rain in my face with such force that I could scarcely

breathe, while my eyes smarted so under the onslaught that I could see

only with great difficulty. With what wonderful velocity the mind

works in moments of great danger! Even before I had left the station,

my alert brain had weighed and reweighed the chances of the plans it

had with such marvellous rapidity given birth to. As I ran, the quick

panting of the locomotive was borne to my strained ears with great

distinctness by the hurrying wind. The ear is easily deceived as to

sounds; whether the train was fifty yards or half a mile away I could

not tell. A few more steps and the lever that worked the semaphore was

in my hands. I quickly released the wire which held down the distant

semaphore arm. Just as I did so I saw Herbert jump from the platform

on to the track, along which he ran, still calling in piteous tones

for the express to stop.

"Then followed an experience so fearful that I wonder my mind, too,

did not lose its balance. Regardless of wind and rain I stood

clutching the lever, waiting for the engine to whistle the station to

lower the arm. If no whistle came, I was too late! My very heart

seemed to stop and listen, while my nerves seemed as if they must

surely snap, so overwrought were they. To my excited imagination every

second seemed an hour. Still the dreadful suspense went on, while the

panting of the engine grew quicker and quicker. The suspense was

actually too great to bear, and I weakly sank on to the platform. A

moment later there came floating a sound sweeter to my ears than the

triumphant song of the nightingale; yet it was only the deep

discordant whistle of the fleeing locomotive calling for the semaphore

arm to be lowered.

"Saved! I sprang to my feet, sobbing like a child. As I turned to go

back to the station, a startling apparition met my eyes; standing ten

paces from me and waving a red lamp was Julia. Her white clothing and

the fitful glare of the red light made her look like something

supernatural. The fierce wind tossed the hair in sweet disorder about

her refined delicate face, while the cold rain made the clothing cling

to her slender figure like a shroud. 'Julia!' I exclaimed aghast,

advancing toward her with faltering steps. Then the lantern fell, and

I caught her as she was about to fall. I carried her back to the

station, with the strength born in me by the continued angry whistling

of the engine, and by the final cessation of its violent breathing. As

I laid her on one of the benches in the waiting-room, I heard the

driver whistle 'brakes off.' I knew the train would now soon be back

to the station again with its precious load!

"Hardly had Julia recovered before the light on the rear car of the

express backed past the station. Standing on the platform of the car

was old Rawlings. With an imprecation he ran into the station and laid

his hand heavily on my shoulder. 'What does all this mean? why did you

throw up the semaphore and wave the red light for us to return?' he

demanded, his face all aglow with passion. 'Don't talk like that,' I

replied; 'thank God for the red lamp and the semaphore! You likely now

would have been a corpse were it not for them. There is a crossing

order to hold you here. Herbert got it and forgot to enter it in the

book and turn the lamp. He will soon be back and tell you whether the

crossing is with a freight or passenger special.'

"'Bless me, what an escape!' burst out Rawlings. 'There will be a

mighty big row about this. Where is that ass of a fellow?' The

question was soon answered. Slowly walking backward, with bent

shoulders and arms wrapped around some dark object, entered the driver

of the express, while following him and bent in a like manner came the

fireman. With a dull foreboding of evil I took a step forward. They

were carrying Herbert, all torn and mangled! 'We must have backed over

him,' said the driver, quietly as he laid the poor battered burden

down. 'There is just a spark of life left in him, nothing more.' I saw

the pallid lips move, and kneeling, bent my ear to them. The last

words they ever formed came very slow and faint, yet faint as they

were I heard them: 'The express must--cross--the--passenger--special.

I--loved--her--so.' Then the weary lips were at peace--lasting peace.

As I rose, my eyes fell on Julia; she was crouching at the feet of the

poor fellow whom, but a few moments ago she had refused to marry. As

the driver threw a sheet over the remains he said, 'Poor fellow, his

mistake cost him dear.' Then turning to me: 'What a blessing it was

that you kept your head and signalled us with the red light; for I had

just passed under the semaphore when the arm rose. Consequently I

thought nothing of the matter; but the fireman at that moment ran up

the back of the tender to throw down some coal near the fire-box, and

while doing so he noticed the light. He at once called to me to look

behind. The signal, coupled with the arm being thrown up before the

whole train had passed under it, made me think something was wrong, so

I reversed the engine and came back.'

"It was Julia, then, and not I, who had saved the express!

"On reaching the operating room I found the conductor of the passenger

special waiting. He had heard of the forgotten order, and said, 'That

is the closest call I have had for years. We should have met about the

trestle bridge over the ravine. It would have been a terrible

pitch-in, as I have eight cars of excursionists.'

"A few moments later both trains had departed, and the only sounds to

be heard were the ticking of the busy instrument and the monotonous

hum of the wires. I looked at the clock. It was 9.09--just nine

minutes since the regular express had steamed into the station. It

seemed impossible to me that so much could have happened in so short a

time. Had each minute been a week it could not have seemed longer."

George paused as though his story was done. "And Julia?" I asked,

laying my hand lightly on his knee. Without replying, he drew out of

his pocket an old frayed pocket-book, took out of it a slip of faded

newspaper, and silently handed it to me. The words printed on it were

very few; simply these: "Died March 8th, 1874, of rapid consumption,

Julia Waine, aged twenty years and five months."

As I raised my head and looked at him, he said as he looked out of the

low window, "The cold she took that fearful night killed her."

* * * * *

A Memorable Dinner.

As I often have wondered whether a Christmas dinner ever was so

fearfully and wonderfully constructed, and under such novel

circumstances, as the one to which I sat down on Christmas Day, 1879,

I have decided to relate--in the truthful, unvarnished style that one

always looks for in the old railway man--the incidents in which I was

fortunate enough to participate on that occasion.

That year, I was Assistant-Superintendent of the St. ---- R.R., and

was returning on Christmas eve from the annual inspection of the line,

in company with the General Manager of the road, in the private car

"St. Paul," when one of the worst blizzards I ever experienced, even

in that prairie country, burst upon us, and in less than an hour, had

buried the track so deeply that further progress was impossible.

It was about midnight when the engine, fully five miles distant from a

human habitation, and two hundred miles from our home, sulkily

admitted the superior power of nature's forces and hove to.

Fortunately, for humanity's sake, there were on our special--which

consisted of the engine, the baggage car, and our private car--only

five souls: Charles Fielding, the manager; myself, William Thurlow;

Fred Swan, the conductor; Joe Robbins, the driver; and the hero of

this history, Ovide Tetreault, the French-Canadian fireman.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when we finally gave up all

hope of getting along any farther, at least for some hours, and

Fielding and I lay down in our berths with the hope that the storm

would abate before daybreak, so that a snow-plough might reach us and

clear the line, in time to enable us to reach our homes for the

Christmas dinner.

But as I lay awake and listened to the shrieks of the storm, the

presentiment grew upon me that the chances of our spending the best

part of Christmas Day in our contracted abode were depressingly

promising. These thoughts, coupled with the knowledge that our car was

but poorly provisioned, and that we were without a cook--having let

that functionary stop off for Christmas Day at the station beyond

which we were stranded--were in nowise conducive to my falling asleep

The anxious mother sprang to her feet, ran to the door, opened it, and