[Illustration:

1. British Columbia Miners off shift.

2. Wrecked through a wash-out.

3. A section of a Mountain Mining Town.]

Leading Ruth out the room, the minister gathered up his books and went

to the morning service. When he returned John Gage had departed.

Early Monday morning Allan Short, a near-by farmer, called to tell him

that John was out at his place cutting away at the winter's wood-pile.

Allan promised to do what he could for John, but incidentally remarked

that he did not see why a man couldn't "take a glass of beer without

making a fool of himself."

[Illustration:

1. An Exhausted Prospector.

2. A Miner's Washing Day.

3. Ready to start for the hills to inspect a mine.

4. Miners off to their daily toil.]

A day or two later the minister drove by the Short homestead,

presumably to make a call at the Meen's farm, where he had several

faithful church-goers. As he passed, he recognised John at the

saw-horse, and waved a greeting as to a friend.

On his return he drove up the road to the Short Farm, and John at once

came forward, with the customary Canadian courtesy, to tie up or

unhitch the horse, according to the visitor's wish. After a few

pleasantries the minister went to the house and made a call on such

members of the Short family as were home, and then returned to where

his horse was tied. Hesitating a moment, he turned and walked to the

wood-pile, and after complimenting John on his ability to swing the

axe, spoke a few encouraging words. For a moment the hand rested on

John's shoulder as he said, "You will be one of God's good men yet,

John. I know it's a terrible fight, but God knows all about it, and

with Him you can conquer. Come and see us any time you are in, but for

the life of you don't loiter around the village, and do keep clear of

the men who would be likely to make it easy for you to get what you

know is ruinous to you. And don't forget we are your friends always,

always."

As he turned the corner of the side road, he met Allan Short returning

from a trip to the village. Referring to John Gage the farmer said,

"He's been as straight as a British Columbia pine since he came out;

but, say! it's kind o' pitiful, after all, the way he craves for

whiskey. Me and the Missus watched him yesterday. She's been keeping

her eyes open. Well! John was taking a breathing spell, after he had

done a fine lot of splitting (and he's no greenhorn with the axe, let

me tell you!), when all of a sudden he went to the fence-post where his

coat was hanging, and putting it on as he walked, he made down the

road. He got about ten rod and then stopped like as if he'd forgotten

something, and then he started back, took off his coat, and pitched

into that wood-pile as if it was sure death if he didn't get it

finished by night. The missus says he's done the same thing three

times to her knowledge, and once he went so far she was sure he was

gone for good. But she says he sure did 'lambaste' them blocks when he

got back."

RUTH'S ILLNESS

The following Sunday morning little Ruth was missing from the Manse

pew, and her absence from that service was so unusual as to cause many

inquiries.

"Nothing serious," said the mother. "Just a little throat trouble, and

as she seemed somewhat feverish we thought we had better leave her at

home. Lizzie is taking care of her."

But on Monday morning the doctor looked very anxious after an

examination of Ruth's throat, and in departing advised the minister to

keep out of the child's room until an examination a few hours later.

On Tuesday morning it was a bit of village news that was passed from

mouth to mouth, that the minister's little girl had diphtheria, and

that the house was placarded. The occupants of the Manse were deeply

touched during the following days by that spontaneous expression of

practical sympathy that is characteristic of village life. But perhaps

no one stirred the deepest emotions as did John Gage. Darkness had

fallen over the village on Tuesday before he had heard of Ruth's

sickness. There was some look of solicitation on Mrs. Short's face

when John "guessed" he would stroll to the village.

He answered the look by saying almost curtly, "I'm going to the Manse."

The little patient's symptoms showed severe infection, and a second

doctor was in consultation when the minister heard a very gentle rap on

the door.

"Sorry I can't ask you in, John," he said, as he saw John standing on

the verandah.

"How is she?" asked the caller, in a tone that revealed a great concern.

"She is a very sick little girl, John. Dr. Dodds is with Dr. Burnett

just now. We can only give her the best care possible, and hope and

pray. It is good of you to call, and when the wee girl is better she

will be pleased to know you came. The poor little soul has been

restless and feverish all the afternoon."

"Poor little gal! Tell her John hopes she'll soon be alright. I ain't

much of a friend, God knows, but all the same I've been that lonesome

like, since I heard she was sick, I don't feel as if I want to do

anything, but just wait around. If there's any job I can do to help, I

give you my word I'll be in trim to do it as long as the little gal

needs me."

For two weeks John's "little gal" caused anxious days and nights--some

of them days and nights when tearful prayers were sobbed out in the

solitariness of study or bedroom--times when the physicians found no

hopeful signs, and the little life seemed to be passing beyond human

reach. It was on one such night that John brought a few delicacies

from the farm for the minister's household, and waited for the report

from the sick-room.

"The doctor has been with her an hour, John, and the wee girl is alive,

and that's all we can say." The voice broke into a sob as the last

words were spoken.

The two men stood in silent sympathy for a few minutes, and then John

broke the silence. "She was friendly to me, sir, and I'll never forget

it. Lots of folks what thinks they're big toads in the puddle treats

me as if I was dirt, but the little gal is the biggest Christian of the

lot, and she's done me more good than the whole gang of 'em. Say! the

way she put her little hand on my face that Sunday morning was better'n

any sermon I ever heard. Queer, ain't it, but it broke me all up."

Then in response to a request from the minister John continued, "I'm

afeared it wouldn't count much if I tried to pray, sir; but there ain't

anything I wouldn't try my hand at for her."

The following day there was better news, and two days later the little

sufferer was able to smile in response to the tokens of love that were

showered upon her.

The physicians' faces relaxed, and they were delighted that

professionally they were winning the battle, and the big-hearted senior

physician rejoiced for other reasons. "By the way," he said that night

in the Manse study, "I have met that fellow John Gage several times

lately, and his interest in Ruthie is really remarkable. I didn't

think it was in the man to care for anybody. And stranger still, he

was sober each time. The little girl may yet be the salvation of the

poor chap, and do what no one else has been able to do."

Shortly before St. Valentine's Day the Manse was thoroughly fumigated,

and the placard removed. Ruth was amusing herself cutting out the

kindergarten suggestions for Valentines, and sending them to selected

friends. On a crudely shaped heart in poorly fashioned letters that

she had learned to print, were the words, "Ruth loves John." On

February the 14th, John Gage received the tiny envelope containing his

Valentine. Nothing he had received in years pleased him quite so much.

"Now, ain't that great," he confided to Mrs. Short, "'tain't worth a

cent, I suppose, but just this very minute they're ain't enough money

in the whole village to buy it."

THE PREPARATORY SERVICE

The quarterly communion service was about to be conducted in St.

Andrew's Church. The usual invitations had been given from the pulpit,

and a few had called at the Manse to discuss the question of

membership. It was always a time of prayerful concern on the part of

the minister lest any should take the step without realizing its

obligations and privileges. At the minister's invitation, John Gage

had spent over an hour in the study.

"Nothing less than an out and out surrender will do, John. You have

had your way, and the devil has had his way, now you must be willing to

let God have full control. There must be an entire breaking away from

past associations, and you must take the step that can never mean

retreat. Unless you do that the path back to the old ways will be too

attractive, and too easy."

Once again the two men read passages from well-thumbed pages in the

study Bible, and again the shepherd of souls called on the One who is

Mighty to Save, and then John prayed, and as the long silence was

broken and a wanderer in a far country turned his face to his Father

and uttered penitent words, the minister's tears of joy could no longer

be restrained. As they rose from their knees, hands were clasped, and

those feelings, too deep for words, found expression in the pressure of

a protecting and a trusting hand.

In the eyes of the majority of the Kirk Session, there was little risk

in receiving into membership the well-to-do respectable sinner, but

when the minister narrated the conversations he had had with John Gage,

and suggested his name as a candidate for membership, eyebrows were

raised and heads shook ominously.

"Wad it no' be better to put him off for a few months to see whether he

could stan' alone first?" was the question of John McNair, the senior

elder.

Colonel Monteith, who was greatly burdened with the responsibility for

maintaining the dignity of the Presbyterian Church, wondered whether

"this rather disreputable man Gage would not find more congenial

associates down in the Free Methodist Hall." Tom Rollins didn't know

"how the people would take it."

Murray Meiklejohn, characterized by his reticence and good common

sense, moved that "John Gage be received," and stammeringly added that

so far as leaving John to stand alone was concerned, he "guessed" they

had been doing that ever since he came to town, ten years ago.

And so with some misgivings, and with some wounded pride, the Session

included John Gage in its reception list.

On Friday night, an hour before the time for preparatory service, John

called at the Manse. "I'm a-trembling all through," he said to the

minister, "and I was half-minded not to come. If it hadn't been for

what you said about the hospital being a place for sick folks, I

wouldn't had the courage to face it."

The preparatory service of that night is still spoken of in the quiet

village. Perhaps the atmosphere was created by one who had prayed much

that day that the congregation might receive a new vision of the

Redeemer, through the words of one for whom not an individual in the

entire congregation had any hope six weeks before.

The sermon over, the minister and elders extended the right hand of

fellowship to the little company occupying the front seats.

"To-night," said the minister, as he returned to the platform, "I have

asked my friend Mr. John Gage to say a few words." The lecture-hall

had probably never known stiller moments than those immediately

following the announcement.

John Gage, pale and trembling, not daring to look at his audience,

stood facing the platform. In a low voice he said, "Well, friends, I

have been a bad man--that's no news to anybody, but God helping me I'm

going to be better. Seems like a miracle, don't it, that John Gage has

been sober for five weeks?"

As he sat down, the "Let us pray" of the minister preceded a petition

for "our brother," that made most hearts tender and prayerful.

"It's a new day for St. Andrew's," said Murray Meiklejohn, as he shook

the hand of the minister after the benediction. "Nothing like

to-night's meeting in my memory. Looks as if we were going to stop

singing 'Rescue the Perishing' and get on the job."

It is no easy task for the average Presbyterian elder to utter a

fervent "God bless you," but that night hearts were stirred and tongues

were loosened, and John Gage felt that after all the world was not so

unfriendly as he had imagined. Hand after hand was extended in genuine

welcome. But the finest thing of all, as the minister said a little

later, was the way the Colonel warmed up to John. He had never been

seen to manifest the same cordiality in the Church before. "A manly

step to take, sir--a manly step--needs courage to fight that kind of a

battle. Personally I am glad to welcome you to St. Andrew's."

When story-time came at the Manse on the following evening, Ruth was

all attention as her mother told of the homecoming of another prodigal,

and of all it might mean.

Ruth's prayer had two additional words that night. The closing part

was uttered more deliberately than usual, as if in anticipation of the

seriousness of the added petition. "Bless daddy and mamma,

and--all--the--friends--I--love--_and John_, for Jesus' sake. Amen."

THE TEMPTATION

John Gage secured temporary work in the village delivering freight for

a local carter. Whenever opportunity afforded, the _habitués_ of the

bar-rooms did not spare him their sneers and jeers. "Folks say you're

a hell of a good preacher, John." "When are you going to wear the

starched dog-collar, John?" Calling him to a little group on the

sidewalk, one of his former chums said, with mock solemnity, "Let us

pray." A roar of laughter followed, as John, crimson-faced, walked

away.

There were days when the sting in some of the taunts was hard to

bear--days when only One knows the conflict in that will that had

become enfeebled by sin. But John Gage was steadily gaining the

victory, and the visits to the Manse and the new friends around the

church were displacing the former associations.

Signs of a material prosperity that John had never before known were

gradually appearing. The village tailor took particular pride one

morning in showing the minister a piece of blue serge, "as fine a bit

of goods as is imported. I'm cutting a suit out of it for John Gage,

and it will be as good as I can make it. Did you ever think how much

the tailor can co-operate with God in fixing a man up?"

But not all the villagers were desirous of co-operating with God in the

reformation of John Gage. A little crowd had gathered one night in

McKee's barber shop, and the minister of St. Andrew's was being harshly

criticized for his frequent attacks on the liquor traffic. The

proprietor of the pool-room, who attended St. Andrew's at the time of

the Lodge annual parade, announced his intention of absenting himself

unless the minister "minded his own business." Others made similar

threats, which in the aggregate might bring the minister to the proper

frame of mind which became one who "received his bread and butter from

some of the very people he had been abusing."

Then the case of John Gage was discussed, and uncomplimentary terms

were freely applied. McKee thought "it would be a d----d good joke on

the Presbyterian preacher if John could be made as full as a goat, and

then sent to the Manse." To the lasting disgrace of the barber, he

attempted to perpetrate the "joke."

Bud Jenks was a willing tool of anybody who would reward him with a

whiskey, and when McKee offered him all he could take at one standing

if he got Gage to take a drink, he was ready to at least make the

attempt. And so on a day when John had shovelled coal from car to

waggon and waggon to cellar for eight hours, and was warm, tired and

thirsty, Bud appeared with a little pail, as if coming from the town

pump. John was at the grating tramping the coal further into the

cellar, and his head was about on a level with the sidewalk.

"Good-day, Bud," he called up as Bud stood for a moment.

"Good-day, John; warm job, eh?"

"You bet it's warm," was the reply, as the coal-begrimed brow was wiped.

"Take a drink o' water?" asked Bud.

"Sure I will, and thank you," answered the thirsty toiler with hand

extended to the pail, which was placed on the sidewalk. Quickly Bud

removed the lid, and gave the pail a tilt as the rim came near John's

face. Just a touch of froth from the lager beer was carried to John's

lips, but instantly he pushed back the pail with an exclamation almost

of pain. At the same moment he slid further into the cellar, and

kneeling on the coal, with hands clasped against the wall, cried out

again and again, "Oh, my God, help me, help me, help me!"

Bud peered into the darkness and called several times to John. At last

John approached the grating again. "Bud," he said quietly, "for God's

sake go away and leave me alone; I'd rather drop dead than put another

drop of that to my lips."

Bud did not immediately depart, despite the pleading of the man in the

cellar, and not until a passer-by had entered into conversation with

him, and the two had moved off together, did John pull himself to the

sidewalk and drive away. "Oh, the smell of it near drove me mad for a

few minutes," he said, as he confided the occurrence to his friends at

the Manse. "If it wasn't for the little gal, and coming up here, I'd

get far enough away from this place, so's I wouldn't have the same

temptations."

"Temptation is not a matter of locality, John, and you would not escape

it by crossing a continent, and besides, we need you right here. If

you win out and give God the glory, you will do more to prove His power

than a year of sermons could."

THE COLONEL'S OUTBREAK

"Bully for Colonel Monteith! He's a brick, by jinks he is! The words

were uttered in an excited voice by the young minister on his return

from one of his daily trips to the Post Office.

"Why, daddy," exclaimed the wife, "I'll report you to the Session for

using bad language. But what has happened anyway?"

It was several minutes before the cause of the "bad language" could be

satisfactorily narrated. The conversation in McKee's barber shop was

related, and the indignation of the mistress of the Manse was all that

could be desired.

"Well," continued the minister, "somebody who heard it happened

casually to tell Colonel Monteith. Within half an hour, the Colonel

was in the shop. McKee was lathering Lawyer Taskey, but that didn't

seem an important matter to the Colonel, for without waiting until he

was through he at once faced him with what he had heard, and asked if

it was true. At first McKee tried to evade the question, but the

Colonel pressed for an answer. 'Well, suppose I did. Is it any of

your business?' replied McKee. Then with a sneer he added, 'And

anyhow, I didn't know that you and _Mister_ John Gage were such bosom

friends.' 'Look here, McKee,' and the voice of the Colonel trembled

with emotion, 'I hold no brief for this man Gage any more than I do for

any other man in the village, but when a fellow puts up a fight like he

has for the last two months--a fellow, as you know very well, with

veins full of bad blood--it is in the highest degree reprehensible for

any man to be even a party to such a devilish scheme as you tried to

work out by making a poor sot like Bud Jenks your catspaw. And nobody,

sir--I say, sir, nobody but a contemptible cur would attempt such a

dastardly act.' And then the barber got impudent and told the

dignified elder to go on a long trip. Moving nearer to him the Colonel

said, 'Before I go there, McKee, there's a place I wish to accompany

you,' and quick as a flash he grabbed McKee and tried to drag him to

the back of the shop. McKee didn't know what was going to happen, and

naturally objected some, but Jim Morton, who saw it, says the Colonel

was 'mad from the toes up,' and after laming a few chairs, and damaging

a mirror in the scuffle, he got the rear door open and pulled McKee

after him down the bank to the creek. The barber likely surmised what

was the next item on the programme, and not caring for cold baths in

March, he did some furious scuffling, but though the Colonel's hat and

a few buttons had disappeared, he was able to report progress. Jim

says the language of McKee as he got near the water has never been

surpassed in Emsdale. Lawyer Taskey felt like going to McKee's rescue,

as he doubtless earnestly desired to have his shave finished, but when

he got his hat on and started down the bank the Colonel thundered

something at him that caused him to decide it would be pleasanter to

remain in the shop.

"Unfortunately the Colonel could not part company with McKee at the

critical moment, and the two of them fell into the water together. The

Colonel stood the shock well enough to have sufficient presence of mind

to immediately grab the barber and duck him thoroughly, and then the

two of them scrambled out, and the air is still blue around McKee's

place; but taking a conjunct view of the entire affair, the Colonel

appeared satisfied.

"Jim says that the Colonel's language was not what would be expected

from an elder, and that when there was the final scuffle at the edge of

the creek, he heard him call McKee 'a blawsted skunk.' I suppose

that's terrible in a member of St. Andrew's Session, but I'm sinner

enough to be glad that McKee got a small percentage of his deserts, and

my backbone feels stiffer and I shall carry my head a little higher

because Colonel Monteith's on my Session."

The minister jumped to his feet, and swinging his arm in a circle above

his head shouted, "Bully for Colonel Monteith, the man who turned

McKee's 'joke' into a boomerang."

The eyes of the minister's wife had sparkled with interest as she

listened to what had happened to McKee, and the minister was satisfied

when at the conclusion of the incident she said quietly, "I am so sorry

Colonel Monteith fell in the creek. Ask him up for dinner to-morrow,

or some day soon. I'll do my very best to show my appreciation of his

well-meaning defence of our John."

THE VALENTINE

Some weeks later John procured a position in a distant city. Ruth and

her father went to the station to bid him farewell, the latter assuring

him of the unfailing interest of his friends at the Manse, and uttering

a few words of counsel, now that distance would prevent the frequent

visits of the past.

For a while all went well, and encouraging reports reached the village

Manse. Sometimes the letter was addressed to the Minister, but oftener

to Ruth, and all of them revealed the strong hold the little one had

upon the reforming man.

Then came word of dull times and scarcity of work and loneliness. It

was after a letter that revealed unusual despondency, that an urgent

invitation was sent for John to return to the village and spend a few

weeks at the Manse until labour conditions improved.

No answer came to this invitation, but two weeks later a letter came

from John's boarding-house, which read as follows:--

"Dear Sir,--I take the liberty of writing you, because there is a Mr.

Gage boarding at my place, and he is real sick and don't seem to have

no friends near here, and I can't take care of him no longer. He says

you are his best friend, and so I thought you would tell me what to do,

as he hasn't got no money, and I am a hard-working woman and can't

afford to do without it. He ought to go to the Hospital, I guess, but

he don't take to the notion. Please do something right away.--Mrs.

JOHN McCAUL, 14, St. Lawrence Lane."

The following morning the minister started for the city, and late that

afternoon stood at the door of No. 14, St. Lawrence Lane. The lane

consisted of a long, monotonous row of dingy little houses on the one

side, and a miscellaneous group of stables and sheds on the other.

Factory buildings, with their "insolent towers that sprawl to the sky,"

overtowered the whole, shutting out much light, and pouring forth from

their immense chimneys the smoke that usually hung like a pall over the

narrow lane.

Mrs. McCaul was greatly relieved by the presence of the minister, and

as they sat in the ventilation-proof parlour she told him of John's

hard luck, interspersing most of her family history in the narration.

"He's terrible discouraged," she added, "and the doctor says he'd

oughter be in some more cheerfuller place, although I'm doing the best

I can."

It was a poorly furnished dark bedroom into which the minister was

ushered, and the surroundings of the whole place reminded him of a

popular description of certain American city boarding-houses, which are

said to "furnish all the facilities for dying."