{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_59220/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_59220","id":"gutenberg_59220","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/59220","summary":null,"tags":["Canadian fiction -- 20th century","Category: History - Other","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Missions -- Canada, Western -- Fiction","Short stories, Canadian"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Cover art]\n\n\n\n\n[Frontispiece:\n  1. A Camp Kitchen.  2. Lumber Jacks in the Bush.]\n\n\n\n\n  TRAIL-TALES OF\n  WESTERN CANADA\n\n  BY\n\n  F. A. ROBINSON, B.A.\n\n\n\n  MARSHALL BROTHERS, LTD.,\n  LONDON, EDINBURGH & NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\n  TO THE REVEREND ROBERT JOHNSTON, D.D.,\n  MINISTER OF THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN\n  CHURCH, MONTREAL, AND TO FRIENDS IN\n  HIS CONGREGATION WHOSE UNFAILING\n  INTEREST AND KINDNESS HAVE FOR YEARS\n  BEEN AN INSPIRATION IN THE WRITER'S\n  LIFE-WORK.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nThis book has this virtue among others, that it is a true rescript of\nevents that have happened in the author's personal experience.  It is\nmade up of human documents that deal with matters of surpassing\ninterest.  The book tells in simple and vivid style the story, always\nfascinating and thrilling, of the triumph of the Gospel in the souls of\nmen.  It is a heartening book and a moving.  It will bring courage and\nhope to those who read it, and awaken in their hearts a deeper passion\nto share in God's great mission to men.\n\nThe new west is full of the broken driftwood of humanity, showing the\nmarks of the attrition of time and conflict and defeat--good stuff it\nis, but waste and lost.  This book tells of its salvage to the infinite\njoy of men, and to the glory of God.\n\nThe author has the further distinction of having seen himself a large\npart of the events he describes.\n\nThe book will do good wherever it goes.\n\nCHARLES W. GORDON.\n  (\"Ralph Connor.\")\n\nWINNIPEG, CANADA.\n  _October_ 5_th_, 1914.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nOld Ken's Round-up\n\nCharl\n\nThe Banner Mines\n\nThe \"Hop\"\n\n\"Thy Touch has still its Ancient Power\"\n\n\"If a Man be Overtaken\"\n\nThe Superintendent's Visit\n\nThe Cookee\n\nThe Regeneration of Bill Sanders\n\nThe Snake-room\n\nThe Bush Fire\n\nRuth and the Prodigal\n\nThe Cord of Love\n\nNell's Home-going\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\nFRONTISPIECE.\n\n  A camp kitchen.  Lower half, Lumber Jacks in the\n  Bush.\n\nFACING PAGE 42.\n\n  1. A young miner before his dark and dingy cabin.\n  2. A mine and bunk-house. 3. \"They buried her\n  half a mile from the camp\" (see page 48).\n\nFACING PAGE 43.\n\n  1. Company house in a mountain mining town.  2. He\n  said he was \"The only gentleman in the place\"\n  (see page 34).  3. An open-air meeting in British\n  Columbia mining camp, between shifts.  4. Miners\n  at entrance to a British Columbia mine.\n\nFACING PAGE 90.\n\n  1. A prairie shack.  2. A copper miner's shack.\n  3. A bachelor's shack.  4. A shack on the hillside.\n  5. A mountain-side shack.\n\nFACING PAGE 128.\n\n  1. A western lumber camp.  2. Lumber camp\n  group in Sunday attire.  3. The day's work ended.\n  4. A typical bar-room.\n\nFACING PAGE 156.\n\n  1. Part of a town site after being swept by bush fires.\n  2. A bush fire getting under way.\n\nFACING PAGE 157.\n\n  1. Improvised dwellings; cover districts into which\n  people have fled for safety.  2. The long line of coke\n  ovens (see page 183).  3. The fire rapidly approaching.\n\nFACING PAGE 204.\n\n  1. British Columbia miners off shift.  2. Wrecked\n  through a wash-out.  3. A section of a mountain\n  mining town.\n\nFACING PAGE 205.\n\n  1. An exhausted prospector.  2. A miner's washing\n  day.  3. Ready to start for the hills to inspect a\n  mine.  4. Miners off to their daily toil.\n\n\n\n\n  TRAIL-TALES\n  OF WESTERN CANADA\n\n\n\nOLD KEN'S ROUND-UP\n\nOld Ken was \"down on his luck.\"  For well-nigh fifty years he had \"gone\nthe pace\" in a district where certain men say glibly, \"there's no God\nwest of the Rockies.\" The old prospector had been, according to those\nwho knew him best, in one of three conditions for some years.  He was\neither \"getting drunk, drunk, or sobering up.\"  And yet in spite of his\nweakness and sin, and in spite of the curses he got, there was no more\npopular man in the whole camp than Old Ken, although likely he was not\nconscious of it.  One of the miners had once expressed a conviction\nabout Ken that was dangerously popular.  It was at the time Frank\nStacey's mother died, in the East, and Frank had not \"two bits\" to his\ncredit.  As might have been expected, it was Old Ken who started the\nhat to wire that Frank was leaving on the next train, and to see that\nhe had \"enough of the needful to do the decent thing.\"  \"It's his last\nchance, boys,\" said Ken, as he made the rounds during the noon hour.\n\"I got twenty-two dollars since eleven o'clock, so I guess, with what\nyou fellers is a-going to do, the old camp's on the job, as usual, when\na chap like Frank wants to pay his last respects.\"  There was some\nmystery about those twenty-two dollars until Andy the bar-tender told\nhow Old Ken had \"got it out of the boss\" on the solemn promise that for\ntwo weeks he would \"work like a Texas steer\" without touching a cent\nuntil the debt of thirty dollars, minus eight for board, was\ndischarged.  Then it was that one of the boys expressed himself thus\nabout Ken: \"By gosh, fellers, he's white clear through, that same old\nsoak is, when there's any trouble on.  He's a pile decenter than his\nthirsty old carcase 'll let him be.\"\n\nOn a particular morning some months ago the old prospector stood at the\nlittle station a mile or so away from the camp centre.  The \"mixed\" was\nwinding her way slowly around the curves of the summit of the Rockies.\nFrom the windows of the solitary passenger car a young man looked\nsomewhat anxiously across the valley below.  A few shacks nestled among\nthe poplar brush, and in the distance an unpainted building stood, with\ndistinct outline, towering against the dark background of the mountain\nrange opposite.  The young man knew well enough, from his work among\nthe miners and loggers, that yonder building was as a moral cancer\neating out the best life of the community.  The outlook was not bright,\nbut he was on the King's Business, and he knew that he had in his care\nthe mightiest thing, and the greatest remedy, the world knows of.\n\nAlone he stepped off the train, and being the only arrival he received\nthe entire benefit of Old Ken's curious but not unfriendly gaze.  The\nnew-comer, who was conducting special services at selected mining and\nlumbering camps that were considered especially needy, looked around\nfor a district missionary who was expected to act as his pilot for a\nfew days.  No one but Old Ken and the station agent were in sight, so\nafter friendly greetings to the former the young preacher made known\nthe purpose of his visit.  Old Ken listened courteously.  \"Well,\nstranger, you've hit the right spot alright; we kin stand the gospel in\nbig doses here for sure; most of us is whiskey soaks or bums, and some\nof us is both.  I wish you luck, partner, but I'm feared most of us is\nincurable.  Yes, partner, I'm feared you've come too late, too late.\"\n\nThe Frenchman who was hotel-keeper, professional gambler, lumberman and\nmine-owner, was not enthusiastic about allowing the sky-pilot to board\nin his notorious hotel and gambling den, but eventually accommodation\nwas secured.\n\nThe dance-hall was procured for the services, and Ken volunteered the\ninformation that the preacher wouldn't likely be disturbed, because\nthere were only four women left in the camp, and he added, \"two of 'em\ncan dance like elephants and one's got ingrowing toenails or something\nelse, so there's only one on duty, and that ain't enough variety for a\ngood hop.\"\n\nA few days after the services commenced, Old Ken managed to replenish\nhis treasury by the fortunate desire on the part of two men to get a\nhaircut.  The old man boasted that he knew how to do most things.  \"I'm\nnever idle, preacher,\" he said with a wink; \"when I ain't doing\nsomething I'm a-doing nothin', so I'm always a-doing something you see.\"\n\nNo sooner were the locks shorn than the old man made his way to the\nbar-room.  He was emerging from his favourite haunt when the preacher\nmet him.  \"'Taint no use pretending I'm what I ain't, preacher,\" he\nsaid after a few minutes' conversation.  \"I'm an old fool and I know\nit, but what does it matter?  Who cares?\"\n\n\"It matters a good deal to you, Ken,\" the preacher replied quietly,\n\"and there are some of us who care.  Ken, if you would give God as big\na place in your life as you've given whiskey there wouldn't be room for\nthe things that have made you call yourself an old fool.  I know He\ncould make a mighty good man of you, Ken.\"\n\n\"Thank you kindly, preacher, but you don't know me: I'm the hardest old\nguy in this country; the fellers around here think they can go it some,\nbut let 'em all get as full as they kin hold and I'll take as much as\nany one of 'em and then put twelve glasses more on top of that to keep\nit kind of settled, and then pile the whole gang under the table and\nwalk out like a gentleman.  Yes, sir, I kin do it; and if a feller's as\nbig as a house I'll whittle him down to my size and lick him.  Yer\nintentions are good, partner, but you're about fifty years late on this\njob.\"\n\nThe days allotted to the mission were rapidly passing away, and while\nnot a few had given evidence of seeing \"the vision splendid,\" there\nwere some after whom \"the little preacher,\" as he had come to be\ngenerally spoken of in the camp, greatly longed.\n\nComing down the stairs one day he saw Old Ken standing with his back to\nthe stair rail.  Putting his hand on the old man's shoulder he entered\ninto conversation.\n\n\"Ken, you haven't been to one of the services yet, and I want you to\ncome to-night.\"\n\n\"Lord bless you, preacher, if I went to a religious meeting the roof\n'ud fall in for sure, and I don't want to bust up the dance-hall.\"\n\nBut the little preacher was not in a mood to be \"jollied\" that day.\n\"Ken,\" he continued, \"I'd like you to give God a chance.  Do you know,\nI like the look of you, and----\"\n\nThe old prospector cut the sentence short, straightened up, and gazed\nappreciatively into the speaker's eyes.  \"What's that you said,\npreacher?  What's that you said?  You like the look o' me!  Well,\nsiree, that's the decentest thing that's been said to me in thirty\nyears!  Yes, sir, it is: I'm treated like a yaller dog around here; but\nyou speak decently to a yaller dog, he'll wag his tail.  He likes it,\nyou know.  Say, preacher, when you need me just you whistle and I'm on\nthe job!\"\n\n\"I take your offer, old man,\" said the preacher.  \"I've been here for\nsome time and I've heard a good deal that I didn't want to hear.  Some\nof you fellows have been cursing pretty nearly day and night since I\ncame.  I didn't want to hear it, but I couldn't get away from it.  I've\nheard the boys; it's only fair they should hear me.  Ken, you round\nthem up and bring them to the dance-hall.\"\n\nKen's hand was extended.  \"Here's my hand on it, preacher; I'm yer man.\nIf the boys ain't there you'll see my head in a sling in the morning.\"\n\nAt 7.30 Ken organized himself into an Invitation Committee.  There were\nrumours that he even brushed his coat.  At any rate, at 7.45 he stood\nat the door of the gambling den, and with an air of unusual importance\nhe succeeded in getting silence long enough to tell \"the boys\" that\nthere was \"a religious show on in the dance-hall.\"  \"The procession\nwill form in ten minutes,\" he continued, \"and every ---- man in this\nplace has got to be in it.\"  A few laughed; some cursed at the\ninterruption, and others were so engrossed in their game that they\nappeared not to have heard.\n\nIn a few minutes Ken entered the barroom and started his round-up.\nAfter telling one or two quietly that it was \"up to him\" to get the\nboys to the religious show, he made his proclamation.  \"Come out of\nthis, you ---- fellers, and come up to the ---- dance-hall and give the\n---- little preacher a fair show, or I'll kick the ---- hide off you.\"\nThe writer has no apology to make for blasphemy either in the East or\nWest, but like classical music, to some ears, Old Ken's blasphemous\nlanguage was not so bad as it sounded.\n\nAfter the old man had brought into use all his remarkable reserve of\nWestern mining camp vocabulary, there was only one man besides the\nbar-tender who failed to join the procession.\n\nThe services had become well advertised throughout the entire district\nby this time, so that when Old Ken arrived with his company the little\nhall was fairly well filled.  But the old man was \"going to see this\nthing through,\" and so, despite the protestations that almost upset the\ngravity of the preacher conducting the preliminary song service, the\ngang was coaxed and forced to the front seats.  Ken directed the\nseating operations in a way that suggested his ownership of the entire\nplace.  In a stage whisper he instructed the boys to \"get a squint at\nthe preacher's hair.\"  With pride he continued, \"mighty good cut that,\nI performed the operation this afternoon.\"\n\nAt the close of the service he came to the platform.  \"Say, preacher,\nthat was a great bunch.  There ain't a ---- (excuse me, preacher, I\nforgot you don't swear), but say, there ain't a man of 'em but's done\ntime.  I'll tell you, preacher, we'll run this show together.  I'll\nround 'em up and you hit 'em;\" then with a swing of his big arm he\nadded, \"and hit 'em hard.  See here, preacher, you take a tip from me;\nus old sinners don't want to listen to none of yer stroke-'em-down-easy\npreachers; we wants a feller what 'll tell us we're d---- fools to be\nhoodwinked by hitting the pace, and what'll help us to get up after he\nshows us we're down.\"\n\nA few nights later the preacher had Ken's \"bunch\" particularly in view\nas he delivered his message.  Near the close he asked during one of\nthose times of reverent silence that may be felt but not described:\n\"Are not some of you men tired of going the pace?  You know it doesn't\npay.  Many a time you curse yourselves for being fools, and yet you go\nback to the old ways that blast your life.  Men!  God knows how some of\nyou are tempted, and He is ready to help.  His Son came into the world\nto save sinners.  He stood in the face of the fiercest temptations, and\nwith the command of a conqueror He said, 'Get thee behind Me.'  And,\nMen!  He is ready to stand alongside of every passion-torn man to-day\nand to help him to overcome.  Isn't there some man here to-night who\nwants to do the decent thing, and who will accept His offer of help in\nthe biggest fight any man has?\"\n\nThe words were simple and commonplace enough, but the One who uses\nstumbling lips was present that night.  Unexpectedly one man arose,\npulling himself up by the back of the seat in front of him--a\nsin-marred man, trembling as a result of daily dissipation--and said in\na muffled voice, \"I want to do the decent.\"  A confirmed gambler not\nfar away stood up and merely said, \"Me too, Bob.\"  Another, in a tone\nof despair, cried, \"God and me knows there's nothing in this kind of\nlife!  Oh the d----, d---- whiskey, it's ruined me.\"  Late into the\nnight the preacher walked along the trail with one of these sin-wrecked\nmen; but the transformation of that life and other lives must\nconstitute a separate story.\n\nA few days before the mission closed Old Ken came to the preacher and\nannounced his intended departure from the camp.  \"You see, stranger,\nthe camp's pretty quiet, and I ain't a-making enough money to buy a\ndress for a humming-bird.  I ain't got the wherewithal for a ticket,\nbut if I strike the right kind of conductor I guess I'll make the\ngrade.  You see they can't put a feller off between stations in this\ncountry.  So I'll get one station along anyway, and if they chuck me\noff I'll wait for the next train, and a few chucks and I'll get to\nN---- anyway.\"\n\nThe following morning prospector and preacher walked together down the\nrailway track to the little station.  A farewell word was spoken, and a\nfarewell token slipped into the big hard hand.  Old Ken stood a moment\nor two on the steps of the car.  There was a far-away look in the old\nman's eyes as he gazed in the direction of the distant Cascade range.\n\"Good-bye, preacher.  Yes, maybe, maybe we'll strike the main trail\nthat leads home.  I hope so--God knows--maybe it ain't too late for me\nyet.  I kinder think lately that God wants Old Ken.  Good-bye,\npreacher; God bless you.\"\n\nThree months later \"the little preacher\" received a letter from a\nBritish Columbia miner.  One paragraph may be quoted here: \"Poor Old\nKen was burned to death in a hotel fire in S---- three weeks ago.  He\nwas the kindest old man I ever met, and as long as I live I shall thank\nGod for the night he rounded us up and brought us to your meeting in\nthe dance-hall.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHARL\n\nWhen Charlie Rayson passed out of the dance-hall in the little mountain\nmining town a few nights after Old Ken's round-up, he was on the\nborder-line between despair and hope.  Was there any chance?  For years\nhe had apparently worked with the logging gang only that he might give\nfull rein to the lusts that devoured him; and if he remained in the\nbush the whole winter it was with an impatience for the days to pass so\nthat the spring might bring him to the bar-rooms and dens of vice,\nwhere the awful monotony might be relieved in a spring-long spree.\nNobody had any particular interest in Charlie, and no one knew from\nwhence he came.\n\nAnd yet there seemed to be some slight ray of hope to-night.  He had\nlistened for the first time since boyhood to the pearl of the parables,\nand then Old Ken had asked the preacher to \"sing that there Wandering\nBoy piece.\"  Charlie knew not if his mother still lived, but the words,\n\"Oh! could I see you now, my boy, as fair as in olden times,\" came like\nhis mother's call through the sin-stained past.  For thirteen years he\nhad cut himself entirely off, so far as his whereabouts was concerned,\nfrom that one who had never ceased to love him.\n\nIn a few minutes after the close of the service Charlie and the\npreacher were alone on the mountain trail.  Suddenly Charlie stopped\nand said, \"Good God, preacher, you can't, you don't understand what I'm\nup against.  For nineteen years I've been in the hands of the doctor or\nthe policeman--my passions rip me to pieces--men can't help me; I\nwonder if God can?  I want to believe what you said to-night is true,\nbut I've always wanted to do the thing that damns me, worse than I have\nwanted to do anything else, and yet I never do it without something\nsaying 'don't.'\"\n\nIn the silence of the lonely hills the two men stood, while one asked\nHim who is the Help of the helpless to be the Refuge of the\npassion-pursued man.  Poor Charlie could utter but few words: \"God, oh,\nGod,\" he sobbed, \"I'm like that prodigal, and I'm sick of it all.  Oh,\nGod, can you help me?  I want to see my old mother.\"  With the mention\nof the word mother the man burst into a passion of weeping.  For\nseveral minutes no word was uttered, as the preacher steadied the\ntrembling man.  It was no easy task for Charlie to do what he was\ncounselled to do after he had made the Great Decision.  But that night\nhe read, from the Testament given him, a portion of the third chapter\nof St. John's Gospel, and knelt by his bunk and asked for strength\nsufficient.  To kneel down and pray in certain Western mining camp\nbunk-houses is a man's job, but Charlie had realized that only One was\nable to deliver from the passions that rend, and to that One he\nappealed.\n\nA fortnight later an old woman in a far-away Ontario village received a\nletter bearing a British Columbia postmark.  She was a poor, lonely,\nhalf-crippled individual, but the message of that letter enriched and\ncheered her and quickened her footsteps as nothing had done in years.\nTo everybody she knew, and to a good many people she did not know, she\ntold of her new joy.  In her trembling old hands she held the precious\nletter.  \"Do you know, I've got a letter from my Charl.  I thought he\nwas dead.  I haven't heard from him in thirteen years, but he's in\nBritish Columbia, and he says he's a Christian man now, and he wants to\nsee his mother--and he's going to save up so's he can come home, and\ntill he comes he's going to write every week--and he sent me some\nmoney.  Oh, how good God is to give me back my Charl!\"  The poor old\nsoul seemed raised as if by a miracle from her invalidism.\n\nCharlie toiled on in the logging gang, and when pay-day came the\nhotel-keeper reaped the usual harvest from most of the men, and was\nhoping that Charlie and Bill Davis, two of his best customers, would be\ncoaxed back to their old habits.  Bill had been known as the \"little\ndevil\" of Primeau's gang, and his professed change of heart was a thing\nincredible to the entire community.  But Charlie and Bill had been a\ngood deal together of late, and the latter had told Charlie all he\npurposed to do and be with God's help, and so the two men became\nmutually helpful.\n\nFive months passed, and besides having purchased new clothes, Charlie\nRayson had one hundred and fifty dollars in the savings bank at Brandon\nFalls.\n\nAnd so at last the home journey was to be made.  It would be hard to\nsay who was the more excited, Charlie or his loyal friend Bill Davis.\nFor some time Bill thought he would \"pull out\" when Charlie went, but\nlater he decided to stay on his job a few months longer.  Nothing would\ndo but that Charlie should take \"just a little remembrance\" of $25 from\nBill to the aged mother.\n\nOn Saturday afternoon the final arrangements were made, and Bill did a\nscore of things to make Charlie's get-away easier and pleasanter.\nWhile Bill was purchasing a few little necessities at the company\nstore, Charlie stepped across the threshold of the bar-room for the\nfirst time in months.  He wanted to say good-bye to Andy the\nbar-tender.  A number of Charlie's old pals were sitting or lounging\naround, some of them well on the way to their terrible monthly debauch.\nNumerous hands were extended and not a few glasses offered to Charlie.\n\"Not for me, boys--I've cut it out for good, thanks all the same,\" was\nCharlie's firm response.\n\n\"Oh, come off,\" cried one, \"you ain't a-going back on your old pals\njust 'cause you've got a new suit o' clothes.\"\n\nNumerous sallies followed this, but to each one Charlie gave a similar\nreply, and backed towards the door.  It has always been supposed that\nit was Primeau himself who tripped Charlie, but be that as it may,\nsomehow Charlie stumbled backwards to the bar-room floor; and when Bill\nDavis was returning through the hall some of the men were holding\nCharlie while others were pouring whiskey through his lips, \"just to\ngive him a lesson in sociability.\"  Bill Davis could scarcely believe\nthat the boys had tried to make Charlie drink, but when he realized\nwhat had happened, his indignation prompted the profanity that had\nbecome a life habit.  He checked the words, however, and shouted at the\nscoffing group to leave Charlie alone or somebody would get a headache.\nThere was a laugh from one and a muttered \"mind your own d----\nbusiness\" from another.  And then Bill took a hand in the affair.\n\nThe following day the affray was being generally discussed.  One or two\nmen who were participants in it were careful to keep out of the public\ngaze.  Bill had not selected places where they should fall when he was\ndefending Charlie.  To a little group in the bar-room Andy gave the\ninformation that \"There was something doing alright, when Bill started\nin to look after Charlie.  Say! the feathers was a-flying.  Bill ain't\nsuch a blamed good Christian that he's forgot how to fight.\"\n\nThe taste of whiskey had aroused the old craving in Charlie, and long\nafter the east-bound train had pulled out he was fighting his battle\nwith Bill by his side.\n\nNever had the two men felt more alone, and never had they more needed a\nfriend than now.  All Charlie's confidence in his ability to stand firm\nseemed to be shaken.  \"Bill!\" he said, \"I swallowed some, and it seems\nlike it was running all through me to find some more to keep it\ncompany.  Bill! for God's sake don't leave me.  I feel as if I was\ngoing to lose the game.\"\n\nBill hardly knew what to say or do.  The fight in Charlie's behalf and\nthe disappointment over the delayed journey had left a great\ndepression.  Neither of the men went down to the evening meal.  To pass\nthe bar-room door and to face the men again seemed more than Charlie\ndare undertake.\n\nThe next train for the East passed through at 3 a.m., and after\nthinking over the events of the afternoon, Bill made up his mind that\nthey would flag Number 56, and that he would journey a hundred miles or\nso with his sorely-tempted chum.  In the darkness of midnight, the two\nmen passed quietly out of the building and along the trail to the\nrailway station.  At last they were really on the train, and having\nfound an empty double seat the men made themselves as comfortable as\npossible, and were soon, like their fellow-passengers, getting such\nfitful sleep as one may obtain on the average \"local.\"\n\nIt was the season of the year when \"washouts\" make journeying\ndangerous, and frequently in Western Canada trains are delayed many\nhours, and sometimes days, by the swelling of the mountain streams\nwhich in their onward rush sometimes carry culverts and ballast from\nbeneath ties and track.\n\nThe train had pulled out of Sinclair, and was making her usual time\nthrough the eastern section of the Pass, when passengers were suddenly\nthrown from their seats by a terrific jolt.  Lamp glasses crashed to\nthe aisle, and baggage was dislodged from the racks.  Charlie pulled\nhimself to his feet almost instantaneously, despite the knocks he had\nreceived.  The lamps were flickering and smoking, but fortunately there\nappeared no danger of fire.  The brakeman, hatless and with a bleeding\nface, came rushing through the cars seeking to allay the fears.  \"Stay\nin the cars, please--there's no danger of fire.  You're better here\nthan outside.  Doctors will be here soon.\"\n\nBill had not escaped serious injury.  He found it impossible to rise,\nand as tenderly as he knew how, Charlie pillowed his head and stooped\nbeside him as he lay in the aisle.  \"I'm feared I'm pretty badly\nhurted, pardner,\" groaned Bill.  \"There was something kind o' crushed\ninside.  Guess I'll just lie here for a bit.\"\n\nThe engine had plunged through an undermined piece of track, and\nengineer and fireman were terribly cut and scalded, while the\nbaggage-man had been pinned beneath some heavy trunks that had shot\nforward and downward when the engine crashed into the washout.\n\n\"It's the hospital for you, my man,\" said the doctor kindly, after a\nhurried examination of Bill's injuries.  \"We'll make you as comfortable\nas we can before the 'special' pulls out, but you need a little\nattention that you can't get in the camp even if you were able to stand\nthe journey.\"\n\nCharlie got permission to accompany his pal, and for Bill's sake he\nkept a brave heart, although the events of the past twenty-four hours\nrobbed him of the lightheartedness that had been his in anticipation of\nthe home-going.\n\nTwo days later Charlie decided to continue his journey eastward.  The\ndoctors were still anxious about Bill, but there was nothing Charlie\ncould do, and he knew the old mother was waiting for her boy.\n\nIt was a touching farewell as the sick man's hand was clasped.  A score\nof times Charlie had expressed his sorrow that he had ever let Bill\naccompany him, and yet each time in his own way he thanked Bill for\nstanding by him when he was \"near bowled out.\"\n\nBill tried to say that he was glad Charlie was going home, but his tone\nand look revealed his sense of loss and loneliness at the prospect of\nhis pal's departure, and Charlie's eyes needed a good deal of\nattention, which they received surreptitiously.\n\nMotioning for Charlie to come nearer, the sick man whispered: \"You're a\nbrick, old pard, to stay by me this long.  I guess she's getting\nanxious for yer.  Say, Charlie, when yer away down there I'll be kind\ner lonely; how would it be if yer made a bit of a prayer once in a\nwhile for me?\"  Then with a last pressure on the still clasped hand, he\nadded, \"Good-bye, old pal, God bless yer; maybe we'll hit the trail\ntogether again some day, but say, Charlie!\" (the voice was throbbing\nwith emotion, and the eyes reflected well-nigh a mother's\ntenderness)--\"say, Charlie! we'll stay by it, won't we?  If the whole\nworld goes back on Jesus Christ we two'll stick to him, 'cause we know\nwhat He can do; don't we, Charlie?\"\n\nThus they parted.  Inside of three days the one was clasped in a\nmother's arms and there was great joy in the little village home; and\nalmost at the same hour the other reached his Father's Home, and there,\ntoo, was great joy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BANNER MINES\n\nCharlie Rayson was the man who first suggested the holding of special\nservices at the \"Banner.\"  \"Oh! boys, but it's a hard spot.  I mind\nwhen Old Ken hit the trail to get a job there.  Somebody brought word\nthey was paying six bits an hour for rough carpentering, and next\nmorning Ken took over the mountain with his pack.  He never stopped\neven long enough to get on a spree.  In about a week he was back at the\nold spot.  That night he was in the bar-room telling the boys about his\ntrip.  I mind he told 'em they could judge what it was like when he was\n'the only gentleman in the place.'\"  Those who knew Ken needed no\nfurther report of conditions at the Banner Mines.\n\nWhen the District Superintendent heard that the men were planning to go\nto the \"Banner,\" he wrote to tell them not to be too much discouraged\nif it took a week's hard work to get half a dozen hearers.  \"The spot\nis known to many as the 'hell-hole of the Province,' and the Church\ndoes not begin to figure in importance with the corner grocery, but\nwith two special workers and the amount of earnest prayer that is\neverywhere being offered.  I am hopeful that the heartrending\nindifference may be overcome.\"\n\nAnd so on a certain Monday morning the missioners made their way to the\nJunction, and then took the dirty work-train up the gulch to the camp.\nIn a community where men have for years read anti-church,\nanti-religious literature, and where \"parasite\" is hissed under the\nbreath every time a minister of the Gospel is seen, it could scarcely\nbe expected that anything approaching a welcome would be given the\nnew-comers.\n\nInside of an hour the work of getting acquainted was commenced.  On the\ntrail, along the railway track, at the tipple, at the entrance to the\nmines, in the washroom, wherever men could be met, the missioners\nsought to enter into conversation with the miners.  Some answered\ncivilly, a few were almost cordial, many were surly, and many others\neither absolutely indifferent and silent, or openly antagonistic.  Dave\nClements, a disabled miner, who looked after the wash-room, expressed\nhimself thus: \"Religion ain't no good here; most of the mine-owners is\nsupposed to hev got it, and so the rest of us don't want it.  Look at\nthe houses what they make us live in--my missus has been sick most all\nwinter--jest frozen, that's why!  We pays eighteen dollars a month for\nthe ---- places.  The company owns everything around here: land,\nhouses, stores, train--even the air belongs to 'em, 'cause it's full of\ntheir coal-dust.  We has to pay about three times the proper price for\nthings; but, then, that's what helps 'em to be religious; that's what\ngives 'em the front seats in the synagogue, you bet; we fellers sweat\nto buy church organs and plush cushions, and then the parasite parsons\npat the mine-owners on the pate and give thanks for such generous\nbrethren.  If anybody needs revivalling, stranger, it's that gang of\nhypocrites back yonder what makes us poor devils raise the wind to blow\ntheir glory trumpets.\"  Yet even Dave was compelled to say of Him whom\nthe missioners sought to exalt, \"I find no fault in this man.\"\n\nIn response to an invitation to attend an evening service one miner\nreplied: \"Meeting, eh?  Any booze going?  No?  Any dance after?\nSomething better than that?  Gee! it must be swell!\"  Then the tone was\ncontemptuous: \"No, siree; you couldn't get me into a religious meeting\nwith a couple of C.P.R. engines.\"\n\nYet the daily conversations and invitations were not all in vain, for\nwhen there is a real concern on the part of Christians for\nnon-Christians, that concern is likely to be imparted to those whom\nthey seek to win.\n\nMoses Evans, a Welsh miner, listened somewhat impatiently to the\nmissioner's words, as he stood leaning against a telephone pole.  Then\nwith apparent weariness he answered, \"Look here, young fellow, there\nain't a ---- man in this country can live a Christian life in this\ncamp.  I've tried it; you ain't.  I know; you don't.  I used to be a\nChristian in Wales--leastwise, I think I was--but you can't be here.\"\nThe interview ended, however, with a promise on Moses' part to be\npresent on the following night.  Three nights later he knelt, at the\nclose of the service, behind the old piano, and brokenly asked God to\nmake him \"different again.\"  \"Forgive my sins,\" he continued, \"and help\nme like You did in Wales.\"\n\nNear the end of the week the missioners planned to hold an open-air\nservice a mile and a half down the gulch, at a spot called \"Spanish\nCamp,\" where nearly two hundred miners lived.  It was hoped that by\narranging the meeting between \"shifts\" a number might hear the Gospel\nmessage, who had not previously been reached.  Every tent and shack was\nvisited twice preceding the meeting, and hand-printed signs were posted\nwherever likely to arrest attention.  At the time for the meeting to\ncommence there were five children and eight dogs present.  It was not a\n\"dignified\" course to pursue, and probably merited the disapproval of\nthe \"church fathers,\" but one of the missioners, yearning to get a\nhearing for his message, got possession of a large tin can from a\nnearby rubbish heap, and with the aid of a club succeeded in getting\nconsiderable noise from its emptiness.  The people may have appreciated\nhis advertising ability, or it may be they preferred to hear the Gospel\nrather than the noise that was coming from the tin can; but, at any\nrate, in a few minutes a circle of thirty or forty gathered around the\nspeakers.\n\nA few minutes after the meeting had commenced the limping figure of\nMoses Evans might have been seen on the mountain-side near No. 3 Mine.\nHurrying down the trail he crossed the rustic bridge over the little\nmountain stream, and came to where the crowd had gathered.  Without any\nhesitation he pushed through the circle and stood in the centre.\nReverently removing his miner's cap, he said, \"I'd like to pray.\"  A\nfew faces expressed a sneer, but Moses clasped his hands and uttered\nhis petition, which was written down immediately thereafter.  \"Oh, God,\nyou know as how the devil has been at me all day, saying as I dasn't\nstand out in the public air and confess Thee.  You know, oh, my God!\nthat I want to be a good man again.  You know I can't read nor write in\nEnglish, but You've put words in my mouth; put them into my heart, and\nkeep it clean, for Jesus' sake.  Amen.\"\n\nMoses Evans and other men, who with him made open confession of Jesus\nChrist, were again and again spat upon and cursed, as they passed along\nthe \"entry\" at their daily toil in the mine.  \"But it's a great thing,\"\nwrote the school-teacher, \"that these men can be by tongue damned\nhigher and damned lower than anything else in this world, and yet stand\nfirm.  Increase the number of such men, and you have a leaven of\nrighteousness that will eventually permeate this whole mining\ncommunity.  This is our only hope of rescue from the mire of sensuality\nand vice into which many of our miners have sunk.  Moses says to please\ntell you that the words of the hymn you used to sing are true in his\nown experience:--\n\n  'Through days of toil, when heart doth fail\n    God will take care of you;\n  When dangers fierce your path assail,\n    God will take care of you.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE \"HOP\"\n\nIt was the acceptance of the challenge to attend the \"Hop\" at the\nBonanza Camp that popularized the services at the Banner Mines.\n\n[Illustration: 1. A Young Miner before his dark and dingy cabin.\n  2. A Mine and Bunk-house.\n  3. \"They buried her half a mile from the camp.\"  (see page 48).]\n\nAfter the open-air meeting a number of men lounged around one of the\nshacks discussing the question of religion.  When one of the preachers\napproached the group to invite them to the meeting in the Hall, \"Smut\"\nLudlow at once began to air his grievances against the Church, and to\ninform the preacher that there were \"more ---- rascals in the Church\nthan in any other organization on earth.\"  Then Frank Stacy contributed\nhis bit of condemnation: \"See here, preacher!  The last time I was back\nEast, I thought I'd see what sort of a show they was still running in\nyer House o' God, and so I went in.  Just over the archway inside was a\nfine piece of writing, something about 'the rich and the poor meeting\ntogether, and going snooks.'  I thought it sounded pretty good, so I\nmade myself as comfortable as I could in one of them soft seats.  After\na while some dude started to play the organ, and folks dressed up fit\nto kill strutted into their seats and bobbed their heads down and\npretended to say their prayers.  Then I watched an old guy trying to\nget his overcoat off: I mind how his other coat well-nigh come off with\nit; he sure was scared when he saw his shirt sleeve, and he hustled\nboth his coats on again like he'd been caught stealing.  Just then\nsomebody tapped me on the shoulder, and a coon with a silk tile in his\nhand told me to sit at the back where the seats weren't rented.  I went\nback looking like a fool, but you bet I didn't stop for a back seat: I\ndecided I'd take an outside berth, and it'll be a few hundred years\nbefore this chicken gets caught again.  Rich and poor meet together,\nand go snooks!  It looked like it, didn't it?  See here, preacher,\nain't it about time you fellers stopped talking one thing and serving\nup another?  The whole thing is tommy-rot, that's what I say.\"\n\n[Illustration: 1. Company Houses in a Mountain Mining Town.\n  2. He said he was \"The only gentleman in the place\" (see page 34).\n  3. An Open-air Meeting in British Columbia Mining Camp, between shifts.\n  4. Miners at entrance to a British Columbia Mine.]\n\nHal Rinnell was not antagonistic, but objected to an illustration that\nthe preacher had used.  \"Say, preacher, warn't that there story about\nthe Bishop and the silver candlesticks a bit fishy?  You mind you said\nabout the feller swiping 'em after the Bishop had give him a bed, and\nthen he got away with 'em through the night; and when the p'liceman saw\nhim with 'em next morning, and know'd they belonged to the Bishop, they\njest nabbed him and brought him back.  And you mind you said the Bishop\ntold 'em the man didn't swipe the candlesticks, but got 'em from him as\na present.  Then when the p'lice was gone, the Bishop called the thief\n'brother,' and made him keep his haul and promise to be square from\nthat on.  Now that ain't reasonable: it ain't human nature.  I'd like\nto see the pumpkin-head what would swipe my candlesticks, if I had any,\narter I'd give him a decent bed.  He'd hev his next breakfast in Hades,\nyou bet.  Some o' you preachers ain't reasonable; you kinder get yer\nwires crossed.\"\n\nThe cross-firing ended by a proposition from \"Smut.\"  \"There's going to\nbe a hot old time to-morrow night at the Bonanza, preacher.  I'll make\na deal with you.  You don't like our style; we don't like your hot air.\nYou attend the ball at Bonanza, we'll attend your show, providing you\nstart when we start, and leave when we leave, and get home as soon as\nwe do.  How's that, boys?\"  The \"boys\" trusted Smut's judgment, and\nknew by his wink that the proposition was safe, hence their unanimity\nto make it a \"go.\"  None of them dreamed that the proposal would be\naccepted, but after a moment's conference with his fellow-worker the\npreacher agreed; and in order that there should be no misunderstanding,\nhe repeated Smut's proposition.\n\nThe following evening the six-mile walk to the Bonanza was commenced,\nand the second party to the contract followed the leaders.  The first\nmile of trail was familiar to the preacher, then the way led over\nrarely-travelled paths.  Carefully he took his bearings when that was\npossible, for few landmarks existed.  He observed the whisperings and\nsmiles when the way was wide enough for two or three of the men to walk\ntogether, and surmised that he was the subject of the conversation.\n\nAt last the Bonanza was reached, and already the gaudily-decorated\ndining-room of the boarding-house resounded with laughter and shouting\nfrom well-nigh a hundred guests.  From all corners of the district they\nhad gathered, for where social opportunities are so rare the camp ball\nis a great event.\n\nThe \"band\" consisted of violin, cornet, and horn, accompanied by the\nrhythmic pounding of the performers' feet.\n\nWomen were scarce in the district, and most of the men desired to dance\nwith every woman present, so that the periods of rest were few and\nshort.\n\nLiquor was dispensed freely, and some of the dancers became hilarious\nand others quarrelsome.\n\nOnly once was there anything approaching a fight.  \"Nell\" Webster, a\nnotorious character, who was once well known in the crime colony of an\nAmerican city because of her more than ordinary attractiveness, had\npassed through many degrading experiences, and had eventually taken up\nher abode at the Bonanza.  Excessive use of drugs and liquor had\nwrecked her attractiveness, but a dance was considered incomplete\nwithout her, and when excited by intoxicants she could \"hold the floor\nwith any of them.\"  It was through one miner attempting to monopolize\nNell's dances that the quarrel arose.  Heated words, then curses and\nthreats, created an ugly situation, until a few of the more sober\nmanaged to separate the angered ones.  It was the last night they would\nquarrel over Nell.  Her mad race was ended.  The girl of beauty had let\nsin become her taskmaster, and now for years her cup of pleasure had\ncontained only the dregs.  Step by step the progress had been downward.\nOnce, \"respectable\" men with refined brutality had made her think she\nwas their valued companion, and then, like an orange from which the\nsweetness had been extracted, they had cast her off.  For a time she\ngained notoriety by being the wife of Len Walsh, counterfeiter,\nburglar, confidence-man, and all-round crook.  At that time she was\nknown as \"Len Walsh's woman,\" but when Len lapsed from clever crime to\nsimple drunkenness, she left him and took another name.  And now for\nyears her associates had been drunks and crooks.\n\nOnce during the revelry, as an opportunity presented itself, the\npreacher spoke a few words to her about her terrible mode of living.\nHe thought there was a shadow of remorse as, with a forced smile, she\nreplied, \"I don't give a d---- now; better try it on somebody younger.\"\n\nTwo days later the preacher was asked to return to the Bonanza and\n\"make a last prayer over Nell.\"  They had found her lifeless body the\nmorning following the camp ball.  Her grimy shack was littered with\nbottles and glasses, and there were evidences of a fracas--sin-marred,\nsin-mauled Nell lay on the filthy floor in the dress she had worn at\nthe dance.  They buried her half a mile from the camp, and one of the\nboys crudely carved the word \"Nell\" on a cedar post, and placed it at\nthe head of the solitary grave amid the lonely mountains.  Few sadder\nmoments has the preacher ever spent than the ones occupied in the\nburial of Nell.  Again and again were her last words to him\nrecalled--words that have since become an appeal in behalf of the\nwandering: \"I don't give a d---- now; better try it on somebody\nyounger.\"\n\nBut to return to the dance.  It was long past midnight when the\n\"Banner\" contingent started for home.  There was something of interest\nthat Smut had to confidentially communicate to each man.  Then there\nwas a hurried shout, \"All right, boys,\" and the crowd immediately\ndisappeared in the darkness.  Thus far the preacher had kept his part\nin the agreement, but Smut Ludlow was planning that on the homeward\njourney the rest of the contract must be made impossible.\n\nThe miners struck a furious pace, and the preacher was for a few\nminutes unable to see the winding way, but he stumbled along as rapidly\nas the hindmost of his fellow-travellers.  Very soon he realized that\nmany of the men could not maintain that pace for long, and so,\nrefraining from conversation, he held himself well in reserve, being\ncontent to take his pace from the slowest in the line.  For half an\nhour no change in position took place.  The foremost men were chuckling\nto themselves over \"shaking\" the preacher, and were wondering how far\nback on the trail he was, and whether he would spend the next few hours\nin the woods waiting for daylight.  But their mirth was short-lived.\nThe preacher decided that it was his move next.  He could hear the\npanting of the men immediately ahead of him, and at a favourable\nopportunity he increased the length and speed of his stride, and passed\ntwo of the boys.  At each widening of the trail he performed the same\nfeat, until only Smut remained ahead.\n\nSmut was mightily amazed when he discovered who was his nearest\nfellow-traveller, and an oath escaped him.  With vigorously swinging\narms he made every effort to keep the lead, trying for a while to do a\n\"jog-trot,\" but his feet began to drag heavily, and once or twice he\nstumbled.  No word was exchanged, for Smut was being pressed to the\nutmost expenditure of his strength, and the other contestant had never\nmore longed for victory.  More than once he had received the cheers of\nthe thousands when he was the favourite on McGill's field-day, but\nsomehow he felt to-night larger issues were at stake than the athletic\nglory of a college.  He was still comparatively fresh, for he had been\nonly an onlooker at the dance, and had no alcohol in his system.\nNarrating his final contest to his fellow-worker, he said, \"If ever I\nprayed Samson's prayer with all my heart it was right then: 'Strengthen\nme, I pray Thee, only this once, O God.'\"\n\nAt last the two men were side by side, but only for a few seconds.\nWith the enthusiasm of a victor the preacher quickly lengthened the\ndistance, and managed to spare enough breath to call back, \"Come on,\nboys; it's no use hanging around here all night.\"  At the first winding\nof the trail he broke into a run, and kept it up until he reached the\nbunk-house.  With all possible speed he unlaced his boots, threw off\nhis coat, made himself as comfortable as possible, and when the boys\nfiled in he was sitting alongside of the dining-table with his feet on\na box and a book in his hand, looking as though he had been having a\nquiet night of reading.\n\nPoor Smut!  If ever a man had it rubbed in, it was Smut Ludlow.  Even\nbefore the camp was reached the attack commenced.  \"Smut, you're a ----\nfool, and you've made ---- fools of every ---- man in the camp,\"\nstarted Frank Stacey.\n\nBut with characteristic Western fair-play the preacher's stock went up\nrapidly.  \"That sky pilot ain't no slouch.\"  \"Gee! whiz! you should\nhave seen him give Smut the go-by when he was plunging around like a\nwhale in shallow water, and puffing like the 'dummy' when she's trying\nto make the grade with too big a haul.\"  Many similar expressions went\nthe round the next day, and the preacher was no longer regarded as the\nunder-dog.\n\n\"Say, pilot,\" said Frank at the noon hour, \"where d'you learn that gait\nyou struck last night?\"  With a smile came the quiet reply, \"I was\nbrought up on the farm, and used to drive the calves to the water.\"  As\nFrank walked away he remarked, \"Yer guv'nor must have raised blamed\ngood calves.\"\n\nThe most annoying result of the whole incident, so far as the men were\nconcerned, lay in the fact that they were in honour bound to attend the\nevangelistic meeting.  To some it was so exasperating that they\nsuggested the violation of the contract.  But that was not to be\nthought of in the opinion of the majority.  \"We was licked, and we'll\ntake our medicine, though it's ---- hard to swaller,\" said Hal Rinnell.\n\nFor the meeting that night the hand-printed signs gave the information\nthat a series of lantern slides would be exhibited at the commencement\nof the service.\n\nA few minutes after the opening, and while a popular Gospel hymn was\nbeing sung, about a dozen men availed themselves of the mercifulness of\nthe semi-darkness, and slipped into back seats.  By the time the lights\nwere turned up they had become accustomed to their surroundings, and\nbore with fair grace the suggestive glances that were directed towards\nthem.\n\nThe appeal was based on the words: \"I find no fault in this Man.\"  All\nthe controversial weaknesses of the Church were dismissed, and the\ngreat problems of heart and life were dealt with in a manly,\nsympathetic manner, and men's thoughts were directed to that One whose\nname still occupies its splendid solitary pre-eminence.  Before any\nperson left the building, the speaker was in his accustomed place at\nthe door to speak a personal word and give a handshake.  Frank Stacey\nclasped the proffered hand with genuine cordiality, and in a voice that\nwas heard by all, said, \"You're playing a bully good game, preacher.\nYou hit as good a pace to-night as last night, and if you keep it up\nyou'll lick us to a finish before your innings is out.\"\n\nSmut Ludlow was not in good humour, and as the boys sat around the\nbunk-house stove having their last smoke for the day, he was clearly\ndisgusted and maddened at the changed attitude of the camp toward the\npreacher.  Once he expressed himself after Frank had praised the\npreacher for his \"grit.\"  \"You're a ---- lot of turncoats; things are\nin a ---- of a mess if you fellows can be bamboozled by one of these\n---- parasites.\"\n\n\"Well! we ain't the only ones what were bamboozled, Smut.  He sure put\nit all over you last night, and if you had enough brains to fill a\nthimble you'd keep your fool mouth shut.\"  Never in their long\nacquaintance had Frank opposed Smut to the extent of this deliverance,\nbut there was no question but that the preacher had overcome Frank's\nopposition and aroused his admiration.  \"Anyhow,\" he continued, \"that\nchap's a different brand to most of 'em, and I kinder think he can put\nup the genuine goods.\"\n\nFrank threw his clothes over the line and clambered into his untidy\nbunk, and long after the heavy breathing of wearied men had become\ngeneral he lay with strangely new thoughts.  He agreed with the\npreacher that it wasn't a square deal to \"find no fault in this Man,\"\nand then to deliver Him to be crucified.  And that night the preacher\nhad, by numerous illustrations, compelled the worst of men to pay their\ntribute to Him who was the highest that humanity has known; and yet\nwere they any \"squarer\" to Him than Pilate was?  Had they not much more\nevidence than Pilate had, and yet, in the face of an absolutely\nunanimous verdict of \"not guilty,\" they pronounced what was equal to\nthe death penalty.  Again and again Frank said to himself \"That ain't\nsquare.\"\n\nThere was not a seat to spare in the dance-hall during the subsequent\nnights.  Frank Stacey missed no service, and when, at the mission's\nclose, a meeting was called of those interested in the organization of\na Church and the erection of a building, he was one of the little\ncompany.\n\nWhen six months later they were ready to occupy the new church, Frank\nwas insistent that Mr. ----, \"the man who showed Smut where to get\noff,\" should be the preacher for the day.  \"Impossible,\" said a number;\n\"it would cost over thirty dollars for railway fare alone.\"\n\"Impossible nothing!\" was Frank's response; and twenty-four hours later\nhe handed fifty dollars to the Treasurer for railway fare and pulpit\nsupply, and after two weeks of correspondence the announcement was made\nthat the desired speaker was coming.\n\nNo one enjoyed the day of the opening more than Frank.  The building of\nthe church had absorbed all his interest, and now the effort was\ncrowned with success.  For several nights a dozen Welsh and English\nminers had practised the hymns \"to give the thing a good send-off.\"\nThey sat in the corner near the reading-desk, and led the music with\nincreasing confidence as the day's services progressed.\n\n\"I guess the devil over-reached himself when he tried to make a fool of\nthe preacher the night of the dance,\" said Frank, as a group stood\noutside at the close of the afternoon's Communion service.  \"'Tain't\noften he gets as hard hit in the neck by his friends as he was that\nnight.\"\n\nThe Church at the \"Banner\" has had its ups and downs during the past\nthree years.  One of the mines has closed, and many shacks are now\nunoccupied.  Frank Stacey has gone over to Vancouver Island, and some\nof the \"charter members\" have ceased their earthly labours; but each\nSabbath-day a few faithful ones, \"the salt of the earth,\" gather for\nworship in the Church that Smut Ludlow unwittingly caused to be built.\n\n\n\n\n\"THY TOUCH HAS STILL ITS ANCIENT POWER\"\n\nJack Roande was on one of his periodical sprees.  For eight years he\nhad been going the pace.  They had been long, weary years to the one\nwhom Jack had vowed to love and cherish.  Night after night, through\nthese long years, she had listened for the awful home-coming.  There\nwere few in the little mining town but had often seen her eyes reddened\nby weeping, and all knew of the Eastern home she had left.  Among those\nwho had joined in the \"send-off,\" nearly fifteen years ago, were two\nmen whose names are still honoured household words throughout the\nDominion.  There was no note of sadness that day, for Jack was a \"model\nyoung man,\" and every one agreed that there was \"no finer girl than\nNell.\"\n\nJack blamed his downfall to dabbling in politics.  \"Politics are rotten\nin this province,\" said he, as he endeavoured to excuse his condition;\nbut perhaps, as a chum of Jack's said, he only blamed politics \"'cause\na fellow generally tries to find a soft place to fall.\"  Whatever the\ncause, at least the fact was plain to all in the town that Jack was\n\"down and out.\"\n\nThe business men said so, and agreed with the authorities that Jack was\na nuisance to the town.  Some of those who had assisted in his downfall\nspoke of him as a \"dirty loafer,\" and even the bar-rooms, where he had\n\"spent all,\" tolerated his presence only when the cruel pity of some\npatron called him in for a treat, or when he could exhibit some coin.\n\nIt was through the \"tender mercies of the wicked\" to Jack that there\nwere three empty stockings in the Roande home on the recent Christmas\nEve.  \"For the children's sake,\" there had been a tearful plea that the\nhusband would be home Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  With glad\nexpectancy the meagre resources of the pantry were combined by loving\nhands to give the nearest possible approach to a feast.  From the\nnear-by woods the children had brought cedar and pine for decorative\npurposes, and these, with stray bits of brightly-coloured tissue paper,\nhad done much to give the home a Christmas appearance.  The usual notes\nhad been written to Santa Claus, and the mother-heart had lovingly\nsuggested a curtailment of such requests as Santa might find it\ndifficult to grant.  The little ones had thrown their letters into the\nfire, and watched some of the gauzy ashes carried up the chimney to the\nmysterious but generous friend of the children, who would soon be\nloading his sleigh somewhere in the far north.\n\nJack appeared to respond to his wife's pleadings, and so on account of\nher many home duties she confided to him some of the requests the\nchildren had made, and how the much-coveted toys were parcelled and\nwaiting to be called for at one of the down-town stores.  No word was\nspoken of the sacrifice the purchases had involved, nor of the sting\nlove had endured when for the children's sake she began to take in\nsewing.  It was therefore agreed that Jack should bring the parcel home\nshortly before tea on Christmas Eve, and in the darkness it could be\nhidden away until the little ones were asleep.\n\nJack was true to his word, and started for home with the precious toys\nunder his arm, in ample time for the evening meal.\n\n\"Merry Christmas, Jack,\" called a voice as Jack was rounding the saloon\ncorner; \"come on in and have one.\"\n\n\"Guess I'd better get home,\" was the hesitating reply.  It needed\nlittle persuasion, however, to get Jack inside, and after a second\ntreat he lost all anxiety to reach home, and was ready for a night's\ndebauch.\n\nDuring the tea-hour the bar patrons became fewer, and Jack's chances\nfor further drinks were far apart.  In response to a request to \"chalk\nup a couple of whiskeys,\" he received an emphatic \"not on your life\"\nfrom the bar-tender.\n\nThere was a momentary conflict within Jack, and then the beast became\nlord over the man.  Going to the corner he brought his parcel from the\nbench and placed it on the bar.  \"How much can I draw on for that?\"\nThere was a wild determination in the voice.  Unwrapping the parcel\nbeneath the bar, the bar-tender at once knew what the contents meant.\n\n\"I don't want 'em, Jack: you better get home to your kids.\"  But Jack\nwas insistent, and gradually the other weakened.  \"Well, it's your\nproperty, and if you're going to sell 'em I guess I may as well buy 'em\nas anybody else.  I'll chalk you fifty cents.\"  The articles were worth\nthree times the amount offered, but Jack was being consumed with that\nhellish thirst that he had developed through many years, and he at once\nstarted to use up his credit.\n\nA mile away an anxious wife awaited Jack's return.  Cheerfully she had\ngone about her work until the hour for the evening meal, but with the\npassing moments the husband's absence caused her fears to increase.\n\nWith forced smiles she did her best to bring into the home the gladness\nthat belongs to Christmas Eve, but the heart was heavy, and the little\nones saw now and again the tears that could not be suppressed.\n\nBedtime was prolonged to two hours beyond the customary time, but still\nthere was no sign of the father.  Once the mother expressed the fears\nthat were in her heart when she suggested that sometimes Santa Claus\ndid not get to homes when the father was away, at which suggestion\nthere were tearful little eyes and oft-expressed wishes that \"daddy\"\nwould come home.  Bravely the mother gathered the three children around\nher chair for their good-night sing.  Favourite hymns of the Sabbath\nSchool were sung, and all the time four pairs of ears were alert for\nthe sound of Jack's return.\n\nIt was while Grace's favourite hymn, \"I am so glad that our Father in\nHeaven,\" was being sung, that footsteps were heard at the door.\nInstantly the little ones ceased their singing, as Grace joyously\nshouted, \"It's daddy; Santa Claus will come now, won't he, mother?\"\n\nFor a minute or two before Grace's glad shout two men had stood an the\ndarkness outside the Roande home.  After he had been turned out of the\n\"Kelby House,\" Jack had staggered and stumbled around the streets for\nsome time, and at last lay prostrate in the snow not far from the home\nof one who had often befriended him.  A woman hurrying along the street\nsuddenly saw the dark form on the snow, and with a cry of fear ran to\nthe near-by house.  The minister who resided there, at once recognizing\npoor Jack, dragged him into the house, and after securing a neighbour's\nsleigh and a driver, started for Jack's home.\n\nFrom the sleigh to the house he managed to conduct Jack safely, but\nwhen the strains of \"I am so glad\" from childish voices reached his\nears, he stood still for a moment.  How could he take such a father\nhome at such a time!  Yet it was impossible for him to remain long\noutside with Jack as he was, and so he guided the poor drunken father\nonward.  Jack stumbled and fell heavily against the door just as\nGrace's glad shout silenced the hymn-singing.  The minister was dragged\nalmost to the floor as the door sprang open and Jack lurched into the\nroom.\n\nFew words were spoken, for all hearts were sad as the stupefied man\nalmost immediately fell asleep on the floor of the sitting-room, and\nfilled the air with the drunkard's stench.  The little ones were\ntenderly told to go to their beds.\n\n\"Had he a parcel when you found him?\" whispered the mother as soon as\nshe could control her voice.  Then followed the narration of her plans\nto fill the three stockings that had already been hung up at the back\nof the stove.  And now it was too late to find out what had happened to\nthe parcel.  The minister looked into the mother's face, and then at\nthe three empty stockings with their mute appeal for a visit from Santa\nClaus.\n\n\"I could bear this, hard as it is,\" she continued, glancing at the\ndrunken sleeper, \"but the poor children----.\"  The head dropped on her\narms which were resting on the table, and quietly she wept over the\nbitter disappointment the little ones must bear on Christmas morning.\n\n\"Mrs. Roande\"--a hand touched her shoulder lightly--\"if you are not too\nwearied to wait up I'll do my best to locate the parcel.\"  The look\nfrom the grateful mother was all that was needed to send the minister\nforth on his errand of love.\n\nThe store from which the toys were secured was closed, but the\nproprietor had not yet retired, and was able to reassure the midnight\nvisitor that Jack had procured the parcel shortly before supper-time.\nIt was not long before the clue led the minister to the home of the\nbar-tender.  Wearied, but with mingled sorrow and anger, he rang the\ndoor bell.  The man he was looking for came downstairs partly disrobed,\nand was manifestly surprised at a pastoral call, especially at such an\nhour.  The minister stepped unasked into the hall.  \"Mr. Klint, I\napologize for disturbing you, but Mr. Roande left a parcel somewhere\nthat I must find to-night, and I understand he was in your bar-room.\nDo you know anything about it?\"\n\nThe answer not being satisfactory, a further question was put.\n\n\"No, sir, he left nothing; we had a square deal, but that's nobody's\nbusiness but mine and his.\"\n\n\"May I then ask if a parcel containing toys had any place in that\ndeal?\"  No answer being given, the minister said with quiet firmness,\n\"I must have an answer to that question before I leave this house.  Mr.\nKlint, this is Christmas Eve!  There are three empty stockings hanging\nin the room where Jack Roande lies drunk, and the things intended for\nthose stockings must be there before morning.\"\n\n\"I'm not obliged to tell you or anybody else anything about my\nbusiness,\" answered Klint surlily; \"but if you are so anxious to know,\nthen I can tell you that I bought that parcel to oblige Jack, and it\nwas his deal, not yours.\"\n\n\"This is not the time for much talking.  Be good enough to tell me\nwhere the parcel is now, and what you paid for it.\"  Again there was\nhesitancy, and again there was pressure.  At last the information was\nelicited that the toys were beneath the roof that sheltered them, and\nthat the price paid was fifty cents.\n\n\"Be good enough for the children's sake, if not for your own, to take\nback your fifty cents and let me take the parcel.\"\n\nEventually the deal was consummated.  When the toys were safely in his\npossession the minister said, \"Mr. Klint, if you were dealt with as you\ndeserve, you would spend Christmas day, not in your own comfortable\nhome, but in the hospital or in jail: I only hope you are not as\ncontemptible as your deed.  I shall see you again, some other day.\"\n\nThe hand-clasp from the thankful mother was ample repayment for the\nmidnight search, and in the early morning the exclamations of delight\nfrom her little ones in turn lifted something of the burden from her\ntrouble-worn life.\n\nThus had it been, sorrow after sorrow, for poor Nell Roande for over\neight years, and at times she felt there was little hope of any change,\nbut the new day was soon to come, and the night of weeping was to be\nturned into the morn of song.\n\nOn the Tuesday night following the commencement of special services, as\na little group of young men were leaving the Pool-room adjoining the\nOpera House, Jack Roande came stumbling along.  It was a great joke, so\nBill Thornton thought, to \"jolly\" Jack into believing that there was a\n\"free show in the Opera House, with pretty girls and swell dancing.\"\nWithin a few minutes Jack was sitting with eyes as wide open as he\ncould get them, ready to take in the \"swell dancing.\"  He quickly\nrealized that he had been fooled, and catching the word \"religion\" he\nshook his fist as he departed saying, \"Religion! it's all d----d rot.\nThere's nothing in it.\"  The missioner was down the aisle in a few\nseconds, and as Jack was passing through the swinging doors a kindly\nhand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice, made tender by\nacquaintance with the Friend of sinners, said \"Good-night, friend; you\nhave the marks of a gentleman although you have made a slip to-night.\nI hope you will come again.\"\n\nReturning to the platform he continued his message, but it was easy to\nsee that the speaker's heart was out in the night whereever Jack was.\nWas it that yearning that brought Jack back again in less than half an\nhour?  Be that as it may, the man who had left with a curse, staggered\nin again before the closing hymn, and made not the slightest\ndisturbance after he reached a seat.  At the close he conversed in as\nintelligent a way as his intoxication permitted.  The conversation need\nnot be recorded.  It was one of several.  Five nights later, twenty\nminutes after the clock had made its lengthiest strike, a subdued knock\nwas heard at the door of the home in which the missioner was being\nentertained.  The burner of midnight oil hurried downstairs.  Jack\nstood in the doorway.  \"Mr. Williams, I've got to settle it, and I've\ngot to do it now.\"  Two souls tarried in the upper room, and while they\ntarried He came.  At last the broken cry ascended, \"My Father, I want\nto get back to Thee.  Help me to walk in the paths of righteousness,\nfor Jesus' sake.  Amen.\"\n\nIt was a great night for the fisher of men.  Like the wearied disciples\nof old, he said \"It is the Lord.\"\n\nThe following night, Jack Jr., Mamie and Grace accompanied their father\nto the service, and happily united their voices in the service of\npraise.\n\nGrace--they called her \"Gay,\" for that was the best pronunciation wee\nJean, now departed, could once give--told several of her schoolmates\nconfidentially in her mother's words, that she had a \"new daddy.\"  And\nthe subsequent days have proven the truth of her assertion.\n\nThe closing night arrived.  The Opera House was crowded, and from the\nopening words, \"Our Father,\" until the \"And now I commend you to God,\"\nevery one present seemed to feel that this was no ordinary religious\ngathering.  An opportunity was given for a word from new converts.\nTenderly, prayerfully, these were urged to in some way publicly confess\ntheir new-found Lord.  There was a hush as Jack stood erect.  In a low,\nclear voice he addressed himself particularly to the half-hundred young\nmen at the back.  \"I do not need to tell you what I was.  Two weeks ago\nit would have been inconceivable to you and to me that the change I\nhave experienced could take place.  There is only One who could do it,\nand He has done it.  I cannot say more now, but if you want to know all\nabout it, come to me at the close of this service, or come to my home.\"\n\nThe eyes of the wife at his side were red again, but the tears were\ntears of joy.  \"It is very wonderful: we are all so happy.  Oh, how\nglad I am that these services have been held,\" were her farewell words.\n\nJack's hand was the last one the missioner clasped.  \"Jack, you will be\nGod's man.  I go, but He remains.  This change is all His doing, and He\nwill hold you fast if you only trust Him.  Many a day I'll pray for\nyou, Jack.  Remember that your feelings may change, but your purposes\nmust endure.  Good-bye.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Mr. Williams; God helping me I won't fail.  It'll be no easy\nbusiness, but I'm not in the fight alone; God's in it too.  Good-bye.\"\n\nAnd the years that have passed since these words were spoken have shown\nclearly enough that Jack is not fighting alone.  Once again prayerful\nhearts are returning thanks for the touch that \"has still its ancient\npower.\"\n\n\n\n\n\"IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN\"\n\nGeorge fell--all the people knew that was what would happen.  When he\ntold in the church that he was going, with God's help, to be a\nChristian and \"act the square,\" there was only one at the close of the\nmeeting to say an encouraging word to him; the rest left him alone.  On\nthe whole, they did not believe in \"results\" from Special Services,\nand, despite the Pastor's frequent appeals for their unprejudiced and\nwhole-hearted support, none were enthusiastic over the effort being put\nforth, and many were antagonistic.  In the opinion of the majority the\nregular, \"well-ordered\" Sabbath services gave ample opportunity for\nthose who wanted to lead different lives, and so far as reaching the\noutsiders was concerned, the endeavour to invite personally the\nnon-churchgoers was quite unnecessary--all such knew they were welcome,\nbecause the fact had been on the announcement board outside the church\nfor over ten years.\n\nThe missioner was told on all sides what a notoriously untrustworthy\nman George was: \"You see, we know his past, and you have been here only\ntwo weeks, or you'd know better than to put any faith in what he did\nand said last night.  It was just a passing emotion, and it won't mean\nanything.\"  So George fulfilled their expectations when he returned\nfrom the city uproariously drunk one night three weeks after the\nmission closed.\n\nThe morning following the outbreak the minister's wife made a special\ntrip down street.  The door of the carpenter's shop was fortunately\nopen, and George was leaning against his bench looking, as he felt, far\nfrom happy.  Pleasantly the little woman greeted him, and passed on.\nThen, with an exquisite piece of deception, she appeared to have a\nsudden after-thought, and turning quickly, she said, \"Oh, George, the\ndoors in the pantry cupboard are so swollen that I cannot close them.\nCould you fix them for me?\"\n\nThe carpenter looked wearily at her.  \"I ain't feeling much like fixing\nanything, Mrs. Lamb, but I'd try to do most anything for you.\"\n\n\"Thank you, George,\" was the reply, \"I believe you would; come as soon\nas you can.\"\n\nGeorge had said what was true; he believed in Mrs. Lamb, and what was\nstill better, he felt that she believed in him.  When, on the night of\nhis confession, she took his hand and said, \"I'm so glad, George,\" he\nvalued her word and tone, and look and hand-clasp, as only the\nfriendless man can.\n\nBut George was thoroughly disheartened to-day.  Everybody knew what he\nhad said in the meeting, and by now they would know that he had failed.\nYet no one would blame him more than he blamed himself.  He called\nhimself a fool for going to the city.  The business could have been\ndone equally well by correspondence.  From the time he decided to go he\nfeared that he would return home intoxicated.  He was quite aware of a\nterrible craving, that he knew only too well made it dangerous for him\nto frequent the old haunts so soon, but in spite of inner warnings he\nmade up his mind to go, so that the battle was lost before the\ntemptation was actually met.\n\nTwice that afternoon George took up a few tools to go to the Manse in\nresponse to Mrs. Lamb's request, and twice he put them down again.  The\nprison cell would have been entered with less fear than the Manse that\nday.  He felt he had betrayed one of the best friends he ever had.  And\nso night came, and the pantry doors were untouched.\n\nFamily prayers were about to be conducted at the Manse.  Baby Jean was\non mother's knee, and Harold's chair was close to father's.  Just\nbefore kneeling the good wife said quietly: \"Please remember George,\npapa.\"  There were tears in her eyes when the petition was offered \"for\nthose who have failed,\" and a whispered \"Amen\" followed each clause\nthat was uttered in behalf of George.\n\nThe following morning George made his way to the Manse and attended to\nthe pantry doors.  When the work was finished, Mrs. Lamb led the way\nthrough the dining-room to the front door.  Her hand rested on the\ndoor-knob, and she seemed in no hurry to let George out.  It was\nevident she wanted to say something, but the words did not easily come.\n\nAt last George broke the silence, and his voice quivered with penitence\nas he looked for a moment into Mrs. Lamb's sympathetic eyes.  \"I\nsuppose you've heard all about it, Mrs. Lamb, and the mess I've made of\nthings?\"\n\n\"Yes, George, I know, and I'm so sorry; but you are going to win yet:\nGod's going to help you win.  Perhaps, George, you trusted too much in\nyour own strength, and you forget how weak we all are when we stand\nalone.  You know the hymn that says--'Christ will hold me fast'?  You\ncannot get along without Him, George.  Tell Him all about it, when you\nand He are alone, and ask forgiveness, and, George, I know God can and\nwill make you a good, strong, true man; He loves you, and we love you.\"\n\n\"You are going to win yet,\" and \"He loves you, and we love you,\" were\nsentences that gave the man, overtaken in a fault, new hope.  Deep\nyearnings were in his heart as he walked back to the shop.  He believed\nhis better moments were his truest moments, and yet it seemed to him\nthat no one except Mrs. Lamb credited him with noble aspirations.  He\nknew very well that there were Christian people who were suspicious and\nunsympathetic toward him, and so his better nature seemed to retire in\ntheir presence.\n\nLater on he told how he used to feel like saying, \"Why won't you\nbelieve in me, and stand by me, and give me a fighting chance?\"  Often\nhe felt like a man who had been injured, and who needed support until\nhe could reach a place of safety; and yet few did more than look with\ndisgust on him, and think it unlikely that he could make the journey\nwithout falling.  But, despite his weakness and his sin, George\nbelieved there were possibilities of noble living even for him.\n\nThe following Sabbath he was back in his place in church, a humble,\npenitent man.  The sermon that day was different from the ones the\npeople were used to hearing; not that it was better, for all Mr. Lamb's\nsermons were of a high order, but it had an element that was unusual,\nan element of great tenderness.  The text was: \"Go, tell His disciples\nand Peter.\"  Peter's past, traitorous conduct was graphically pointed\nout, but so also was his weeping.  \"We cannot think too harshly of our\nsins,\" said the preacher, \"but we may think too exclusively of them.\nPeter thought of his sins, but he also thought of His Saviour, and when\nhe saw his Risen Lord, the erring but penitent disciple said: 'Thou\nknowest that I love Thee,' and the Master forgave all and sent him out\nto service.\"\n\nThe God whom the Minister was accustomed to preach about was a\nsplendid, strong, but rather pitiless Being; now they heard of a\nloving, pitiful Father who was ever seeking those who had turned from\nHim, and who was more than ready to receive them as they turned again\nhome.  All He wanted was to hear from their own lips, \"Father, I have\nsinned.\"  That confession opened Heaven's wardrobe for the man made\ndisreputable by wandering.\n\nAt the close of the evening service George accepted Mrs. Lamb's\ninvitation to \"slip in and have a cup of cocoa.\"  \"Just the three of\nus,\" she added.  \"You know the way; walk right in.\"  Hurriedly she\npassed on to give kindly greetings to a few strangers she had noticed.\n\nFor nearly two hours George and the Minister sat in the glow of the\nfirelight.  It was a great relief to the disheartened man to be with\nthose who knew all, and who yet loved him, and who, by their faith in\nhim, gave him a little more faith in himself and in God.\n\nReferring to his drinking habit, he said, \"Sometimes I feel I'd rather\ndrop dead in my tracks than touch it again; and then there are other\ndays when it seems as if some slumbering devil had awakened within me,\nand I'm so crazy for it that I'd give the whole of Canada, if I had it,\nfor another drink.\"  Then, after a pause, he continued, \"I suppose a\nman shouldn't try to blame his sin on others, but one of the earliest\nthings I can remember, Mr. Lamb, is being held in my mother's arms and\nputting my hands around the beer jug while she gave me a drink.  Many a\nnight, when I was 'knee-high to a grasshopper' as we say, I have clung\nto her skirt, as she dragged me from bar to bar, around High Street and\nGeorge Street in old Glasgow.  I guess my father and mother were drunk\nevery Saturday night for five years.  One night I can remember as clear\nas if it was only yesterday.  It was the time of the Glasgow Fair, and\nI was wishing they'd go home.  I must have been about six years old,\nand my sister Janet was two years younger, and then there was a baby\nthey called Bobbie.  Mother had Bobbie fastened around her with an old\nshawl.  She and father had been on a spree all the evening.  Father was\nleaning against a lamp-post, just drunk enough to say the fool things\nthat amuse some of them folks who don't think anything about the big\nprice somebody is paying for that kind of fun.  Maybe you think it's\nqueer of me to talk that way, when God knows I've been guilty enough\nmyself.  Well! let me finish my story, anyway.  My mother was dead\ndrunk, sitting on the curbstone near him, and maybe Bobbie was\nstupefied with liquor like I had been many a time.  Once in a while\nshe'd rouse up, and press her hands against her maddened head and\nshriek all kinds of curses.  Police! why, Mr. Lamb, the Glasgow police\ncouldn't have handled the crowds that was drunk them days.  I've seen\nhundreds of drunken men and women in one night around Rotten Row and\nShuffle Lane, and other streets near the corner of George and High\nStreets: so long as they didn't get too awful bad the police let them\nalone.  Mother was a very devil when she got fighting.  I've heard\nfather brag about what she could do in that line.  When she used to\nroll up her sleeves for a fight, she was like a maddened beast.  I tell\nyou, there isn't much in the fighting line I haven't seen; but it makes\nme kind of shudder yet when I think of how she'd punch, and kick, and\nscratch, and all the time she'd be using language that would make a\ndecent man's blood run cold.  You were saying something about 'sacred\nmemories around the word \"mother\"' in one of your sermons, but that was\nthe kind of mother I had, Mr. Lamb.\n\n\"It must have been near Sunday morning when somebody helped to get us\nhome.  Janet and me had been sleeping in the gutter, and I can remember\nthe time they had getting father and mother up the stairs in the\n'Close.'  Somebody slipped near the top, and there was a heap of us\njammed against the wall at the turning of the stairs.  But we children\nwere used to bruises, and we learned to keep quiet, or we'd only get\nmore for our trouble.  I likely cried myself to sleep on the rotten old\nfloor, and I suppose I'd never have remembered any more about it if it\nhadn't been for Bobbie.  In the morning the poor wee chap was dead.  He\nmust have died through neglect; pretty close to murder I call it.  Did\nthe death make any difference to the parents?  Not likely!  At least I\nnever remember them any different.  I was ten years old when my mother\ndied, and she died through stumbling in a drunken fight; her head\nstruck the curb-stone, and she never spoke again.  After her death I\nwas taken care of in one of the Orphanages until I was sent to Canada,\nBut what I often wonder about, Mr. Lamb, is whether God will be hard on\nthose of us who've had parents like that, and who've been brought up\nwhere we didn't get a fair chance.  God only knows what we kids had to\nsee and hear and suffer.  People don't make any allowance for bad\nblood, and bad food, and bad treatment, except in cattle.  I wonder if\nGod does?  Yes, I know I'm having a chance now, and yet God must pity\neven me when He knows how I've been handicapped for these years; but\nsome of those boys live and die right there, and they don't get even\nthe chance I've had.  It's easy for folks who know nothing about it to\nsay the people should get out of such places; but some of them are like\nheathen, they don't know there's anything better.  What did I know\nabout a different kind of life?  Where could I have gone?  Who would\nhave wanted me?  How could a street youngster get out of the place,\nwhere a good many of his meals were picked off the streets and out of\nthe ash-barrels, and he never had two coppers ahead?  And there were\nthousands like I was.  I think about these things once in a while, when\nI'm alone in the shop, and I've sometimes thought it was well-nigh a\ncrime to allow children to be born in such hell-like places.  And there\nare some people have no right to be fathers and mothers at all.\"\n\nIt was only rarely that George unburdened his mind to such an extent;\nbut Mr. Lamb gave him \"right-of-way\" that night, and many perplexities\nwere expressed with a candour that gave the Minister a larger sympathy\nwith the handicapped man, and a resolve to deal more tenderly with men\nof George's type who had such terrific battles to keep the body under.\n\nAt the close of the conversation the evening prayer especially\ncommended George to the Father's care, and while the encouraged man was\nwalking back to his dwelling-place with thankful heart, Mr. and Mrs.\nLamb were kneeling together, and in earnest petition were placing their\nhome and all they might ever possess at the service of the One in whose\nhands things commonplace may be mighty with blessing.\n\nThe missioner has been permitted to visit again the Manse where George\ndid a bit of carpentering.  It was a great pleasure to find that George\nwas one of those invited to the evening meal.  During the after-supper\nconversation he spoke confidentially to the visitor of the mistress of\nthe Manse.  \"She's the greatest little woman in this country.  God\nknows I'd have still been on the down-grade but for her; she never let\nme go.  She told me one night how she'd told God that she couldn't go\nto heaven and leave me outside, and thank God He's taking her at her\nword.\"\n\nThe midnight chat which ministers are accustomed to have on such\noccasions revealed the story of George's many and sore temptations and\nhard battles, and of how the unfailing faith and patience of one in the\nManse had heartened the discouraged man, had led him into active\nservice, and had brought a new sense of responsibility and possibility\nto many of the church members who were beginning to practise Paul's\ninjunction: \"If a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual\nrestore such an one in the spirit of meekness, considering thyself,\nlest thou also be tempted.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT\n\n\n    \"Hope to visit your field Wednesday, February nineteenth--arrive\n    M---- Station midnight, eighteenth.  Andrew Ransom.\"\n\n\nThe Western minister had been \"house-cleaning\" his study, and in\nseparating the valued from the useless he ran across the above\ntelegram, which had been buried away for several years.  He handled it\nalmost reverently and then put it away in his Home Mission folder for\nfuture reference.  The story connected with it was told one night as\nthe missioner sat after the evening's service in the quiet of the\nprairie manse, exchanging reminiscences of one of the greatest and best\nloved men that ever crossed the prairie provinces--Andrew Ransom, the\ngreat Home Missionary Superintendent.\n\nWithin fifteen minutes from the time the student missionary received\nthe above message, the people in McLean's general store, in Stevenson's\nboarding-house, and in Mallagh's blacksmith's shop had heard the good\nnews, and all knew that Wednesday the nineteenth would be a great day\nfor those whose homes the old Doctor could visit, and for the people\nwho could get into the little church at night.\n\n[Illustration:\n  1. A Prairie Shack.  2. A Copper Miner's Shack.\n  3. A Bachelor's Shack.\n  4. A Shack on the Hillside.  5. A Mountain-side Shack.]\n\nThose who had met and heard Dr. Ransom before, vied with each other in\nrecalling events connected with his former visits.  They remembered his\nappeal for their \"fair share\" of money to help build the little church.\nEverybody said the amount could not be raised until Dr. Ransom came,\nbut after he had painted his word-picture of their glorious\nheritage--after he had pleaded that that heritage should never become\n\"the wild and woolly West\"--after he had shown the Gospel as the\n\"antiseptic influence\" in the life of the great Westland--after he told\nthem what they got their land for and what it was worth that day, and\nafter that strong voice, with its downright sincerity, had been lifted\nin prayer, everybody in the dining-room of the boarding-house knew the\namount was raised.\n\nAnd then that hand-clasp, and that identification of himself with the\npoorest settler's problems, and sorrows--who could forget these things?\n\n\"D'ye mind,\" said Dick McNabb, \"the time he was here just after Alex.\nMcLaren's son was killed on the railway?  Well, sir, I'll never forget\nseeing them two old men standing with hands clasped.  The Doctor looked\nas if it might 'a been his own boy what was killed.  \"McLaren,\" he\nsaid, \"I'm sorry for you.  I once lost a boy, and I know what it\nmeans;\" then he whispered something, and Alex. wiped away the tears as\nhe still clung to the old Doctor's hand, and I guess they stood that\nway for two or three minutes.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, you bet Grant Sinclair won't miss Wednesday night,\" put in\nDan McLean from behind the counter.  \"D'ye mind when Dr. Ransom was\nhere, Grant couldn't walk at all!  Say! will I ever forget that day in\nthe Fall when he fell off the fence on to the scythe he was carrying?\nThe gash was a foot long, and there was no doctor within thirty miles,\nand the road wasn't as good as it is now, and it ain't anything to\nwrite home about even yet.  Bill Grayson was the only one who had the\ngrit to sew the gash up, and it was fourteen hours before the doctor\ngot here.  Nobody thought Grant would get over it; he lost so much\nblood.  He'd been on his back about two months, I mind, when Dr. Ransom\ncame.  It was one of them dirty days when it don't know whether to snow\nor rain, but the old Doctor had heard about Grant and was bound to get\nout there.  The folks said he did him more good than the regular doctor\ndid.  Jim Sinclair and the boys had rigged up a pair of crutches so's\nto get Grant a-moving around, but they didn't make a very swell job of\nit.  Well, sir, about three weeks later the slickest pair of crutches\nyou ever set eyes on come out here with some express of mine.  They was\naddressed to Grant and marked 'Rush.'  Mind you, they come from\nToronto, and they fitted Grant as if he'd been measured for them.\nJimmy said after they got the crutches he remembered the old Doctor\nkind o' spanning the quilt along Grant's side while he was talking, but\nhe never paid no particular attention to it, but he says that's how he\nmust 'a got the measure.\"\n\nThe days between the thirteenth and the nineteenth were spent by Mr.\nStewart, the student missionary, in covering the district, so that all\nthe scattered settlers should know of Dr. Ransom's visit.  On Tuesday\nmorning he borrowed an extra robe, and, hitching up his team of\nbronchos, started on his journey to M---- Station.  The roads were\nheavy, and twenty-five miles was a hard journey through the unpacked\nsnow.  By mid-afternoon he reached the railway, and soon had his ponies\ncomfortably stabled in a near-by barn.\n\nAbout midnight he tramped through the deep snow to the dimly-lighted\nstation.  The night operator reported the train as an hour late, with\nthe additional information that she would probably lose a little more\ntime on the grade which lay about ten miles away.\n\nShortly before two o'clock the welcome whistle was heard, and in a\nminute or two the midnight express slowed down for M----.  The tall\nfigure of the Superintendent was behind the brakeman, on the steps of\nthe day-coach, and there was a wave of recognition before the cordial\nhand-clasp and words of greeting could be given.  \"We'll just wait till\nshe pulls out,\" said the Superintendent, as Mr. Stewart started to move\naway after the exchange of greetings.  \"Yon operator has the tongue.\"\nHis duties performed at the baggage car, the operator returned to the\noffice dragging a heavy trunk along the plank platform.  \"Man! but\nthat's a great muscle you have,\" said the Doctor genially, and in less\nthan a five-minute conversation he knew the man's name, Old Land home,\nlength of time in Canada, and church relationship.  As he gripped the\nhand in bidding good-night, he got in a message that the operator has\nnever forgotten.  In recalling the visit to the writer many months\nlater, he said, \"He's a gran' man that: he'd be a wechty man gin he\nlived in Edinburgh.  He mak's you think.\"\n\n\"Well, Doctor,\" said Mr. Stewart as they neared the place where a bed\nhad been prepared, \"you'll be glad enough to get right to rest.\"\n\n\"How far are we from your field, Mr. Stewart?\"\n\n\"About twenty-five miles,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Well, then, if your team is fit, I think we'll not bother about bed\njust now, but get out there.\"  Despite the protests that were made in\nthe Doctor's interests, there was a kindly insistence that resulted in\nthe bronchos being immediately harnessed for the return journey.  In\nthe month of February, with deep snow and zero weather, a twenty-five\nmile drive between 3 and 8 a.m. is by no means a pleasure trip.  As the\nlittle animals ploughed their way through the drifts, the\nSuperintendent every now and again raised his mouth above his coat\ncollar to express his admiration.  \"A gr-reat team that--a gr-reat\nteam.\"\n\nThe day was dawning as on Wednesday the 10th the student missionary and\nthe eagerly-looked-for visitor, frost-covered and shivering, drove up\nto Mackenzie's barn.  Mackenzie and his wife were just getting on the\nfires, and were not a little surprised at the early arrival of their\ndistinguished guest.  Embarrassment could not, however, remain long in\nany home where Dr. Ransom entered.  Everybody but the indolent admired\nand loved him, and there seemed to be no circumstance or combination of\ncircumstances but he could adapt himself to.\n\nAfter breakfast Mr. Stewart was ready enough to get a few hours' rest,\nand having conferred with Mrs. Mackenzie regarding the readiness of the\nspare room for the Superintendent, he invited the latter to retire.\n\"Did you think I came out here to get a sleep, my boy?  When would we\nvisit the field?  No! no! thank you.\"  Protests were again futile.  \"I\nhave to meet two Committees on Saturday, in Winnipeg, and you must get\nme back to M---- Station in time for the 11.30 to-morrow morning.  What\nabout a horse?  Can we get right away?\"\n\n\"Ain't the old Doctor a horse to work,\" said MacKenzie to Stewart while\nhitching up his best driver.\n\nHurried but helpful and purposeful calls were made until it was time to\nreturn for the evening service.  The visit that stands out most clearly\nin the Missionary's memory was one made at the noon-hour.  Alex.\nMcDonald's place was the one spot in the whole district where no man\nwho had any respect for his stomach would ever dream of dining.  Few,\nindeed, cared even to enter the dirty little shack.  And so it was not\nto be wondered at that the Missionary was planning to pass McDonald's\non the up trip, and to reach one of those bright, clean centres of\nhospitality that are usually to be found in even the most isolated\ndistrict.  But \"the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley.\"\n\n\"Who lives in the shack on the hillside?\" asked the Superintendent.\n\n\"A family named McDonald,\" was the reply, \"but they never enter a\nchurch---they live like pigs, and I think we had better leave calling\nthere until we see how our time holds out.\"\n\n\"We'll go there for dinner,\" was the almost brusque response of the\nSuperintendent.  Stewart laughed incredulously.\n\n\"I don't think you could swallow a homoeopathic pill in that shack,\nDoctor.\"\n\n\"We'll go there for dinner, Mr. Stewart.  It'll do them good.\"\n\n\"No finer missionary stands in shoe-leather than Caven Stewart\" was a\ntestimony that all who knew him heartily agreed with, but Stewart had\nan absolute horror of dirt, and it was with feelings of distressful\nanticipation that he dragged open McDonald's rickety apology for a\ngate, and drove across the rough swamp to the dilapidated shack on the\nhillside.\n\nThe barking of the dog brought faces to the little four-paned window.\n\"Drive slowly!  Give them time, give them time,\" said the\nSuperintendent, as the faces quickly disappeared.  A few fowls\nfluttered from within the shack, and a family pet in the shape of a pig\ngrunted disapproval at being forced to take an outside berth.  For\nfully three minutes there was such a house-cleaning as the old shack\nhad not known for many a month.\n\nAlex. McDonald, pulling a dirty corduroy coat around him, sauntered\nover to where the visitors were getting out of the cutter.  He\n\"guessed\" that the Superintendent and the student could find\naccommodation for their horse, and a bite for themselves during the\nnoon hour.  \"We ha'ena got much of a place,\" he said, as the\nSuperintendent lowered his head to enter the miserable shack.\n\nEach member of the family received a cheery greeting from the magnetic\nsuperintendent, who never seemed at a loss to say the fitting word.\nMrs. McDonald was profuse in explanations and apologies.  \"We wesna\nexpectin' onybody, and these dark mornings it seems to be noon afore\nyou can get turned round.\"  The visitors entered sympathetically into\nthe various reasons why things \"wesna just straight.\"\n\nTo this day Caven Stewart remembers the deepened convictions that came\nto him of the Superintendent's possibilities, as he watched him enjoy\nhis dinner.  By various excuses Stewart had reduced his own portion to\nthe minimum when the pork and potatoes were dished up, and even then\nmore food went to his pocket than to his mouth.  But not so with the\nSuperintendent.  Not only did he have a liberal first supply, but\nactually passed back his plate for more, meantime complimenting\nMcDonald on the gr-reat potatoes he grew and the fine pork he raised,\nand incidentally remarking that the best potatoes and the finest pork\nwere easily spoiled in the hands of an incompetent cook.  When he told\nMrs. McDonald that the dinner was just as he liked it--well-cooked and\nplain--his place in her highest esteem was fixed.  That he was a man of\nexcellent judgment she had no doubt.\n\nMcDonald's Old Land home was well-known to the Superintendent, and as\nscenes familiar to both were recalled, geniality prevailed.\n\nAt the close of the meal the Doctor asked for \"The Book.\"  Anxious\nlooks were exchanged by the occupants of the shack, and ere long three\nmembers of the family were uniting in the search.  When at last, to the\ngreat relief of the searchers, a dusty but unworn Bible was produced,\nthe Superintendent held it reverently in his outstretched hand.\nLooking squarely at the head of the home, he said with a yearning that\nno man could miss, \"Eh, mon, but I'm sorry--sorry it's not worn more.\nIt's the best piece of furniture you have in the house.  If any man\nought to have a well-worn Bible it's a Highland Scotsman.\"  A few\nverses were impressively read, and then for the first time in its\nhistory the miserable shack contained a group kneeling in the attitude\nof prayer.\n\nThere were no meaningless pleasantries when the little company arose.\nIt seemed as though the place was hallowed ground.  A man and his Maker\nhad been in communion.  The invitation to \"cast thy burden upon the\nLord\" had been heeded, and with an exquisite tenderness the anxieties,\nthe problems, the hopes and the fears of the little home were brought\nto the Great Burden Bearer.\n\nThe parting was little short of affectionate.  The last hand-clasp was\nMcDonald's.  \"McDonald, I can scarcely believe you've never darkened\nthe kirk door, and you an Aberfeldy man.  I want you to give me your\nword for it that next Sabbath morning you and the good wife and the\nbairns will make a new start and be found worshipping God.  Six months\nfrom now I expect to hear from Mr. Stewart that you've been regular in\nattendance at the house of God.  McDonald! give me your word that\nyou'll not disappoint me--nor Him!\"\n\nNo words came from McDonald's lips, but there were moistened eyes and a\nlingering hand-clasp that made the Superintendent's heart glad.\n\nWhen, nine months later, Stewart was leaving the field for college, and\nwas reporting conditions to the Superintendent, he wrote as follows:\n\"You will remember the visit I did not want to make at the McDonalds.\nMay God forgive me for my lack of interest and of faith!  Since last\nFebruary McDonald, with some of his children, has never missed a\nservice.  At the Communion in June, Rev. Mr. Rowatt came over from the\nFort and welcomed seven new members, John McDonald, his wife, and their\nson Bruce being among the number.  The Bible you helped them to\nresurrect has been much 'thumbed' since then.  I am thankful I stayed\nthe year on this field.  To have seen the change that has taken place\nin the shack on the hillside has done more for me than the whole year's\ncourse in Apologetics.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE COOKEE\n\nIt had been a bitterly cold drive across what was known as \"The\nPlains,\" and the student missionary was thankful when his pony reached\nthe shelter of the jack-pines.  After a few miles of bush a small\n\"clearance\" was reached.  The low-roofed shack standing at the back of\nit never looked more inviting than to-day; but though twenty-five miles\nfrom the \"highway of commerce,\" there were homes still more remote that\nhad been expecting a visit from the little preacher for some time, and\nso, despite his pony's protest against driving by even poor shelter in\nweather like this, he had regretfully to tell her she might not turn in\nthat road to-day.  As was the missionary's custom in passing any\ndwellings, he waved his greeting in the direction of the humble shack.\nBefore he had gone many yards the good-natured pioneer farmer was\noutside shouting his \"halloos,\" and, on being heard, signalled for the\npreacher to stop.  Making his way through the snow, he said, \"Ain't you\ngoing to give us a call to-day?  Better come in and get thawed out;\nsoon be grubbing time.\"\n\n\"Not to-day, Mac, thanks,\" was the reply.  \"I've been to your place\npretty often, and I thought I ought to make the end of this road\nto-day.\"\n\n\"Well, if you won't come in, I'll tell you what I was a-wanting to ask\nyou.  There's a fellow I'd like you to see awful well.  Say! do you\ncall on anybody else except Protestants?  You do, eh?  Well, I wish\nyou'd see Jimmy Hayson.  He's in a bad fix.  They shipped him home from\nthe camp.  He was cookee there, and I guess he couldn't stand that kind\nof life.  His stummick's gone on a holiday.  Anyway, he's most all in.\nIt ain't much of a trail to follow, but after you pass Marston's you'll\nsee a wood road, and then, if you keep your eyes skinned, on the north\nside you'll see, about forty rod along, a foot track--Jimmy ain't got\nany team--just follow the track, and you'll stumble into his shack.\"\n\nThe second stop that afternoon was at Hayson's.  It was a poor place\nfor a sick man to be in.  The entire furnishings of the home would not\nhave been a bargain at five dollars.  The wife was most grateful for\nthe visit, and before the missionary had spoken to the invalid, she\nsaid, \"You are the only preacher ever in our house; and will you make a\nbit of a prayer for Jimmy?\"  A few flour sacks had been made into a\ncurtain, and the faithful wife pulled them aside and gazed lovingly at\nthe sick man, and then questioningly at the missionary.  The missionary\nfelt that not many prayers would have to be made for Jimmy, and perhaps\nthere was an increased tenderness in the voice as it was lifted to the\nFriend of the weary and heavy-laden.  The five children were not very\nclear as to what was going on, and during the devotions the dog kept up\na low growl of distrust at the whole procedure, but the wasted form of\npoor Jimmy, and the subdued sobs of the wife, overshadowed minor\ndisturbances.\n\nIt was the first of almost a dozen calls during the next two months.  A\nround trip of thirty-two miles once a week meant something over\nunbeaten tracks; but Jimmy was in need, and there was only One Helper:\nother helpers had failed, and Jimmy was pathetically eager for\nsomething he had not hitherto received.\n\nOn the occasion of the fourth visit, the wife called the visitor as far\naway from the sick bed as the dimensions of the little shack permitted.\n\"Would you\"--the voice was agitated--\"would you----.  Oh! please, you\nwon't mind me asking, but would you stay for dinner; we've never had a\nminister take a bite in our house, and Jimmy'd be so pleased?\"\n\nThe invitation was most gladly accepted.  What a time ensued!  How the\npoor soul exerted herself to prepare that meal!  It was over an hour\nbefore the \"bite\" was ready, and in that hour one child had gone over\ntwo miles.  The preacher saw her fluttering rags as she ran across the\nsnow.  He saw her come back with a little newspaper package.  It\ncontained a knife and fork--two miles, that the preacher might have a\nknife and fork!  The meal was not appetizing, but after the trouble it\nhad cost, no man with a heart could leave a morsel which it was\npossible to dispose of.\n\nDay by day Jimmy weakened, and it was evident that he needed attention\nand quiet, such as was not possible in the one-roomed shack.  Could he\ngain entrance to the distant hospital, and was it possible to provide\nanything like a satisfactory conveyance in which the sick man could\nsafely make the journey from that pioneer district?  These\npossibilities especially occupied the mind of the missionary on a\nsubsequent visit.\n\nHe talked to the now worn-out wife about the matter.  Prejudices\nagainst hospitals were very real in that remote district, and it was\nsome time before she could be convinced that such a course would be in\nthe interest of the family.  The few neighbours did much coming and\ngoing for the next two days, and such blankets and wrappings as the\ncommunity afforded were provided for the cold journey.  Bricks and\nhardwood sticks were to be heated and placed around Jimmy to keep him\nas warm as possible.  Henry Wallis was to make the trip the day before\nto arrange for the replenishing of these, and for some nourishment for\nthe sick man, at three selected stopping-places.\n\nIt was late in the evening when the sleigh pulled up in front of the\nhospital.  The sufferer had stood the journey better than was expected.\nThe \"Sisters\" soon had Jimmy in the most comfortable bed that he had\noccupied for years.\n\nTwo days later the missionary called at the hospital as early in the\nmorning as he was permitted to.  Jimmy knew his end was not far\ndistant.  He could speak but little, and in order to hear the feeble\nwhisper it was necessary to put an ear close to the patient's lips.\nVery slowly the words came: \"Say--about--Shepherd.\"  Once more the\nShepherd Psalm was repeated with its message for those whose lives are\novershadowed.  Jimmy's eyes spoke his thanks, and tenderly the student\nwiped the tears off the sunken cheeks.  Something else was wanted.\nAgain the whisper was with difficulty understood: \"Tell--about--rest.\"\nIt was the words that only the publican Matthew has recorded that Jimmy\nwanted to hear.\n\nSlowly they were repeated: \"Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are\nheavy laden, and I will give you rest.\"  Once again the parched lips\nmoved: \"If--I--could--see children--that's all.\"  The eyes were so\nirresistibly pleading that the student could only reply, \"I'll try,\nJimmy.\"\n\nA few words were spoken to the nurse.  How long would Jimmy be here?\nShe thought he might go that night.  Certainly within three days the\nend would come.  It was no small undertaking to bring a family such as\nthe Haysons into town.  Clothing had to be procured in order that the\nlittle ones might be protected on the longest journey any of them had\never taken.  Their own scanty attire would afford little protection\nfrom the cold wind.  And so hurried visits were made to a few homes,\nand to the stores of one or two merchants.  The case was briefly\nstated, and a dozen hearts instantly kindled into kindness for the\nneedy ones in the lonely home.  A wardrobe, such as the Hayson family\nhad never dreamed of, was soon stowed away on the missionary's \"jumper.\"\n\nInside of two hours the long, cold drive was commenced.  At each shanty\nand shack word was given as to the sick man's condition, and what the\npresent journey was for.  Within five miles of the lonely home, which\nwould soon be the abode of the fatherless and widow, the missionary\nstopped for the night.  In the dimly-lighted shack of Sandy MacGregor\nJimmy's last request was made known.  MacGregor rose from a nail-keg on\nwhich he was sitting, and said slowly and emphatically, \"Well, if Jimmy\nwants to see the children, he's a-going to see 'em.\"\n\nThe student grasped the roughened hand of the speaker gratefully.  \"I\nknew I could count on you, Mac.  Thanks.  I'm tired, so I'll say\ngood-night.  I can sleep now that that's settled.\"\n\nBefore the missionary appeared the next morning, Mac had everything\nready for driving Jimmy's family into the town where the husband and\nfather was rapidly nearing his end.\n\nThe horses were driven as hard as was consistent with mercy.  Jimmy was\nstill alive, the Sister told them as they stood in the hall.  In a\nmoment they were beside the bed.  It was one of those scenes that live\nin the memory.  The sobbing wife, kissing again and again the poor, wan\nface.  The little ones weeping, perhaps more in sympathy with the\nmother than on account of their own realization of the coming sorrow.\nQuietly the large screen was placed around the group at the bedside,\nand for a few moments the family was left alone.  The journey had been\naccomplished just in time.  In less than an hour Jimmy was gone.  His\nlast request was for the passages of Scripture mentioned above.  \"Yes,\nthat's it,\" he whispered, \"rest--rest.\"  The wasted arm was raised a\nlittle as if he would put it around the missionary's shoulder, but the\npoor Cookee's strength had departed.  They saw he would say something\nmore, and ears were alert to catch his every word.  \"I--think----\"\nThen there was a long pause, and the sunken eyes turned from face to\nface as though seeking to tell them what the tongue refused to utter.\nThey waited with tear-bedimmed gaze, but no other word was uttered.\nEre long there was a rattling in the throat, and the death-pallor\nincreased; a few short and long-separated gasps and the Cookee had\nfinished his course.  They laid him away in the quiet little cemetery\nduring an almost blinding snowstorm.\n\nWith less than five dollars in cash, and a rough bit of land heavily\nmortgaged, the mother went back to the lonely shack to toil through\nweary days to provide for her five little children.  With occasional\nhelp from other settlers, the struggle for existence was made a little\nless severe.\n\n* * * * *\n\nTen years have passed away.  The poverty-stricken pioneers of earlier\ndays have cleared large sections of land, and the earth has brought\nforth her fruit.  Prosperity abounds.  Where Jimmy Hayson's shack stood\nis an attractive modern farm-house.  A mother looks proudly at her\nfarmer son as she introduces him to a city pastor who is visiting the\nmission field of his student ministry.  A few hours later, in the quiet\nof eventide, she stands with the visitor exchanging incidents of bygone\ndays.\n\n\"It's been a pretty hard road to travel, sir, but the neighbours were\njust as good as they could be after Jimmy went.  But I often say to my\nboy Allan that there is only One who can help us in such times as I\npassed through then.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE REGENERATION OF BILL SANDERS\n\nA severe snow-storm had raged for over twelve hours, and the home\nmissionary was twenty miles away from head-quarters.  His little Indian\npony was \"all grit,\" as one of the settlers said, but with darkness\nonly two hours away, the preacher began to reconsider his decision to\nmake The Valley and home that night.  Not a few days \"Queenie\" and her\ndriver had travelled fifty miles, but to-day the drifting snow almost\nblinded man and beast, and with eleven miles of unbeaten path on the\nstorm-swept plain immediately before him, the missionary hesitated.  At\nbest it would be dark before he reached the bush, and he had not\nforgotten a former experience, when anxious hours were spent in a\nsimilar storm seeking to find the rarely-travelled road that led from\nthe plain through the bush to The Valley.\n\nOne reason out of several that made him anxious to get home was the\nfact that Widow Nairn's wood-pile needed replenishing.  She was a poor\nfriendless old woman, who had remained on a plot of ground to which she\nhad only \"squatter's rights,\" and while the few scattered neighbours\nwere kindness itself, the widow was, as Grayson said, so \"blamed\npeculiar\" that it was \"hard to know how to do anything for her without\nmaking her mad.\"  Perhaps she could get along for one more day, and the\nmissionary resolved to drive directly to her shack the next morning.\n\nThe decision being made, he spoke cheerily to his pony, and after a\nlittle manoeuvring, the cutter was turned around and Queenie was headed\ntowards the spot where two solitary pines rose like sentinels from the\nunderbush.  The road to Pearson's was not far beyond these landmarks,\nand the home was one of the few he knew in this rarely-visited district.\n\nAn hour later he peered anxiously through the storm.  The snow melting\naround his eyes made seeing difficult, and he began to fear he had\ntaken a wood-path instead of the one intended.  Pulling up his pony, he\nlistened for the jingle of bells, the bark of a dog, the call of a\nsettler, or anything that might help him to locate some abode, but no\nsound except that made by the winter wind reached him.  Tying his pony\nto a poplar, he plunged ahead in an endeavour to find out something\nabout the road he was on.  In a few minutes he saw that the trees\nclosed together again, and knew that the pony had taken the wrong track.\n\nOnce more the cutter was turned around with considerable difficulty.\nIt was a hard return journey; every sign of their own recently-made\ntrack was gone, and the snow was still falling.\n\nNo more welcome sound had been heard by any ears that day than when\ndistinct, though somewhat distant, the tired traveller heard the bark\nof a dog.  Stopping his pony, he engaged in a barking contest, until he\nwas sure of the direction from which the sound came.  \"We are all right\nnow, thank God,\" he said aloud.\n\nThrough the trees a light flickered a few minutes later, and soon a\npioneer's home came into view.  The little clearance with its\nlow-roofed log-house was not one the missionary had seen before, but\nwhere there was a house there was hospitality on a night like this.\n\nBill Sanders was soon assisting the traveller to unhitch, and with the\naid of a \"bug\"[*] Queenie was crowded into the roughly constructed\nstable.  There were times when it would have been both difficult and\ndangerous to have put her into such quarters, but that night she seemed\nto understand, and behaved herself accordingly.\n\n\n[*] A tin lard pail fixed to hold a candle and to serve as a lantern.\n\n\nThe occupants of the little home consisted of father, mother, two boys\nand two girls.  When the missionary introduced himself there was\nmanifest embarrassment on the part of the wife, and the children gazed\nin wonderment from \"the room\" door; they were unwilling to run any\nrisks through getting too close to this human novelty until they saw\nhow he acted.  \"You see, sir, we don't have many people here, and they\naren't used to strangers: I guess you are the first minister that's\nbeen in this house; and then, as the husband went to bring in a fresh\nsupply of firewood, she added half apologetically, \"but I was praying\nall week that God might send somebody in here that loved Him.  When I\nused to work for Home Missions in Ontario, I never thought how much I'd\nlong for the visit of a missionary myself some day; it's very lonesome\nsometimes.\"\n\nBefore the missionary retired to his allotted space on the floor, he\nasked permission to read a few verses of Scripture.  There was no\nresponse from the father: the mother said, \"Yes, please.\"\n\nThe Scripture and prayer were for the encouragement of the heavy laden,\nand tears were wiped away from the mother's eyes as the little group\narose from kneeling.\n\nWhen prayers were mentioned after breakfast the next morning, Bill\nSanders deliberately left the shack.  \"Two doses of religion within\ntwelve hours\" were too many for him, as he often said in after years\nwhen recalling the missionary's visit.  \"We've a lot to be thankful\nfor,\" said the much-tried wife, as the visitor spoke a few words of\nencouragement.  The missionary glanced at the mud floor, at the\nroughly-hewn table, at the round blocks used for chairs, at the\nnewspaper curtains, at the flour-sacks that partitioned off the\nbedroom, at the miscellaneous and damaged collection of dishes and tins\nthat rested on the coverless table, and wondered wherein the \"lot to be\nthankful for\" lay.  \"We don't get along well with the farm; somehow\nBill don't----.\"  The words were checked, and nothing suggestive of\ncomplaint at the husband was uttered.  \"The children are well,\" she\ncontinued, \"and they are obedient,\" and then, with a fine reticence\nthat cannot be written, she added slowly, \"I am trying to teach them\nabout God; and I often tell them that if the shack isn't a credit to\nus, we must try to be a credit to it.  You see, sir, I'm not strong,\nand with the little ones to look after, I can't work outside as much as\na settler's wife ought; but anyhow, I'd rather leave my children a good\ncharacter than anything else.  Yes, God knows I would.\"\n\nLate in the morning the storm was over, and with a promise on the part\nof the missionary to return again as soon as possible, and on the part\nof the children to come to a Sunday School being started in the\nfour-mile-distant schoolhouse, good-byes were said.\n\nMany weeks passed before the missionary could visit again the lonely\nlittle home.  This time the mother, pale and trembling, was struggling\nfrom the stable with a pail of milk.  Inside the house lay a\nfour-days'-old baby boy.  The missionary's heart was heavy.  Since his\nlast visit he had heard of the faithfulness and goodness of the wife\nand mother, and of the brutality of the husband and father, but he\nfound it hard to believe that any man would compel his wife to do what\nthis poor creature had been made to do in such a physical condition.\n\nAt first there was fight in the missionary's heart, but when the lazy,\ncruel husband returned from his rabbit-snaring, the fighting spirit had\nbeen replaced by a great yearning for this man's salvation.  To angrily\nrebuke Bill might only add to the wife's burden, while \"the soul of all\nimprovement is the improvement of the soul.\"  Bill's need was of a\nchanged heart.\n\nA prayer for guidance was breathed forth as he walked to meet one who,\na few years ago, had promised to protect and love the wife whose spirit\nwas crushed and whose heart was well-nigh broken by neglect and abuse.\n\nThe two men stood talking for some time on the evening of that now\nmemorable day.  Often the pale face of an anxious, prayerful wife\nlooked out through the tiny window.  Perhaps the prayer within was\nmightier than the simple message spoken without, but at any rate new\ndesires and purposes were awakened in Bill's heart that night.  There\nwas no sudden \"light of glory,\" or ecstatic condition, but during the\nnext few weeks it was evident that this man was being changed.  When\nthe missionary suggested getting his pony hitched, Bill urged him to\nremain overnight.  At retiring time, it was the father who handed a\nmuch-soiled Bible to the preacher.  Strange that so simple an act as\nthat should cause the wife to weep, but at that hour she saw the\ndawning of a new day.\n\nThree weeks later the scattered settlers \"visiting\" outside the\nschoolhouse on Sunday afternoon were amazed to see Bill Sanders\nbringing his wife to church on the \"jumper.\"\n\nThe singing in the little service was usually more hearty than\nharmonious.  For two or three years it had been an unsettled and vexed\nquestion as to whether Sam Gadsley or Martha McLeod was the finer\nsinger.  One faction deemed the matter settled beyond all controversy\nwhen a late arrival at the service confided to a few friends at the\nclose that he \"could hear Sam, good, clear across the concession,\"\nwhile he \"couldn't have told whether Martha was there at all, at all.\"\nMartha's friends felt keenly the consequent verdict of the community,\ndeposing their champion.\n\nTo-day the missionary broke all his own previous records in the singing\nof \"Praise God from whom all blessings flow.\"\n\nPeople said \"it was a great sermon that the little parson preached\"\nthat day.  Although the congregation may not have known it, the\npreacher almost broke down in prayer, his heart was so filled with\ngratitude.  When he shook hands with Bill, there was a grip that\nthrilled new-comer and preacher alike.  To the wife he managed to say,\n\"I'm so glad,\" and the now happy woman looked as though the opening\ndoxology had become a large part of her very self.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe visit of the Home Mission Superintendent is always a great day in\nthese isolated places, and when on his next visit he welcomed the new\nmembers into full communion, and took father, mother, and two children\nfrom the little log-house, not a few felt it was the greatest day the\nschoolhouse had seen.\n\nDuring the subsequent days of the missionary's term of service,\nwhenever there was work to be done, Bill Sanders could be counted on.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIn the summer of 1912, after a lapse of ten years, the missionary stood\nonce more in The Valley.  As is true of most Western communities,\neverything was changed.  A little city had arisen--the old schoolhouse\nwas no more, and the once well-known places could no longer be located.\nBut there stands a beautiful little church not far from where the old\nschoolhouse once stood, and one of the honoured elders bears the name\nof William Sanders.  Two of his daughters teach in the Sabbath School,\nand of the five children, a well-known business man said, \"Why, you'd\njust be proud of every one of them, if they were your own.\"\n\nIn the churchyard a marble slab bears the name, \"Mary Perry Sanders,\"\nand near the base, \"She hath done what she could.\"  As was her desire\nin the days of struggle and isolation, the patient, faithful mother had\nleft the precious legacy of a good character to her children.\n\nThus had the seed sown brought forth its fruit after many days.  Among\nhallowed memories, few are so precious to the missionary as that of the\nday when his now old friend \"Queenie\" took the wrong road.  And\nwhenever on lonely prairie, in quiet hamlet, or noisy city, he hears a\ncongregation sing Cowper's hymn, \"God moves in a mysterious way, His\nwonders to perform,\" he thinks of that distant, stormy winter day when\na barking dog led him to a home that is now transformed, and to a\ndarkened life that was in God's goodness guided into that light \"that\nshineth more and more unto the perfect day.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNAKE-ROOM\n\nThe hotels in the town on the \"boundary\"[*] were crowded.  For several\ndays the men had been returning from the bush after the winter's cut,\nuntil over a thousand \"lumber-jacks\" from the various camps in the\nimmediate vicinity had taken possession of the place.  For most of\nthese men the bar-room was the only social centre, and the arrival of\neach gang meant the recognition of old friends and the celebration\nthereof in a call for \"drinks all round.\"\n\n\n[*] Boundary line between U.S. and Canada.\n\n\nIn a hallway adjoining a popular bar-room the missioner stood sadly\nwatching the procession of hard toilers losing at the one time their\nwinter's earnings and the control of their faculties.  It seemed\nuseless to plead with the men either collectively or individually.\n\n\"It's the only way we've got to let off steam, boss--it's a fool way,\nyou bet, but here goes.\"  The speaker was a man of not over thirty\nyears of age.  With unsteady step he entered the bar-room again, and\npushed his way to the double line that kept the bar-tenders perspiring\nas they sought to respond to the sometimes cursing demands for more\nrapid service.\n\n[Illustration:\n  1. A Western Lumber Camp.  2. Lumber Camp Group in Sunday Attire.\n  3. The Day's Work Ended.   4. A Typical Bar-room\n  \"In some districts fully 75% of shanty men's earnings\n  goes over the bar.  One bank paid out 38,000 dollars\n  in wages.  Within a week a near-by bar-room deposited\n  22,000 dollars.\"]\n\n\nAlong the hallway were men in various stages of intoxication, and the\nmissioner knew from past experiences that some of the men were only at\nthe beginning of a debauch that would last for several days, perhaps\nweeks.  Much had been done by the lumber companies to improve the\nconditions in camp and to brighten and turn to good account the long\nwinter evenings.  Then, in order to protect the earnings of the men at\npaytime, arrangements were made to furnish immediate facilities for\nbanking or for remitting home; yet everything proved ineffective in the\ncase of some.  The open bar with its foolish and dangerous treating\nsystem had led to what had become known around town as \"the\nlumber-jacks' annual spring spree.\"\n\nThe cashier of one of the companies sauntered through the crowd, and\nthe missioner entered into conversation with him, questioning him about\nthe men thronging the bar-room.  \"Yes, Reverend, I know most of the\nboys; I make out pay-checks for over two hundred of them, and in my\ntime I've run across thousands, and most of them are splendid fellows\nif you can only keep the booze away from them.  They look pretty well\ndamaged just now, eh?  And they'll be worse yet.  When they get started\nyou can't stop them till they're at the end of their tether.  See that\nfellow lighting his cigar in Ern. Dean's pipe?  Wait till he turns\nround a bit--there! now! his ear's half gone, see?  He's some fighter,\nbelieve me!  A year ago last month somebody got a few bottles of\nwhiskey into the camp on the q.t.  We try to keep it out, but you might\nas well try to keep out mosquitoes in June.  Well, sir, that night Bill\ngot into a fight with a chap called Frenchy, and in about ten minutes\nFrenchy needed an identification label on him.  Bill was clean plump\ncrazy, and as Frenchy had been looking for a scrap for weeks the boys\nlet them have their innings for a while.  Just before the boys prised\nthem apart, the two of them took a deuce of a tumble to the bunkhouse\nfloor, and somehow Frenchy got his teeth on Bill's ear.  We couldn't\npatch the thing together, so Bill had to foot it nearly thirty miles to\nthe nearest town, and you see what the crossbones had to do to trim off\nhis receiving apparatus?  Bill gets ninety dollars a month--I handed\nhim a check for four hundred and fifty last Saturday, and it would be\nsafe to bet the whiskies he hasn't fifty dollars left right this\nminute.  He doesn't know what he's done with it--quite likely a pile of\nit has been swiped when he was dead to the world.  Between ourselves,\nReverend, there's lots of dope served out right here, and when the boys\ncome to, a good part of their boodle is gone.  Just the other day Dick\nBooth was yelling blue murder around here, and Bertois came from the\noffice and hooked his arm into Dick's and said, 'Come on, Dick, and\nhave one on me.'  In less than five minutes there wasn't so much as a\nchirp from Dick, and he looked like the dickens for a few seconds, and\nthen he slid down the wall to the floor, and Bertois and Sam carried\nhim into the snake-room.  You bet Bertois fixed Dick's drink alright.\nThe trouble comes between season when the boys are off a few weeks.\nThey come into town to kill time, but it works the other way round.\"\n\nTwo days later the missioner was sitting writing at the hotel table\nwhen Bill, blear-eyed, unshaven and dirty, came staggering toward him.\nThe voice was almost terrifying in its intensity of appeal, \"For God's\nsake give me something to eat; I've had nothing but that stuff\n(pointing toward the bar-room) for three days.\"\n\nBefore anything more could be said, Bertois, the proprietor, hurried\nfrom behind his desk, and grabbing Bill by the shoulder, uttered an\noath, and dragged him to a door at the end of the hall.  Unfastening\nthe door with his latch-key he gave Bill a vigorous shove, and the\nintoxicated man, stumbling over some object, fell heavily to the floor.\nBanging the door, Bertois turned to the basement stairway just around\nthe corner, and in a sharp voice called \"Sam.\"  Sam immediately\nresponded to the call.\n\n\"How in the ---- did Bill Bird get out of there.\"\n\n\"Didn't know 'e was out, sir,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Did you give anybody your key?\"\n\n\"Hi did not, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, you must have left the door unlocked; mind you don't let\nany more of them d---- fools out.\"\n\nAs calmly as was possible the missioner protested against the treatment\nBill received.\n\n\"What would you do with them?  Would you want them around the house?\"\nwas the gruff reply.  \"Give them a bed?  Not much!  We don't keep beds\nfor that brand.  The only thing you can do is to kick 'em into the\nsnake-room.  You don't know anything about Bill's kind.  He's seeing\nlife; them fellows have been counting on this blow-out for months.\"\n\nAn hour or so later the missioner found Sam alone in the basement.  The\nold man was worthy of a better job than the doing of the dirtiest and\nmost objectionable work around a lumber-town hotel, but times had gone\nhard with him of late years, and his few relatives were on the other\nside of the Atlantic.\n\n\"No, sir, hit ain't the kind of place hi expected to be in at my hage,\nbut beggars mustn't be choosers, you know, sir, and after hi cut me\nfoot half off with a hax I ad to take wot I could get, especially as me\nrheumatiz bothered me a lot.  Wot's the snake-room like, did you say?\nHit just depends oo's hin it.  Hit's chuck full these days, I'm sorry\nto say, and it hain't a sight yer reverence would like to see.  You\nwant a peep hin, eh?  Well, hi don't know as how you'd be allowed; the\nboss is rather perticlar about who sees 'is customers hin the\nsnake-room.  It hain't a very good hadvertisement, hin my opinion.\"\n\nNevertheless Sam agreed, if the territory was clear, to show the\nmissioner the snake-room.  By way of apology, the old man explained\nthat he had often told his boss that it was a shame to put men into\nsuch a place without any kind of bed, with no food, and frequently, in\ndecidedly cold weather, without any heat.\n\nWhen the opportunity afforded itself, Sam and the missioner went\nquietly upstairs and, unseen, entered the snake-room.  Accustomed as he\nhad been to see the effects of alcohol and evil-living, the scene\nbefore the visitor was a fresh and terrible revelation of their\ndestructive power.\n\nThe room was probably fifteen feet square.  Its furnishings consisted\nof one table and two framed pictures--the latter being advertisements\nof \"popular brands of whiskies,\" which were said to have \"stood the\ntest for nearly one hundred years.\"  Some results of the test were upon\nthe floor.\n\nIn order to get inside, Sam had pushed hard against the door, crowding\nback the feet of the man nearest.  There was scarcely more floor space\nthan the two men needed to stand on.  Curses, snores and groans came\nfrom the filthy, stench-laden mass of men that covered the floor.\nSeveral boards in the wainscotting were spattered with human blood.\nOne man with a recently made gash across his forehead was lying on his\nside, and with eyes closed, kept striking out with his fist, sometimes\nhitting the leg of an old man who seemed absolutely paralysed with\nliquor, and sometimes hitting the partition.  Every blow was\naccompanied by profanity.\n\nPartly under the table lay two camp cooks.  One of them, Heinrich\nLietzmann, was a most generous individual, and a great favourite with\nhis fellow-workers.  Because of his appearance he was dubbed\n\"Roly-Poly\" Lietzmann.  His broken English was very attractive, and\nnothing pleased the younger men better than to \"get him going\" on\ninternational politics.  Judging from his terribly bruised face, he had\neither fallen heavily or been in a fight.  Poor Heinrich made several\nattempts to raise himself to a sitting posture, each time falling back\nwith a disturbing effect on the men nearest him, and receiving\ntherefore their muttered curses, which he returned in full measure.\n\nAlong the table, on his back, lay Chris. Rogers.  Nobody knew the\nhistory of Chris. although, because of a remarkable gift of speech\nwhich he manifested when excited by liquor, the report that he had once\nbeen a \"Shyster lawyer\" in a Western State was generally believed.  He\nwas far above the average lumber-jack in knowledge, but far below in\nvice.  After the discovery of an unusually mean trick, Bill Bird had,\nin the opinion of the camp, fittingly described Chris, when he said,\n\"That dirty rascal is so near mongrel dog, that if he had a bit more\nhair on him he'd start running rabbits.\"  Just why Chris. had been\ngiven charge of the camp stores was a mystery, but for nearly two years\nhe had held the position.  He was a slender, wiry man with a singularly\nrepulsive face.  His teeth were gone, and his long pointed moustache\ndrooped alongside of the hard mouth that was continually stained with\ntobacco juice.  His coat and vest were plastered with grease from\ncareless eating and his whole appearance suggested a dirty\ndemon-possessed man.\n\nBill Bird, the fighter, had managed to get into a corner, and was\nsitting with arms on knees and drooping head--a picture of\nwretchedness.  Once he managed to look up, and for a moment gazed in a\ndazed way at the missioner: \"By God!  I wish I was dead:\" then there\nwas a prolonged cry on the word \"Oh,\" as of a man in great agony.  A\nfew of the stupefied men roused themselves enough to utter a curse in\nBill's direction.  Gazing once more at the missioner, Bill cried out:\n\"Oh! oh! the devil's got me for sure.\"\n\nSam laid his hand on the missioner's arm; \"We'd better slip out now,\nsir, or there might be trouble.\"\n\nWith a sigh and a heavy heart the missioner passed into the hall and up\nto the room he had been occupying for ten days.  With a whispered cry,\n\"How long, O Lord, how long?\" he fell on his knees at his bedside, and\nthen in silence he pleaded with his God that at least Bill Bird might\nbe released from the grip of the Evil One.\n\nAfter the regular service that night, a few Christian people met for\nprayer.  The missioner confided in those present, and with sadness told\nof his visit with Sam to the snake-room.  \"What are we doing,\" he\nasked, \"either as a church or as individuals, for these men?  Has Satan\nany opposition from us as he enslaves our fellow-countrymen?  Surely it\nis not a matter of indifference to us when these men are wrecking their\nown and other lives, in dens of vice that have been allowed to plant\nthemselves in this town, and that can only thrive as manhood and\nwomanhood are debased?\n\n\"Several lumbermen in this district say that in the past fifteen years\nthere has been a steady deterioration in the men employed in the woods.\nAfter every pay-day, by their debauchery, seventy-five per cent. unfit\nthemselves for the work to be done, and take from two to eight weeks to\nget back to normal condition.  There is much that may and must be done\nalong social lines if we are going to arrest these degrading\ninfluences, but in the meantime is it not possible for us as\nindividuals to get into personal touch with some of these boys, and\nthrow around them the protection of our Christian friendship and\nhospitality?  Preaching is not the only means for advancing the\nKingdom.  So much may be done if Christian people will put themselves\nand their possessions at the service of humanity, and learn to love the\nlowest as well as the best of the race.  Some of these lumber-jacks\nmight go back to camp changed men if we gave God a fair chance to use\nus.  Perhaps some of you business men, or some of you ranchers, could\nget alongside of at least one poor fellow from that snake-room, and\nlive for his reclamation.  There are many ways of keeping in touch with\nthese men, even when they return to the bush, and, in this land of\ninvestments, you would find nothing yield such a dividend as the\ninvestment of your time in the attractive presentation of the love and\npower of Jesus Christ.  Will you at least make the effort, and leave\nthe results to your Master?\"  The words were spoken and the question\nasked with an earnestness that had been intensified by the\nheart-rending appeal of the broken manhood that the speaker knew was\nrepresented by what he had looked upon in the snake-room.\n\nIn the prayerful atmosphere and the silence that followed the question,\none man said in his heart, \"I will.\"  That man was George Clarke.\n\nGeorge Clarke had a small ranch a short distance from the town.  He was\none of the most industrious men in the Province, but his industry had\nnot resulted in the prosperity that most of his neighbours enjoyed.  He\nhad met with enough reverses to absolutely dishearten the average man,\nbut he had borne them all bravely, keeping his disposition unsoured,\nand his character clean.  His extreme reticence, however, often led\nstrangers to misjudge him, and to underestimate his worth.  In public\naffairs he treated himself as though he had no right to anything but\nthe most inferior position, and to have given expression to his own\nopinion before even a small audience would, in his own judgment, have\nresulted fatally.  Once, under great pressure, he had consented to pass\nthe collection plate at a church service, but after getting on his\nfeet, \"everything was a blur.\"  The boys at the rear vowed that he\nstumbled against every bench-end but one, and that by the time he was\nhalf way down the aisle \"he didn't know which side of the plate should\nbe up.\"  In replacing the plate on the organ, to the great surprise of\nthe organist, he unceremoniously deposited most of the offering in her\nlap, and was too much overcome with embarrassment to assist her in\nreplacing it.  During the closing hymn he made his escape to a quiet\nspot in the bush, where he could wipe his profusely perspiring brow and\nwhere he could solemnly promise himself not to be entrapped again.  But\ndespite his reticence he was an exceptionally intelligent man, and when\nany individual could get George to express himself on questions of\nimportance, it was not long before \"this is what George Clarke thinks,\"\nwas passed from mouth to mouth throughout the community.  All through\nthe years he had resided in the West he had been absolutely upright in\nhis dealings and conduct, and though his reticence prevented him from\ntaking an aggressive part in certain moral reforms that were advocated\nfrom time to time, yet there was never a shadow of a doubt as to which\nside he would be on.  The cynical individual who stated that \"every man\nhas his price,\" was compelled to make an exception in the case of\nGeorge Clarke.\n\nAnd so it will not be deemed irreverent if we say that when George\nClarke said in his heart \"I will,\" God knew he could trust him.\n\nVery thoughtfully George passed, with his wife, from the meeting out\ninto the darkness.  \"I'm going to look for Bill Bird, Mary, and if I\nget him I'll bring him home--how would it do if you go on with the\nFrasers?\"  The suggestion was all that Mrs. Clarke needed, and her\nneighbours, without any questioning, cheerfully made room for her in\ntheir democrat.\n\nGeorge halted several times on his way to the hotel shed where his\nhorse and buggy had been left--he was wondering how best to carry out\nhis resolve.  That resolve was to do his utmost to help Bill Bird to a\nnew life.  Years ago in the East he had been on very friendly terms\nwith the Bird family, and though he had once or twice tried to show\nBill a kindness, yet he knew he had not measured up to his\nopportunities and he felt condemned.  Quietly he walked down the\nroadway to the rear of the Imperial Hotel.  The shouts and oaths of the\ndrinking and the drunken, and the clatter of glassware reached his ears\nas he passed along.  Was Bill still inside, and if so, how could he get\nhold of him?  A side door opened, and George stepped back into the deep\nshadow of the building.  Bertois, the proprietor, and some man whom\nGeorge did not know, came to the step and stood in the light for a\nmoment.  Then the door was pulled to, and the men stood silent as if\nlistening to assure themselves they were alone.  Under ordinary\ncircumstances George would have spoken to Bertois, but this night he\ndeemed it wiser to remain unobserved.  The men conversed in low tones\nat first, but after a while Bertois' words reached him:\n\n\"Don't play too swift a game for a start: give 'em plenty of bait;\nthey'll keep on biting till we land 'em.  We can easily clear five\nhundred from those three suckers if you watch yourself.  Dick knows the\ndrinks to dish out.  Here's for luck!  Come on.\"\n\nRe-entering they closed the door quietly, and George still waited,\nhoping that Sam would come out, and that the old man might be persuaded\nto get Bill Bird into the yard.  Many times during the next fifteen\nminutes the door opened, and each time George Clarke got, in some form\nor other, information of the hell that was inside.  The hour was late,\nyet he felt he must remain longer.  Bill Bird was in his keeping, for\nlike those near the blind beggar of old, George had heard the call from\nthe Great Physician, \"Bring him hither to Me.\"\n\nTo face the crowd of men he knew would be inside the hotel was more\nthan he felt equal to, and he knew that in all probability any attempt\nto get Bill out under such circumstances would fail.\n\nOnce more the side door opened--this time slowly and unsteadily.  A man\nleaned against the jamb for a few seconds as if needing support.  Then\nsome one from within slammed the door against him, and he slipped\nheavily down to the narrow platform.  There was a curse and a drunken\nhiccough, and then the words the missioner had heard were uttered\nagain, \"By God, I wish I was dead.\"\n\nGeorge Clarke did not immediately recognize the voice, but he did\nimmediately step near to his needy brother-man, and said\nsympathetically, \"What's the matter, mate?\"\n\nTaken by surprise the man asked, \"Who in the ---- are you?\"\n\nGeorge recognized the voice and the form and said, \"I'm George Clarke,\nand I'm your friend, Bill Bird.\"  His hand was laid upon the shoulder\nof the sickened man, and in a kindly voice he persuaded him to\naccompany him to his home.  \"The place here is crowded, and we've got\nlots of room at our place and can give you a comfortable bunk for the\nnight: come along, Bill, for old time's sake.\"\n\nLinking his arm in Bill's, he led the staggering man to the drive-shed,\nand after some difficulty and a few arguments, got him safely into his\nbuggy, and not a soul in the place was the wiser.\n\nMrs. Clarke was a worthy helpmeet for George, and though her household\ncares were many, she grudged no extra labour that would please her\nhusband and help a fellow-being.  And so everything necessary for the\ncomfort of the fallen man had been done.  A supper had been prepared,\nand the guest-room made ready.  Bill ate as freely as his condition\nwould allow, and then very willingly acted on the suggestion that he\nshould \"creep in.\"  George gave the dirty, tired, whiskey-soaked man\nsuch assistance as he felt would be advisable.  Once Bill raised his\nheavy eyelids and appeared to be trying to understand the \"why\" of\nthings.  \"This is no place for me, George Clarke--by God, no!\"  The\nbody wobbled wearily, and Bill could think and talk no more.  And so\nwith most of his clothes on, filthy from his stay in the snake-room,\nBill Bird was placed in the best bed in the best room of one of the\ntruest homes with which the district was blessed.\n\nBefore retiring himself, George Clarke went to a wicker-basket in the\nparlour, and searched through the family collection of photographs.  At\nlast he found the one he sought.  It was of the Bird family, and was\ntaken shortly before the oldest boys went West.  George took it out to\nhis wife, who was still working in the kitchen.  Pointing to the face\nof a bright manly boy who stood with hand upon his mother's shoulder,\nhe said to his wife, \"If Bertois and his gang changed a boy's face as\nterribly as Bill's has been changed, and did it in a few minutes, they\nwould be sent to the 'pen' for five years, and yet we let that same\ngang take their time on the job, and do it in hundred lots, and\nscarcely raise so much as a finger to stop it--and I'm as guilty as the\nrest of them.  Poor Bill! he used to be as decent a little chap as you\ncould find in the County of Addington.\"\n\nThe photograph was returned to the parlour, and dropped somewhat\ncarelessly upon the table, but the unthinking, and yet perhaps not\nunguided act was the first of many influences that brought better days\nto Bill Bird.\n\nLong into the morning the occupant of the guest-room slept on.  George\nClarke had opened the door quietly at breakfast time, but the heavy\nbreathing caused him to leave the wearied man undisturbed.  About the\nmiddle of the forenoon, after much yawning and stretching, Bill's\nconsciousness slowly returned.\n\nHe pushed back the white coverlets and gazed around the room.  Many\ntimes he had awakened in a drive-shed, twice in the police cell, more\nthan once in the \"snake-room.\"  But this morning everything was\ndifferent.  What had happened?  Was he dreaming?  The room was the most\nattractively furnished of any he had slept in for years, and his soiled\nclothes on the chair at the bedside were strangely out of harmony with\nthe surroundings.\n\nHe had confused memories of events since he came out of the camp, but\nhe knew he had spent his money in the way most of his earnings had gone\nfor the last few years, and he condemned himself for having been a fool\nagain.  With a half-consciousness of some one being near, he looked to\nthe opposite side of the room.\n\nThe bedroom door had been quietly opened and a bright \"good-morning\"\ngreeted him.  There need be no hurry, he was told, but whenever he was\nready he might just as well have a bite of breakfast.\n\nNo word was spoken in explanation of his presence, nor in regard to the\ntrouble George had had in getting him away from the \"Imperial\" the\nnight before.  Slowly and with mingled feelings of embarrassment and\ndisgust, Bill attempted to clean himself up a little.  He knew he was\nin George Clarke's home, and in his own words, \"felt like a fool and\nlooked the part to perfection.\"\n\nIt was not easy to face those he knew had befriended him, for sin had\nnot yet lost its shame to Bill Bird.\n\nHis bedroom door opened into the parlour, and he stood alone for a few\nseconds.  Then his eyes fell on the old photograph.  His hands trembled\nas he held it and gazed into the faces of mother and brothers and\nsister.  Pictures of the old home and of happy family relationships of\npast years crowded themselves upon his memory.\n\nHe remembered how his widowed mother had toiled and struggled to bring\nup her six boys aright and give them the best equipment possible for\nthe battle of life.  He recalled his own setting out from home--from\nthe home to which he had never returned, and to which he had rarely\nwritten.  The \"Western fever\" had gripped him in his early twenties,\nand nothing could induce him to stay on the Homestead.  And so ere long\nthe property had to pass into other hands, because there were no boys\nleft to work the place.  The mother's sorrow over the parting with her\n\"Willie\" had rested very lightly on him the morning he started\nWestward.  Yet to-day he viewed it in a different light, and he lived\nthe parting over again with very different feelings.  The last\nbreakfast had been prepared in silence by the one who had never ceased\nto love him.  More than once she had tried to speak, but the lump in\nthe throat prevented.  At last they stood in the hall, and her words\nwere uttered with sobs as she clung to her \"baby boy.\"  \"Good-bye, my\nWillie, and remember, that as long as your mother has breath she will\npray every day for her boy, and ask God to take care of him.\"  He had\nassured her he could take care of himself.  He remembered the last\nflutter of the handkerchief as she stood on the milk-stand watching the\nbuggy disappear from the sideroad on to the \"gravel.\"  He had \"taken\ncare of himself,\" and a mighty poor job he had made of it, and there\nseemed little chance of any improvement.\n\nWhile he was in the midst of such thoughts, George Clarke entered.\nBill was still holding the photograph.  With moistened eyes he looked\ninto the face of his hospitable friend.  \"George Clarke,\" he commenced,\n\"it takes a man a long time to own up that he has made a botch of\nthings; it's too late now to make a fresh start, but I've been looking\nat this picture, and God knows I'd like to have as good a character as\nI had when that was taken.  That woman is as good a mother as any boys\never had, and I haven't shown her the gratitude of a dog.\"\n\nTo this day, George Clarke feels that he never made a poorer attempt at\ntrying to speak a helpful word to a discouraged man than on the morning\nwhen Bill Bird stood in his little parlour on the old ranch.  One\nresult of the conversation, however, was the decision on Bill's part to\naccept the invitation to remain at the Clarke ranch for at least a few\nweeks, and during those weeks he saw demonstrated the best type of\nChristian living with which he had ever come in contact.  On several\noccasions he accompanied George to the hall in which the special\nservices were being held.  Rather to the surprise of the Clarkes, he\nmade no response to the appeals from the missioner, which seemed to\nthem so powerful.  One Sabbath evening, however, as they sat around the\nstove, Bill expressed himself in such a way as to bring a thrill of joy\nto the hearts of those who were greatly concerned in seeing him make\nthe \"Choice of the Highest.\"\n\n\"George Clarke,\" said Bill, \"I haven't taken much stock in religion,\nbut if there's a kind that makes a man do what you and your missus did\nfor me when I wasn't fit company for a pig, I guess I ought to go in\nfor it.\"  Then in a lower and subdued tone he added, \"For anybody to\ntake an interest in me is a stunner, the dirty tough that I was.\"\n\nIt was Bill's own opinion that for him life in the bush was no longer\nsafe, and so, until his future was fully decided, he agreed to assist\nthe Clarkes with the work on the ranch.  When a few months later,\nthrough the death of a brother in the East, George Clarke decided to\nmake his home in Nova Scotia, Bill Bird said in effect, \"Where thou\ngoest, I will go.\"\n\nAnd it so happens that to-day, down by the Eastern sea, the former\nlumberjack is building a home, a business and a character.  He has not\nagain returned West, but he has often told intimate friends that there\nis a rancher's small home in the distant province which he never\nforgets; and he thanks God for those who valued a dirty, wrecked, but\nGod-loved man more than furniture and carpets, and whose hospitality\nand service awakened desires that have transformed a life.\n\nBut it was not to Bill Bird alone that an uplift came.  Let George\nClarke speak for himself.  His words were spoken as he renewed his\nacquaintance with the missioner two years later.  The audience had\ndispersed, and George and the speaker walked down the street of the\nlittle fishing village.  Bill Bird was the main subject of their\nconversation.  For a long time they stood in the darkness as George\nnarrated all that had transpired after the missioner's departure from\nthe Western town.  When his story was ended, the missioner clasped his\nhand and said, \"God bless you, Clarke, for what you did in Bill's\nbehalf.  If only we could multiply that kind of effort we could redeem\nthis dominion.\"\n\nGeorge clung to the extended hand as he said, \"You are very good, sir,\nto say that to me, but I tell you honestly, when I tried to do that\nlittle bit for Bill Bird, I did a deal more for George Clarke.  I have\nhad my ups and downs as you know.  Since I've been in the East I've\ndone pretty well on the whole, but honestly, sir, the palmiest days\nI've ever had, and the best returns my bank-book ever showed, are as\nnothing in value compared to the satisfaction that came to me and my\nwife when we saw Bill Bird solidly on his feet as a Christian man.  If\nyou're going back by the Intercolonial, try to stop over at C----.\nBill would be mighty glad to see you, and you'll see what the Lord can\ndo with a man who has gone even as far as the \"snake-room.\"\n\n[Illustration:\n  1. Part of a Town Site after being swept by Bush Fires.\n  2. A Bush Fire getting under way.]\n\n[Illustration:\n  1. Improvised Dwellings: cover districts into which\n  people have fled for safety.\n  2. The long line of Coke Ovens.  (See page 183.)\n  3. The Fire rapidly approaching.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BUSH FIRE.\n\n\"Bush fires are said to be raging throughout the vicinity of Lundville.\"\n\nThis bulletin was one of several occupying the boards in front of \"The\nJournal\" building in Carlton Mines--a British Columbia mining town.  As\nLundville was thirty miles south-west, no unusual anxiety was felt by\nthose who read the brief announcement about noon-tide on an August day.\nThe atmosphere had been heavy with smoke for the past forty-eight\nhours; but that was not at all uncommon during that month.\n\nBy nightfall, however, the town was enveloped in a dense cloud of\nsmoke; and from the roofs of high buildings on the outskirts the\natmosphere seemed to be penetrated by the lurid glow of the raging\nfires which now extended for several miles.  Telephone communication\nwith Lundville had been impossible since noon, and from Burnt River,\nonly fifteen miles away, the last message received told of the whole\npopulation being engaged in a desperate effort to effectively check the\nfire which threatened to wipe out the village.  From Burnt River to\nCarlton Mines there were unbroken timber lands, a fact which caused\ndeep anxiety to many of the inhabitants of the mining town.  Not a few\nretired that night with forebodings that made anything but fitful and\ntroubled sleep impossible.  Many were the fervent hopes that ere\nmorning the heavens might open and send forth an abundance of rain upon\nthe sapless woods and withered grasses.  Nothing but a heavy downpour\nof several hours' duration would penetrate the parched earth far enough\nto quench the fire which was well into the root-filled soil.\n\nFire rangers, assisted by many citizens, including nearly a hundred\nminers, spent the night in the woods at the edge of the town, cutting\ndown as much bush as was possible, and clearing it away from such\npoints as were considered dangerous connecting links with Carlton\nMines.  By dawn it was felt that the night's hard toil and the\nprecautions taken had left the town fairly secure.\n\nShortly after daylight, however, the rough trail into Carlton Mines was\ndotted for miles with settlers hurrying distractedly, they scarcely\nknew where, before the cruel flames that had driven them from their\nhomes, and that had by this time destroyed those homes and many other\nresults of several years of hard labour.\n\nAll sorts of vehicles, from home-made toy wagons to dump-carts and\nranch-wagons were loaded with household effects, some of which had to\nbe left behind, when a few hours later, all that most people could hope\nto save was life itself.\n\nBy six o'clock, fire, church, and school-bells clanged out their\ngeneral alarm, calling every available citizen to the fire-fighting,\nthat perchance united effort might save the town.  Already huge sparks\nwere raining upon the south-west section, but fortunately in that\nsection the shacks and buildings were few and far between.  Yet it was\nsoon apparent that the fire-fighters could not hold their position,\neven there, but would have to take up a fresh stand nearer the town's\ncentre.  Every household was on guard; tubs, barrels, pails, milkcans\nand kitchen utensils were filled with water, and for a time the falling\nsparks were quenched almost as quickly as they fell.  Straddle-legged\non the ridge of the roofs in the fire zone, boys and men with dampened\nclothes were kept busy extinguishing the sparks that would so easily\nignite shingles upon which no rain had fallen for five weeks.\n\nThroughout these long anxious hours, when men were toiling side by side\nfor the protection of their town and their homes, no man had acquitted\nhimself more worthily than the stalwart minister of St. Paul's Church.\nUntil that night no one knew how he could make the chips fly from the\ntree trunk, and when the most needed work was the turning over of sods\nto arrest the fire running through the dry grass, no hands were readier\nthan those of the Reverend Walter Nicholson, and when his palms began\nto blister and to peel, no one knew of it except himself.\n\nWhen, after the general alarm, reinforcements arrived, he felt he could\nno longer leave his loved ones without some word of the probable and\nimmediate danger.  Stopping at only one or two homes on the way, he\nhastened to the manse.  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Mrs.\nNicholson could not restrain her laughter, as her husband stood,\ncoatless and vestless, at the door of the dining-room.  Pieces of\ncoarse string had been substituted for certain important buttons which\nhad been lost in his strenuous activity at the fire-fighting.  The\nall-night's toil in the dirt and the smoke, amidst falling ashes, had\ntransformed the immaculately clean husband into a dirt-begrimed\nlabourer.\n\n\"It looks as if the town was doomed, Jess,\" he commenced.  \"The\nbrewery's gone (though that's no particular loss), and a number of\nshacks are already burnt down.  I must get right back with the men, but\nin the meantime you'd better get what you value most into a couple of\nvalises.  You'll need a few extra clothes for the youngsters and\nyourself.  Put my marginal bible and my black suit in if you can.  It's\nof no use trying to take much, as we may have to foot it for quite a\ndistance.  The 'Eastbound' hasn't come in yet, and it's hard to get any\ninformation because the wires are down, but it looks as if some of the\nbridges had been burned, so there isn't much hope of getting out by\nrail.  You can count on me being back in about half an hour.\"\n\nMrs. Nicholson, as a bride, had brought to her Western home the\nhandiwork of three busy years, and when the furnishing had been\ncompleted and her \"extras\" tastefully arranged, the minister and his\nyoung wife had looked with grateful pride upon the attractiveness of\nthe manse.  During the ten subsequent years her enthusiasm in keeping\nthat home orderly, clean and cosy, had never failed.  And now she had\nless than half an hour in which to select what she most desired from\nthat home that had become endeared by ten years of effort to keep it,\nas it had been kept, a radiant centre of helpfulness--and that\nselection from their entire earthly possessions must fit the narrow\ncompass of two valises.\n\nThe reader who is able to imagine Mrs. Nicholson's feelings on that\nmemorable nineteenth day of August will readily believe that a few\nminutes were lost in the feeling of helplessness as to what was best to\nselect.  A glance through the window at the smoke-filled street, and\noccasional sparks, put an end to her hesitancy.  Whatever was to be\ndone must be done quickly.  Her husband's request was first complied\nwith, then such clothing as she and the children might need was\nincluded, and a small supply of food for immediate needs.  Within a few\nminutes she had gathered together the few articles of jewellery she\npossessed, a package of business papers, a bit of silverware, one or\ntwo photographs, and an \"encyclop\u00e6dic\" scrapbook which contained, among\nmany other interesting items, several newspaper clippings of the work\nand doings of the Rev. W. Nicholson.  From her much-prized secretary, a\nChristmas gift from the children in her Sunday School class, she took a\nlocket in which was a small curl of hair--her mother's hair.\n\nIn her hurried packing she had not forgotten that at least two things\nmust be included from her box of relics and sentimental treasures in\nthe attic.  The first pair of baby shoes ever worn in the manse were\namong Mrs. Nicholson's most valued reminders of the happy days spent in\ncaring for Baby Dorothy--now a bright girl of eight years.  Whenever a\nvisit had been made to the box in the attic, the little shoes were\nalways taken out and looked upon with a loving smile.\n\nThere were many other articles of much greater value than what was Mrs.\nNicholson's final selection, but she could not leave \"dear little\nHugh's favourite toy.\"  How he had loved that little horse!  Even after\nthe terrible accident that had left the \"gee gee\" noseless, nothing\ncould ever displace it in his affections.  For at least a year it had\nshared his bed without one night's exception, and though it was usually\ntaken from his arms after the little lad had fallen asleep, it was\nalways placed on the chair at the bed-side, so that on awakening he\nmight immediately find his valued wooden friend.  And when, during his\nlong and fatal illness, he was unable to take an interest in any other\ntoys, the wasted hand would rest for hours across the back of the\nbroken toy-horse.  And so the noseless little animal, with its stand\nminus two wheels, found a place among the most valued things that were\nchosen from the well-furnished manse when but a brief half-hour was\ngiven in which to make a final choice.\n\nThe thirty minutes had not fully elapsed when Mr. Nicholson came\nrushing in to say there was not a moment to lose.  The wind by this\ntime had increased well-nigh to a hurricane, and no force of men could\nhave protected the buildings from the fiery embers that were being\nhurled in large quantities in all directions.\n\nWalter Nicholson went forth with the two valises strapped over his\nshoulders, while on his left arm he carried his eighteen months old\nbaby boy.  Close behind him came his wife with a few extra wraps thrown\nover one arm, and her free hand clasping that of the trembling little\nDorothy.  Thus the Nicholson family departed from the manse, that\ntwelve hours later was nothing but a heap of smouldering ashes.\n\nThe streets were filled with terror-stricken people laden with such of\ntheir worldly possessions as their strength would allow.  The fierce\nwind hastened them on in their frenzied race for life.  Shouts,\nshrieks, agonized cries and prayers greeted the ears of the minister\nand his wife as they joined the homeless throng on the streets of\nCarlton Mines.  \"Every house in Freeman's Terrace is burning.\"  \"The\nMethodist Church is ablaze.\"  \"The Opera House was on fire when we came\nby.\"  \"Oh, my God! what'll we all do?\"  \"There won't be a house left in\ntown.\"  \"God have mercy on us!\"  Such were the cries from scores of\nvoices in the terrified crowd.\n\nHere and there aged and sick folk were being borne in the arms of loved\nones or neighbours, although each one rendering such willing service\nknew that the delay involved was imperilling his own life.  Perhaps the\nsaddest sight in the whole sad procession was that of a poor Italian\nwoman, whose little girl had died the previous morning.  The father was\nworking in a construction gang several miles away, and the word of the\nchild's death had not yet reached him.  When the fire had spread to the\nhumble dwelling, the distracted and sorrow-stricken mother could not\nendure the thought of leaving her darling to the devouring flames.\nTenderly lifting the little one from the casket, she wrapped a shawl\naround the lifeless form and struggled with her burden alongside of\nsome who knew not what she carried.  Cries and prayers in her native\ntongue were intermingled with her broken English.\n\nWalter Nicholson had forgotten for the moment that the previous\nafternoon he had heard of the poor woman's sorrow and had fully\nintended to at least call and offer such sympathy and help as was\npossible.  But the call to the fire-fighting had caused everything else\nto be put aside.  When, however, he heard the pathetic wail, \"Oh, ma\nAnnetta, ma leetle Annetta,\" and glanced at the strange-looking bundle\nthe Italian woman was carrying, he at once surmised the meaning of it\nall.\n\nBurdened and anxious though he was, he walked alongside of the lonely\nmother that he might share her burden also.  The sad-eyed woman looked\ninto his face, and in an appealing tone said, \"Please not mak' her go\nfrom me--ma dear leetle Annetta.  Da father, he no come yet.  Oh! he\nmust come first!\"  Walter Nicholson hurriedly readjusted his baggage\nand then held his baby boy so as to leave his right arm free to give\nthe poor Italian woman such support as was possible.  The assistance\ngiven was only slight, but his sympathetic words and the touch of his\nhand soothed a little the aching heart of one who felt that day the\nloneliness of a bereaved stranger in a strange land.\n\nInformation was passed through the fleeing crowd that the work-train\nwas taking the people out of danger as rapidly as possible, and that\nthe best course to pursue was to make for the railway station.  In any\ncase, the railway track eastward would be the safest highway down the\nPass, as the mountain stream two miles away might be reached on foot if\nnecessary.  A place of at least temporary protection would be found\nthere.\n\nBefore the station-house was reached, another member was added to the\nNicholson party.  A lad of not more than five years had either wandered\naway from his home before his friends had felt the necessity to leave,\nor had become separated from them on the way.  At any rate, he was\ndoing his very best to make everybody acquainted with the fact that he\nwas lost.  To attempt to locate his friends was out of the question.\nMrs. Nicholson bent over him for a moment, and her words and looks\nproduced a quieting effect on the little lad, who at once did as he was\nbidden, and clung to one of the wraps on the arm of his newly-found\nguardian.\n\nBy the time the railway station was reached the fire had made such\nheadway that it would have been impossible to make a safe return as far\nas the manse, which had been left less than fifteen minutes before.\nThe frame buildings of which most of the town was composed made the\nonrush of the flames the more rapid.\n\nThe station platform was packed with an impatient crowd awaiting the\nreturn of the work-train which had already made two trips as far as the\ncoke-ovens at Twyford.  The line was single track, and the only\nrolling-stock available consisted of an antiquated engine and two dingy\npassenger cars with rough board seats lengthwise beneath the windows.\nThe morning of the fire there had been added to these cars a few open\ncoal trucks.  The old engine could not make the grades with anything\nbut a light train, so that it was seen by many how improbable it was\nthat all those then waiting could find transportation before the\nbuildings around them would be licked up by the approaching fire.\nSurrounding roofs had been saturated by the station fire-hose, but the\ngauge-ball on the water-tank was rapidly lowering, and the engineer at\nthe pump-house had been compelled to leave his post half an hour\nbefore, so that at best their protection by water was a matter of only\nan hour or so.\n\nYet it needed no small amount of courage to isolate oneself from the\nthrong and to pass out of sight in that heavy cloud of smoke which\nprevented one seeing more than a short distance ahead.  The fire now\nseemed to have gained headway in other directions, so that even if they\nwent forth they might soon find themselves in a position where advance\nand retreat were alike impossible.  Frequent explosions and loudly\ncrackling timbers added to the anxiety of those who awaited the return\nof the work-train.\n\nThe Rev. Walter Nicholson was soon surrounded by a group of those\nanxious to hear any suggestion he had to make.  The Station Agent\nassured him that even if the track remained clear, at least two\nadditional trips would need to be made before all on the platform could\nbe removed to a place of safety.  \"Then the wires are dead, Mr.\nNicholson, and we've no news of any other train being on the way, so\nthere isn't a minute to spare.\"  He explained that the station-yard\nmight be a comparatively safe place for a while, yet, in view of the\nextent of the fire, those remaining might find themselves hemmed in and\nhave difficulty in getting over the burned and burning earth for many\nhours.  Several buildings west of the station had already collapsed,\nblocking certain portions of the road-bed.\n\nA number decided to follow the minister's lead and start on the journey\nalong the eastward track.  Mrs. Nicholson refused to remain for the\ntrain, preferring to share the fortunes or misfortunes of her husband,\nwhile the poor Italian woman, still clinging to her precious burden,\nfollowed every move her sympathizer made.  Would she not wait and try\nto get on the train?\n\n\"Oh, no, please me walk wid you.  I will be so strong!\"  Even the\nlittle lad refused to be transferred to the care of others, and as none\nwere particularly anxious to add to their responsibilities, there was\nnothing for it but to take him along.  It was no easy task that the\nNicholsons had undertaken.  The usual heat of mid-August was\nintensified by many miles of burning bush, while the smoke added\ngreatly to the discomfort.  Then the poorly ballasted track made\nwalking exceedingly tiresome.  Yet no complaints were uttered: even the\nchildren realized that every effort must be made to reach the stream\nbefore the resistless enemy overtook them.  Little more than half a\nmile had been covered when the whistle and rumble of the work-train\nannounced that it was returning for its third load of passengers.  A\nglance at the cars as the train passed was sufficient to show that fire\nhad broken out further east, at some point between the pedestrians and\nTwyford.  The old paint was covered with blisters, and many of the\nwindows were badly cracked through intense heat.  A few minutes later\nthe train returned with every foot of space occupied, even to the steps\nof cars and engine.  A number of passengers tried to let their slower\nfellow-travellers know that the station-house was in flames, but the\nnoise from the train drowned most of their words.\n\nThe inhabitants of Carlton Mines who had not driven or walked out\nearlier in the day or been conveyed on the railway were now hastening\nto the limit of their powers in the direction of Twyford.  Fortunately\nfor the almost exhausted pastor, the last half-mile of his journey was\nmade a trifle easier by the voluntary assistance of a rugged Galician\ngirl who had been well known at the manse.  One small coarse bag\ncontained her few belongings, and accustomed as she had been to long\nwalks and heavy loads when she had lived on the Saskatchewan prairie,\nthe carrying of the baby boy would make small difference to her.\n\nAnd so at last the mountain stream was reached, and after crossing the\nbridge the wearied refugees laid down their burdens on the pebbly bed\nat the water's edge.  At that point the width of the open space between\nthe stream-divided bush was only about a hundred feet, so that in case\nthe fire continued its course the danger would still be very great.\nAlready they had seen showers of sparks carried much farther than the\nshort distance that separated the banks between which they stood, and\nthere was every probability that the timber on each side of the stream\nwould be ablaze simultaneously.\n\nBut to continue their flight through the thick bush that lined both\nsides of the track for miles might be to place themselves in a much\nworse plight.  Where they now stood was an abundance of water, and\nfortunately it was shallow enough to make it safe for all to stand in\nthe centre when that time became necessary.  It would then be a matter\nof endurance against the stifling heat.\n\nWithin five minutes the number of those seeking refuge at the stream\nside was considerably over a hundred.  The Station Agent was the last\none to arrive, and reported that when the third train-load was leaving,\nthe railway yards and the station-house was seen to be on fire,\neveryone had immediately set out on foot.  He had kept in the rear to\nbe sure that no one was missing.\n\nExcept for an attempt on the part of some to safeguard certain\nbelongings by burying them in the gravel, there was nothing to do but\nwait--and to many the moments seemed as hours.  It was a race between\nold Dave Minehan, the driver on the antiquated engine from the East,\nand the devouring elements from the south-west.  Which would reach them\nfirst?  A few men acted as sentinels, and paced the track to discover\nthe progress of the fire.  The wind had dropped a little, but the\nflames were still making rapid headway, and very soon no report was\nneeded from the outposts--the fire's own voice could be heard only too\nplainly.  The agent figured out that the work-train had been due over\nten minutes--something must have happened!  Surely the train-crew\nrealized the need of the courageous ones who had voluntarily walked,\nand of the others for whom no accommodation was possible.\n\nFlames were now visible to all who were close to the bridge, and the\nscorching heat, the stifling smoke, and the ash-laden wind combined to\nmake waiting almost unendurable.  Brows of fainting ones were being\nbathed in the merciful stream, and the strongest were becoming fearful.\n\n\"Thank God, she's coming!\"  The shout was from the throat of the\nStation Agent who had been down the track listening for the return of\nthe work-train.  The words had scarcely ended when the shrill whistle\nfrom the little engine confirmed the statement.\n\nWhen a few days later a number of men were discussing the disaster, one\nof them spoke for each individual at the stream when he said, \"Say!  I\nused to hate that blooming raspy whistle, but that day it was the\nfinest bit of music I ever heard.\"\n\nDave Minehan slowed up as he neared the bridge, and the Agent signalled\nhim to stop, and at once scrambled aboard to let him know that\neverybody had reached the bridge and that there was no need to try to\ngo farther.  Old Dave was trembling with excitement and irritation, but\njust then he had no time to tell of the fretful delay over a hot box,\nand all the trouble entailed in putting in a new \"brass\" at\nTwyford--and neither then nor later did he tell of the terrible strain\nthat he had endured in taking his train through a piece of blazing bush\nthree miles down.\n\nThe eager, frightened people were rushing up the banks, but Dave kept\nhis train moving until it was about midway on the bridge.  From the cab\nhe shouted to them to \"keep off.\"  The moment he brought his train to a\nstandstill he leaped from his engine and again thundered the same\nprohibition.  Sharply he yelled to the men to line up and form a\nbucket-brigade.  The fireman passed a dozen buckets from the tender,\nand Dave, with harsh and hasty commands, got the men on their job.  For\nabout five minutes, with a rapidity that would have done credit to a\ntrained brigade, the double line passed the buckets and old Dave dashed\nthe water over such portions of the cars as in his judgment needed the\nprotection.  In the meantime he had ordered the rest of the men to soak\na few camp blankets that he had taken the precaution to bring along.\n\"There's one bad spot where you'll maybe need to cover yourselves a\nbit: it'll be raining fire by when we get back--better give your coats\nand hats a dip too, boys!  Get a move on!\"\n\nIt was no longer possible to remain on the bridge.  The old engineer\nshouted \"All aboard,\" and hurried back to his engine.  The women and\nchildren were rushed into the passenger car.  At one end stood the\nNicholsons, while in the corner the bereaved Italian mother sat with\nher lifeless child.  More than once had the minister felt that he must\ninsist on her leaving her burden behind, but each time that he glanced\nat the sad face and saw the passionate pleading of her eyes, and\nobserved the tender clasp of the mother arms, his courage deserted him.\n\nThe last foot was scarcely off the ground when old Dave reversed the\nlever and opened the throttle, and with a jerk the train started once\nmore.\n\nLet the brakeman tell the story of the return trip, as we heard it from\nhis lips months after in one of the temporary buildings that had arisen\namong the ash-heaps of Carlton Mines.\n\n\"Yes, siree, you just bet it kept me firing that morning.  The\nwest-bound express was away late, or it could have got the whole crowd\nout in two trips.  I never thought \"Old 98\" would stand the gait she\ndid that day.  On that last trip we hit a clip both ways that would\nmake your hair stand.  Davie was bound to get them people to Twyford.\nWe got a scorching on the up-trip let me tell you.  Gosh! it seemed\nlike we was running through Nebuchadnezzar's furnace.  I wondered if\nDavie would face the return trip, 'cause the blaze was getting worse\nevery minute.  I moved over to him and asked him if he was going to try\nit.  Whew!  I wish you could have seen him!  He hadn't cooled off from\nthe mad he had on at Twyford.  We had to put a 'brass' on the front\ncar, and when the boys down there couldn't find their jackscrews, Davie\ngot rip-tearing mad, 'cause he knew what the rest of the crowd at\nCarlton was up against, and he was scared he might be too late.  Well,\nsir, he dumped all the bad language what was in his system on me.  It\nwas the kind you don't put in mother's letter.  He finished up with the\nsickliest kind of smile I ever set eyes on, and yelled, 'You fool: do\nyou think I'm up here on a Sunday School picnic?'  But Davie knew what\nwas what when we reached the bridge.  He lined up the bosses and\nparsons and the rest of that crowd like he was a British General.  And\nhe got his orders obeyed in double-quick time too.\n\n\"But it was that last down-trip that this child won't need a diary to\nremember by!  Gee! you know that curve about a mile and a half below\nthe bridge?  Well, we'd got most all the head on we could carry, and I\nwas feeling about as safe as if I was having a smoke on a can of\ndynamite.  I was watching for Dave to slow up for the curve, but blame\nme if he didn't open the throttle another notch.\n\n\"As Billy S---- would say, 'Religion isn't my long suit,' but I got\nready to say my prayers; I backed up a bit into the coal-bunker, and\ngripped the side of the tender, and I told the Almighty I hadn't\nbothered Him much for a long time, but that if He'd keep the cars on\nthe track around the curve I'd be much obliged.  Seemed to me like some\nof them cars jumped clean off the rails, and I thought we were on the\nhome stretch to Kingdom-come, but Davie brought us through O.K.  Did we\npass through much fire?  Well, I should say!  There wasn't a rail or\npost for half a mile that wasn't burning.  If it hadn't been for the\nway Davie soused them cars, and got the fellows to fix their coats and\nthe blankets, we'd never have made it.\n\n\"Did you see the watch they gave Davie?  Get him to show it to you!\nIt's a dandy--solid gold--got a whole lot of writing on the\nback--something about 'a tribute to Mr. Dave Minehan's courage and\nskill in the face of grave danger and difficulty.'  He don't say much,\nbut he's as tickled about it as the fellow what got a Christmas-box of\nsealskin underclothes.  Davie's alright, you bet.  I'd rather fire for\nhim on 'Old 98' than for any guy I know on a big Mogul.  He's a bit\nrough-like sometimes, but if he can help anybody he's on the job; he'd\nbreak his neck to do somebody a good turn.\"\n\nSuch was the brakeman's narration of Dave Minehan's final race on \"Old\n98,\" on the day that Carlton Mines was levelled by the bush fire.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe shadows of evening had fallen over Twyford on what is still\nregarded in Carlton Mines as \"disaster day.\"  The afternoon had been a\nbusy one for the inhabitants of the almost verdureless village that is\nknown chiefly for its long lines of coke-ovens.  Generous hearts had\nmade shacks and homes have an expansive hospitality that would have\nseemed incredible before the homeless throng arrived.  But after every\navailable lodging device had been resorted to there were many people\nunprovided for.  And so the coke-ovens were the best accommodation that\ncould be offered those still unhoused.\n\nIn one of these unusual lodging-houses a candle cast its dim light over\nthe figures of two men and a woman who were kneeling in the attitude of\nprayer.  In one corner a black box rested on two backless chairs.  It\nhad been made an hour or two before by the local carpenter, and covered\nwith black cloth by the kindly hands of Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson.  Little\nAnnette was to be laid away in the early morning, and this was the best\nthat loving hearts could devise in that place and under those\ncircumstances.  The manse valises had made their contribution to the\nfinal robing of little Annette, and the weeping mother, looking upon\nwhat Christ-like friends had done, clasped and kissed the hands that\nhad dealt so kindly with her and her \"leetle Annetta.\"  For nearly\neight hours the father had walked seeking his wife, and now they were\nkneeling together in the presence of their dead child.\n\nWalter Nicholson's voice was tremulous with sympathy as he commended\nthe sorrow-stricken strangers to the all-pitying Father.  The mourners\ndid not understand all that was uttered, but they understood the spirit\nthat was manifested and were deeply grateful.  A few words of comfort\nwere spoken, and the minister passed out into the darkness to another\noven in which his own loved ones were awaiting his return.  Mrs.\nNicholson was sitting on a box with Dorothy on her knee.  Angus and the\nfive-year-old stranger had fallen asleep on the ashy floor.  No trace\nhad been discovered of the lad's friends.  He could give little\ninformation beyond the fact that his name was Hans Kuyper, and that he\nwas \"losted.\"  Mrs. Nicholson had quieted the wee chap's fears, by\nassuring him that his mother would come soon, and though, with darkness\nat hand and no sign of mother, a few tears had been shed, it was not\nlong before the wearied and worn child was asleep.\n\nThe husband and father sat alongside of his loved ones in sympathetic\nsilence for a few minutes.  The all-night's toil, the hours of\nsolicitude for others, the heat of the day, the burdens carried, the\nsympathy extended and the discomforts endured, had combined to produce\na feeling of depression.  \"We have lost everything, Jess: maybe I'll\nfeel better by morning, but to-night I've lost my courage as well as\neverything else, and I can scarcely bear to think of the future.\"\n\nLittle Dorothy placed herself between her father's knees, and looking\nlovingly into eyes where the unbidden tears had forced themselves, said\nquietly, \"Isn't it a good thing, daddy, that you haven't lost mamma and\nAngus and me?\"\n\nWalter Nicholson enfolded the child in his big arms and kissed the\ncurl-encircled face.  \"Yes!  God bless you, little sunbeam, that is a\ngood thing, and maybe daddy was forgetting.  Now let us say the\ntwenty-third Psalm and have our good-night prayer.\"\n\nWith sometimes unsteady voices the three repeated the Psalm they had so\noften joined in at home under such different circumstances.  Then\nfather, mother and child knelt beside the box, and a prayer of\nthanksgiving and a cry for strength came from a thankful but needy\nheart.  Walter Nicholson's arm rested on Dorothy's shoulder, and his\nvoice quivered again as he thought of the little black box in the\nnear-by oven; and prayed for those to whom the past hours had brought a\ndouble sorrow that had left them homeless and childless.\n\nAs was her custom, Dorothy offered up her own prayer at her mother's\nknee.  A sweet confidence in religious matters had always existed\nbetween child and mother, and there was never any restraint in the\nexpression of the little one's thought toward God.  Tired though she\nwas, her \"poetry prayers,\" as she called them, were said in full, and\nthen her own additions followed.  \"Thank you for taking care of us all,\nand we are glad that papa and mamma and Angus and Dorothy are all here.\nHelp the little boy's mamma to find him, and please to take care of the\npoor Italian woman now that her little girl is gone to heaven.  Bless\npapa and mamma and Angus, and make me a good girl, and please help us\nto get another home soon, for Jesus' sake.  Amen.\"\n\nThe fire had almost spent itself by nightfall, and with the dawn the\nlong-wished-for rain began to fall.  By the middle of the forenoon the\ndanger of any further outbreak was past.  The construction gang from\nthe East, and a number of section men from the West, were immediately\nput to work at clearing the track and repairing culverts and bridges.\n\nBy the middle of the afternoon a number of men who had fled from the\nburning town were able to make the return trip.  For four or five miles\nthe outlook from the car-windows was a very dreary one.  The underbrush\nhad been entirely burned up, and of the standing timber little but\ncharred, jagged remnants of tree-trunks remained.  Only here and there\nhad a telegraph pole escaped, and even the protruding ends of many of\nthe railway ties had smouldered to the ballast.\n\nThe entire business section of Carlton Mines was destroyed.  A few\nisolated buildings in the residential portion north-west, and a few in\nthe north-east had escaped, but all the rest had been reduced to ashes.\nWhat could be done under such circumstances?  Who would have the\ncourage to attempt a fresh start and face all the difficulties arising\nout of such a disaster?  Who?  _Every man who that afternoon stood\ngazing at those ash-heaps_.  With that inextinguishable optimism that\nhas its headquarters in Western Canada, they began then and there to\nformulate their plans.  Several contracts for rebuilding were signed\nbefore night, and ere the ashes were cold, men started to rear a new\nand better town.\n\nThe preacher, with the rest of the impoverished ones, went back to his\njob.  Not only did he assist in clearing away the debris, in\npreparation for a new church and manse, but many a lift did he give to\nothers who were busily engaged in getting a roof over their heads.\n\nDuring the months of rebuilding he preached successfully in the\nopen-air, in shack-restaurant, sawmill, hotel, opera-house, and\nfinally, after many disappointments and discouragements, in the new\nchurch.\n\nAmong the interesting contributions received by Mr. Nicholson for the\nBuilding Fund, was one from the mother of the boy who was \"losted.\"\nWhen on the morning of the fire she was compelled to hastily leave her\ndwelling, she felt quite sure her little lad was with some of his\nplaymates in a neighbour's home.  On the way she discovered that her\nfriends had already departed, but she was still hopeful that her boy\nwas in their care.  And so she had very gladly accepted a ride in one\nof the last vehicles leaving the town, and, after a rough and rapid\ndrive, had reached a mining camp a mile or two south of Twyford.  Her\nfriends had gone in a different direction, and it was over twenty-four\nhours before she found them.\n\nThey could give her no news of her lost boy, and she began to fear that\nhe had never left the town.  Two days later, without having received\nany word of his whereabouts, she suddenly saw him, riding \"pickaback\"\nwith arms twined around the neck of the Rev. Walter Nicholson.\n\nMr. Nicholson still delights to tell how the mother and child were\nunexpectedly brought face to face as he was turning the corner of a\nbuilding.  He professes to have confused memories of certain details,\nbut states that before he had a chance to get the lad from his\nshoulders or extricate himself, he was the centre of the most vigorous\nhugging and kissing imaginable.  When the overjoyed mother learned all\nthat had taken place, her gratitude to those who had befriended her boy\nwas simply unbounded.  For some months after the fire she struggled\nalong in a small shack several miles away from Carlton Mines.  The\nfollowing letter from her to Mr. Nicholson is reproduced exactly as\nwritten, except for corrections in spelling:\n\n\n\"DEAR SIR,--I shall thank you very much for what you have done to me.\nNever will I not forget it.  It is sorry for me that I not can write\nmuch English.  Dear Sir, I am well here, but the work is very still and\nso we not can get money.  I went to the church on all the Sunday.  I am\nglad to be a better woman.  I wish you my blessing and Hans do it too.\nAfter 25th I will send you $1.00 for your another church.--G. KUYPER.\"\n\n\nThe one dollar arrived in due time, and knowing the sacrifice it\ninvolved, it was valued out of all proportion to the amount.\n\nWalter Nicholson's courage in facing the future did not fail.  He\nstayed at his post until his work was completed.  To \"preach to a\nprocession,\" as the work in some districts has frequently been\ndescribed, to face an appalling indifference on the part of some, and a\ncynical antagonism on the part of others, and to struggle along with an\ninadequate income, constitutes a task that only the bravest can face\nyear after year, yet in the face of all this he said cheerfully, \"I've\nseen a lot of preachers come and go, but I think God wants me here, and\nthe need is call enough for any man, so here I stay as long as He\nwills.  I've had many rewards, and I thank God I've had the chance to\ndo my bit in this great Westland.\"\n\n\n\n\nRUTH AND THE PRODIGAL\n\nTHE PRODIGAL\n\n\"Isn't he awful looking, Mother?  Why does daddy let him come in so\nmuch?  I don't like the way the study smells after he's been in.\"\n\nLittle Ruth, of a village manse, made many other observations, and\nasked many other questions as a poor, wretched-looking man shuffled\nacross the lawn in the early evening of an autumn day.\n\nThe mother's smile changed quickly to a look of sadness, and giving the\nwee girl a kiss, she said, \"Mother will tell Ruthie all about it at\nstory-time to-night.\"\n\nFrom the Children's Bible Story Book that night the mother read of the\nProdigal Son.  There were a number of interruptions from the occupant\nof the little bed: \"Why didn't he go home before he got so dreadful\nhungry, Mother?\"  \"Where was his mother?\"  \"Why did his father run so\nfar?\"\n\nAfter answering many questions the mother continued: \"There are lots\nand lots of prodigal sons still living; men who have been bad, and who\nthen, like some little children who have been naughty, run away from\nthose who love them best.  And all the time those who love them are\nwishing so much that they would come back, and say they are sorry and\nthat they will try to be better.  God is our Father, and He loves\neverybody; you know what we often say when daddy has prayers: 'For God\nso loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever\nbelieveth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'  Well,\ndarling, you wanted to know why daddy let poor Mr. Gage come in so\noften?  He lets him come because God would let him come.  The poor man\nthinks that God doesn't want him because he's been so bad, and because\nhe's gone, oh! so far away, and daddy is trying to tell him that God\ndoes want him, and that God will take care of him if he will only love\nHim and trust Him, like you trust daddy and mother to take care of you.\nMr. Gage is awful looking because sin is awful, and he has let sin be\nhis master instead of God.  But mother's darling will be nice and kind\nto him, because God loves him, and we must love those whom God loves.\nPerhaps some day you will see him look as much different as the\nProdigal Son looked after he came back home.\"\n\nRuth did not altogether forget her mother's words, and when the\nhalf-drunken man was brought to the Manse for a meal a little later on\nin the week, she somewhat timorously handed him two or three asters\nthat she had picked from the garden.  John Gage looked a little\nembarrassed, and at first seemed inclined to leave them in Ruth's\npossession, but the little hand remained outstretched, and with sweet\nwinsomeness the child told him she had picked them for him.\n\n\"Picked them for me!  Well, well! then I guess I'll take them.  Thank\nyou.\"\n\nOn several occasions, as he sauntered around the village, his attention\nwas arrested by a childish voice calling him by name, so that he came\nto feel he had a friend in the minister's little girl.\n\nThere were many head-shakings among the village wiseacres regarding the\nminister's interest in John Gage.  It was generally agreed that while\nthe preacher was well meaning enough, his knowledge of human nature was\nnot very keen.  The village constable knew John so well that he felt\nable to speak authoritatively on the matter.  \"'Tain't no use, young\nman,\" he said to the preacher.  \"We wus talking about him the other day\nin Cyrus Haag's blacksmith shop, and every man says the same as I do.\nHe's just a-bleeding you, that's all.  Five years' hard labour is what\nhe needs; s'long as you'll take care of him when he's drunk, and feed\nhim when he's broke, he'll just bum around.  Don't I know the whole\nbunch?  Didn't me and the county constable arrest his father when he\npretty nigh murdered Sam Collins?  Ain't his brother in Kingston\nPenitentiary this very minute?  The only way to improve them fellers is\nto hang 'em.\"\n\nThe authoritative information having been given the preacher, there was\nno further need of sympathy for him if he wilfully rejected the\nconstable's gratuitous, labour-and-money-saving counsel.\n\nAnd the passing of the weeks seemed to confirm the \"'tain't-no-use\"\njudgment.  People living near the Manse reported everything that\nhappened, and a good deal that did not happen, in connection with the\nvisits of John Gage and others of his type, for it was generally known\nthat the preacher was \"easy.\"  But the preacher went on with his work,\nand whatever the results of his efforts might be, nobody ever doubted\nhis belief in the Gospel he preached.\n\nEvery Sabbath evening, in some form or other, he dealt with the Fact of\nSin and its Soul-destroying power.  He knew that \"sin and punishment go\nthrough the world with their heads tied together,\" but he knew also,\nand he preached it as a fact that for him was beyond all controversy,\nthat by immediate act of God salvation might come, and had come,\ndelivering the life from the gripping, enslaving, murderous power of\nsin.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe year was drawing to its close.  The little village had its share of\nChristmas festivities, and family reunions were taking place.  There\nwere men from the East, and men from the West, back in the old haunts\nfor the holiday season.  Wonderful stories of material success were\ntold as \"the boys\" from the West expounded the opportunities of the\nprairie provinces.  As is too often the case, the bar-room was the main\nsocial centre of week-day life in the village, and John Gage was always\nready to fall into line when the prosperous ones gave the all-inclusive\ninvitation, \"Come on, boys.\"  And so long as John helped to swell the\nreceipts, his drunken presence was tolerated around the bar.  Scores of\ntimes did he join in the greeting \"A Merry Christmas,\" and the merrier\nit seemed to be to the frequenters of the Derby House bar, the sadder\nit really was to the homes from which they came.\n\n\n\nTHE PRODIGAL'S DELIRIUM\n\nWeeks of drinking, followed by the revelry of Christmas, brought John\nto such a condition that when the bar-room closed on Saturday night he\nwas turned out of the house, and a little later dragged out of a corner\nof the drive-shed, and told to \"get clean away\" from the premises.\n\nThere was a strange look about the man on this particular Saturday\nnight--a wild, almost savage appearance.  He stood a moment on the\nsidewalk as if uncertain of his whereabouts, and then turned and walked\nin the direction of the Manse.\n\nThe minister answered the door-bell, and without a word John walked\nright in and through the hall to the study.  At last he spoke.\n\"You--told--me--to--come--any--time.\nI--want--to--stay--here--to-night.\"  Then, with body bent, and as if in\npain, with arms crossed, he rocked himself to and fro.  \"Oh, God! but\nI'm sick; three days nothing but whiskey: I've got it to-night for\nsure.\"\n\nAfter much persuading the minister had the man in bed.  The mistress of\nthe Manse had prepared strong coffee as fast as her trembling body\nwould let her.  Once before she had passed through a night such as she\nfeared this would be, and the prospect might well make her timorous.\nBut the Manse and its furniture had three years ago been pledged to His\nservice, and she murmured not.\n\nThe doctor had been sent for, but he was on a country call, and was not\nexpected back until eleven.\n\nAt one end of the bedroom the minister sat watching John Gage.  In some\nway the drink-inflamed man had placed under his pillow an old revolver\nand a short stiletto.  After a time the hands clasped these with a\nvice-like grip.  Suddenly standing out on the carpet he looked at the\npreacher, and said, \"Why in the devil don't you go home?  D'you want a\nfight?  Say!  I could rip you so's they'd have to pick you up in\nbaskets.\"\n\nA little later he imagined he was once more on the South African\nbattle-field.  With a sickening shudder he pointed to where his deluded\neyes saw again the wounded and bleeding.  \"My God! see that poor devil\nwith his leg nearly off!  Look! ain't that awful.  See that one\nsquirming!--him yonder with his head half open!\"  Then straightening\nhimself, he said, as if addressing some audience, \"Friends, I say, and\nI know, _war is hell_!\"\n\nFrom time to time, under persuasion, he would return to his bed.  Once\nhe imagined he was driving down the old concession road near his\ngrandfather's farm as in boyhood days.  The sheets were jerked and\nhandled as if reins.  \"Well, now, this _is_ a slow horse.  It will,\nladies and gentlemen, be quite appropriate to sing we won't get home\ntill morning.'  I tell you what I'll do--I'll put the horse in the rig,\nand I'll get in the shafts, and then there'll be a horse in the buggy\nand an ass in the shafts, but we'll make better time.\"  Then followed a\nweird burst of laughter.\n\nThe doctor arrived about midnight.  For a couple of hours he watched\nthe effect of his treatment, but rest would not come to the occupant of\nthe guest-room.  The eyes would appear to be closing in sleep, and then\nwould suddenly open wide as if their owner were in terror of some\nimpending disaster.  Then the danger spot seemed to have been located,\nand with a series of jerks the head was raised higher and higher until\nJohn was sitting up in bed.  Never once did the gaze leave the corner\nof the room.  With the utmost stealth, first one foot and then the\nother was pushed from under the bedclothes to the floor.  Very slowly\nand noiselessly, with knife still gripped, the demon-possessed man\nglided toward the corner.  With great caution, as if measuring the\ndistance, he bent the left knee, and at the same time lifted the right\nhand ready to strike.  Then with blasphemous exclamations he stabbed\nthe imaginary monstrosities.  Again and again he seemed hurled back as\nby some real enemy in the fight.  At last the knife went deep into the\nfloor, and he seemed to have conquered.  Never once taking his gaze\nfrom where the knife stood he backed slowly toward the bed.  \"Ah!  I\ngot him that time!  See him! see him!\"  Then followed a blood-chilling\nburst of profanity at the wriggling object of his delirium.  \"But he\ncan't get up!  No! no! no! it's through his neck.\"\n\nAnd so the long night wore on, and the wearied preacher, looking upon\nwhat drink could do with \"God's Masterpiece,\" vowed anew to fight the\ncursed traffic in intoxicants as long as life lasted, and never\nknowingly to have his home defiled by such a life-blasting beverage.\n\nIt was nearly seven o'clock on Sabbath morning when John Gage fell\nasleep.  At ten o'clock the bell of the adjoining church awakened him.\nThe minister had anticipated the awakening, and was at the bedside.\nJohn seemed dazed for a time, but in a little while conversed with the\none who had befriended him.  He was urged to remain quietly in bed, and\nafter a few words the minister clasped the hand of the outcast man, and\nkneeling at the bedside, laid the burden of his heart upon the One who\nis mighty to save.  As the Amen was uttered Ruth approached the door.\n\"Alright, little one, come and see your friend John,\" were her father's\nwords.  Ruth was ready for church, and with garments and face alike\nattractive, laid her little hand in the big hand of the sin-wrecked\nman.  Who can understand the power of the touch of a child's hand?\nClosing his fingers over the dainty, wee hand, John Gage turned his\nface to the wall and sobbed aloud.  Little Ruth hardly knew what to do.\nGently she placed the other hand on the dirty, unshaven cheek, and\nmerely said sympathetically, \"Don't cry.\"\n\nJohn turned his head back again long enough to say brokenly, \"God bless\nyou, little gal.\"\n\n[Illustration:\n  1. British Columbia Miners off shift.\n  2. Wrecked through a wash-out.\n  3. A section of a Mountain Mining Town.]\n\nLeading Ruth out the room, the minister gathered up his books and went\nto the morning service.  When he returned John Gage had departed.\nEarly Monday morning Allan Short, a near-by farmer, called to tell him\nthat John was out at his place cutting away at the winter's wood-pile.\nAllan promised to do what he could for John, but incidentally remarked\nthat he did not see why a man couldn't \"take a glass of beer without\nmaking a fool of himself.\"\n\n[Illustration:\n  1. An Exhausted Prospector.\n  2. A Miner's Washing Day.\n  3. Ready to start for the hills to inspect a mine.\n  4. Miners off to their daily toil.]\n\nA day or two later the minister drove by the Short homestead,\npresumably to make a call at the Meen's farm, where he had several\nfaithful church-goers.  As he passed, he recognised John at the\nsaw-horse, and waved a greeting as to a friend.\n\nOn his return he drove up the road to the Short Farm, and John at once\ncame forward, with the customary Canadian courtesy, to tie up or\nunhitch the horse, according to the visitor's wish.  After a few\npleasantries the minister went to the house and made a call on such\nmembers of the Short family as were home, and then returned to where\nhis horse was tied.  Hesitating a moment, he turned and walked to the\nwood-pile, and after complimenting John on his ability to swing the\naxe, spoke a few encouraging words.  For a moment the hand rested on\nJohn's shoulder as he said, \"You will be one of God's good men yet,\nJohn.  I know it's a terrible fight, but God knows all about it, and\nwith Him you can conquer.  Come and see us any time you are in, but for\nthe life of you don't loiter around the village, and do keep clear of\nthe men who would be likely to make it easy for you to get what you\nknow is ruinous to you.  And don't forget we are your friends always,\nalways.\"\n\nAs he turned the corner of the side road, he met Allan Short returning\nfrom a trip to the village.  Referring to John Gage the farmer said,\n\"He's been as straight as a British Columbia pine since he came out;\nbut, say! it's kind o' pitiful, after all, the way he craves for\nwhiskey.  Me and the Missus watched him yesterday.  She's been keeping\nher eyes open.  Well!  John was taking a breathing spell, after he had\ndone a fine lot of splitting (and he's no greenhorn with the axe, let\nme tell you!), when all of a sudden he went to the fence-post where his\ncoat was hanging, and putting it on as he walked, he made down the\nroad.  He got about ten rod and then stopped like as if he'd forgotten\nsomething, and then he started back, took off his coat, and pitched\ninto that wood-pile as if it was sure death if he didn't get it\nfinished by night.  The missus says he's done the same thing three\ntimes to her knowledge, and once he went so far she was sure he was\ngone for good.  But she says he sure did 'lambaste' them blocks when he\ngot back.\"\n\n\n\nRUTH'S ILLNESS\n\nThe following Sunday morning little Ruth was missing from the Manse\npew, and her absence from that service was so unusual as to cause many\ninquiries.\n\n\"Nothing serious,\" said the mother.  \"Just a little throat trouble, and\nas she seemed somewhat feverish we thought we had better leave her at\nhome.  Lizzie is taking care of her.\"\n\nBut on Monday morning the doctor looked very anxious after an\nexamination of Ruth's throat, and in departing advised the minister to\nkeep out of the child's room until an examination a few hours later.\n\nOn Tuesday morning it was a bit of village news that was passed from\nmouth to mouth, that the minister's little girl had diphtheria, and\nthat the house was placarded.  The occupants of the Manse were deeply\ntouched during the following days by that spontaneous expression of\npractical sympathy that is characteristic of village life.  But perhaps\nno one stirred the deepest emotions as did John Gage.  Darkness had\nfallen over the village on Tuesday before he had heard of Ruth's\nsickness.  There was some look of solicitation on Mrs. Short's face\nwhen John \"guessed\" he would stroll to the village.\n\nHe answered the look by saying almost curtly, \"I'm going to the Manse.\"\n\nThe little patient's symptoms showed severe infection, and a second\ndoctor was in consultation when the minister heard a very gentle rap on\nthe door.\n\n\"Sorry I can't ask you in, John,\" he said, as he saw John standing on\nthe verandah.\n\n\"How is she?\" asked the caller, in a tone that revealed a great concern.\n\n\"She is a very sick little girl, John.  Dr. Dodds is with Dr. Burnett\njust now.  We can only give her the best care possible, and hope and\npray.  It is good of you to call, and when the wee girl is better she\nwill be pleased to know you came.  The poor little soul has been\nrestless and feverish all the afternoon.\"\n\n\"Poor little gal!  Tell her John hopes she'll soon be alright.  I ain't\nmuch of a friend, God knows, but all the same I've been that lonesome\nlike, since I heard she was sick, I don't feel as if I want to do\nanything, but just wait around.  If there's any job I can do to help, I\ngive you my word I'll be in trim to do it as long as the little gal\nneeds me.\"\n\nFor two weeks John's \"little gal\" caused anxious days and nights--some\nof them days and nights when tearful prayers were sobbed out in the\nsolitariness of study or bedroom--times when the physicians found no\nhopeful signs, and the little life seemed to be passing beyond human\nreach.  It was on one such night that John brought a few delicacies\nfrom the farm for the minister's household, and waited for the report\nfrom the sick-room.\n\n\"The doctor has been with her an hour, John, and the wee girl is alive,\nand that's all we can say.\"  The voice broke into a sob as the last\nwords were spoken.\n\nThe two men stood in silent sympathy for a few minutes, and then John\nbroke the silence.  \"She was friendly to me, sir, and I'll never forget\nit.  Lots of folks what thinks they're big toads in the puddle treats\nme as if I was dirt, but the little gal is the biggest Christian of the\nlot, and she's done me more good than the whole gang of 'em.  Say! the\nway she put her little hand on my face that Sunday morning was better'n\nany sermon I ever heard.  Queer, ain't it, but it broke me all up.\"\nThen in response to a request from the minister John continued, \"I'm\nafeared it wouldn't count much if I tried to pray, sir; but there ain't\nanything I wouldn't try my hand at for her.\"\n\nThe following day there was better news, and two days later the little\nsufferer was able to smile in response to the tokens of love that were\nshowered upon her.\n\nThe physicians' faces relaxed, and they were delighted that\nprofessionally they were winning the battle, and the big-hearted senior\nphysician rejoiced for other reasons.  \"By the way,\" he said that night\nin the Manse study, \"I have met that fellow John Gage several times\nlately, and his interest in Ruthie is really remarkable.  I didn't\nthink it was in the man to care for anybody.  And stranger still, he\nwas sober each time.  The little girl may yet be the salvation of the\npoor chap, and do what no one else has been able to do.\"\n\nShortly before St. Valentine's Day the Manse was thoroughly fumigated,\nand the placard removed.  Ruth was amusing herself cutting out the\nkindergarten suggestions for Valentines, and sending them to selected\nfriends.  On a crudely shaped heart in poorly fashioned letters that\nshe had learned to print, were the words, \"Ruth loves John.\"  On\nFebruary the 14th, John Gage received the tiny envelope containing his\nValentine.  Nothing he had received in years pleased him quite so much.\n\n\"Now, ain't that great,\" he confided to Mrs. Short, \"'tain't worth a\ncent, I suppose, but just this very minute they're ain't enough money\nin the whole village to buy it.\"\n\n\n\nTHE PREPARATORY SERVICE\n\nThe quarterly communion service was about to be conducted in St.\nAndrew's Church.  The usual invitations had been given from the pulpit,\nand a few had called at the Manse to discuss the question of\nmembership.  It was always a time of prayerful concern on the part of\nthe minister lest any should take the step without realizing its\nobligations and privileges.  At the minister's invitation, John Gage\nhad spent over an hour in the study.\n\n\"Nothing less than an out and out surrender will do, John.  You have\nhad your way, and the devil has had his way, now you must be willing to\nlet God have full control.  There must be an entire breaking away from\npast associations, and you must take the step that can never mean\nretreat.  Unless you do that the path back to the old ways will be too\nattractive, and too easy.\"\n\nOnce again the two men read passages from well-thumbed pages in the\nstudy Bible, and again the shepherd of souls called on the One who is\nMighty to Save, and then John prayed, and as the long silence was\nbroken and a wanderer in a far country turned his face to his Father\nand uttered penitent words, the minister's tears of joy could no longer\nbe restrained.  As they rose from their knees, hands were clasped, and\nthose feelings, too deep for words, found expression in the pressure of\na protecting and a trusting hand.\n\nIn the eyes of the majority of the Kirk Session, there was little risk\nin receiving into membership the well-to-do respectable sinner, but\nwhen the minister narrated the conversations he had had with John Gage,\nand suggested his name as a candidate for membership, eyebrows were\nraised and heads shook ominously.\n\n\"Wad it no' be better to put him off for a few months to see whether he\ncould stan' alone first?\" was the question of John McNair, the senior\nelder.\n\nColonel Monteith, who was greatly burdened with the responsibility for\nmaintaining the dignity of the Presbyterian Church, wondered whether\n\"this rather disreputable man Gage would not find more congenial\nassociates down in the Free Methodist Hall.\"  Tom Rollins didn't know\n\"how the people would take it.\"\n\nMurray Meiklejohn, characterized by his reticence and good common\nsense, moved that \"John Gage be received,\" and stammeringly added that\nso far as leaving John to stand alone was concerned, he \"guessed\" they\nhad been doing that ever since he came to town, ten years ago.\n\nAnd so with some misgivings, and with some wounded pride, the Session\nincluded John Gage in its reception list.\n\nOn Friday night, an hour before the time for preparatory service, John\ncalled at the Manse.  \"I'm a-trembling all through,\" he said to the\nminister, \"and I was half-minded not to come.  If it hadn't been for\nwhat you said about the hospital being a place for sick folks, I\nwouldn't had the courage to face it.\"\n\nThe preparatory service of that night is still spoken of in the quiet\nvillage.  Perhaps the atmosphere was created by one who had prayed much\nthat day that the congregation might receive a new vision of the\nRedeemer, through the words of one for whom not an individual in the\nentire congregation had any hope six weeks before.\n\nThe sermon over, the minister and elders extended the right hand of\nfellowship to the little company occupying the front seats.\n\"To-night,\" said the minister, as he returned to the platform, \"I have\nasked my friend Mr. John Gage to say a few words.\"  The lecture-hall\nhad probably never known stiller moments than those immediately\nfollowing the announcement.\n\nJohn Gage, pale and trembling, not daring to look at his audience,\nstood facing the platform.  In a low voice he said, \"Well, friends, I\nhave been a bad man--that's no news to anybody, but God helping me I'm\ngoing to be better.  Seems like a miracle, don't it, that John Gage has\nbeen sober for five weeks?\"\n\nAs he sat down, the \"Let us pray\" of the minister preceded a petition\nfor \"our brother,\" that made most hearts tender and prayerful.\n\n\"It's a new day for St. Andrew's,\" said Murray Meiklejohn, as he shook\nthe hand of the minister after the benediction.  \"Nothing like\nto-night's meeting in my memory.  Looks as if we were going to stop\nsinging 'Rescue the Perishing' and get on the job.\"\n\nIt is no easy task for the average Presbyterian elder to utter a\nfervent \"God bless you,\" but that night hearts were stirred and tongues\nwere loosened, and John Gage felt that after all the world was not so\nunfriendly as he had imagined.  Hand after hand was extended in genuine\nwelcome.  But the finest thing of all, as the minister said a little\nlater, was the way the Colonel warmed up to John.  He had never been\nseen to manifest the same cordiality in the Church before.  \"A manly\nstep to take, sir--a manly step--needs courage to fight that kind of a\nbattle.  Personally I am glad to welcome you to St. Andrew's.\"\n\nWhen story-time came at the Manse on the following evening, Ruth was\nall attention as her mother told of the homecoming of another prodigal,\nand of all it might mean.\n\nRuth's prayer had two additional words that night.  The closing part\nwas uttered more deliberately than usual, as if in anticipation of the\nseriousness of the added petition.  \"Bless daddy and mamma,\nand--all--the--friends--I--love--_and John_, for Jesus' sake.  Amen.\"\n\n\n\nTHE TEMPTATION\n\nJohn Gage secured temporary work in the village delivering freight for\na local carter.  Whenever opportunity afforded, the _habitu\u00e9s_ of the\nbar-rooms did not spare him their sneers and jeers.  \"Folks say you're\na hell of a good preacher, John.\"  \"When are you going to wear the\nstarched dog-collar, John?\"  Calling him to a little group on the\nsidewalk, one of his former chums said, with mock solemnity, \"Let us\npray.\"  A roar of laughter followed, as John, crimson-faced, walked\naway.\n\nThere were days when the sting in some of the taunts was hard to\nbear--days when only One knows the conflict in that will that had\nbecome enfeebled by sin.  But John Gage was steadily gaining the\nvictory, and the visits to the Manse and the new friends around the\nchurch were displacing the former associations.\n\nSigns of a material prosperity that John had never before known were\ngradually appearing.  The village tailor took particular pride one\nmorning in showing the minister a piece of blue serge, \"as fine a bit\nof goods as is imported.  I'm cutting a suit out of it for John Gage,\nand it will be as good as I can make it.  Did you ever think how much\nthe tailor can co-operate with God in fixing a man up?\"\n\nBut not all the villagers were desirous of co-operating with God in the\nreformation of John Gage.  A little crowd had gathered one night in\nMcKee's barber shop, and the minister of St. Andrew's was being harshly\ncriticized for his frequent attacks on the liquor traffic.  The\nproprietor of the pool-room, who attended St. Andrew's at the time of\nthe Lodge annual parade, announced his intention of absenting himself\nunless the minister \"minded his own business.\"  Others made similar\nthreats, which in the aggregate might bring the minister to the proper\nframe of mind which became one who \"received his bread and butter from\nsome of the very people he had been abusing.\"\n\nThen the case of John Gage was discussed, and uncomplimentary terms\nwere freely applied.  McKee thought \"it would be a d----d good joke on\nthe Presbyterian preacher if John could be made as full as a goat, and\nthen sent to the Manse.\"  To the lasting disgrace of the barber, he\nattempted to perpetrate the \"joke.\"\n\nBud Jenks was a willing tool of anybody who would reward him with a\nwhiskey, and when McKee offered him all he could take at one standing\nif he got Gage to take a drink, he was ready to at least make the\nattempt.  And so on a day when John had shovelled coal from car to\nwaggon and waggon to cellar for eight hours, and was warm, tired and\nthirsty, Bud appeared with a little pail, as if coming from the town\npump.  John was at the grating tramping the coal further into the\ncellar, and his head was about on a level with the sidewalk.\n\"Good-day, Bud,\" he called up as Bud stood for a moment.\n\n\"Good-day, John; warm job, eh?\"\n\n\"You bet it's warm,\" was the reply, as the coal-begrimed brow was wiped.\n\n\"Take a drink o' water?\" asked Bud.\n\n\"Sure I will, and thank you,\" answered the thirsty toiler with hand\nextended to the pail, which was placed on the sidewalk.  Quickly Bud\nremoved the lid, and gave the pail a tilt as the rim came near John's\nface.  Just a touch of froth from the lager beer was carried to John's\nlips, but instantly he pushed back the pail with an exclamation almost\nof pain.  At the same moment he slid further into the cellar, and\nkneeling on the coal, with hands clasped against the wall, cried out\nagain and again, \"Oh, my God, help me, help me, help me!\"\n\nBud peered into the darkness and called several times to John.  At last\nJohn approached the grating again.  \"Bud,\" he said quietly, \"for God's\nsake go away and leave me alone; I'd rather drop dead than put another\ndrop of that to my lips.\"\n\nBud did not immediately depart, despite the pleading of the man in the\ncellar, and not until a passer-by had entered into conversation with\nhim, and the two had moved off together, did John pull himself to the\nsidewalk and drive away.  \"Oh, the smell of it near drove me mad for a\nfew minutes,\" he said, as he confided the occurrence to his friends at\nthe Manse.  \"If it wasn't for the little gal, and coming up here, I'd\nget far enough away from this place, so's I wouldn't have the same\ntemptations.\"\n\n\"Temptation is not a matter of locality, John, and you would not escape\nit by crossing a continent, and besides, we need you right here.  If\nyou win out and give God the glory, you will do more to prove His power\nthan a year of sermons could.\"\n\n\n\nTHE COLONEL'S OUTBREAK\n\n\"Bully for Colonel Monteith!  He's a brick, by jinks he is!  The words\nwere uttered in an excited voice by the young minister on his return\nfrom one of his daily trips to the Post Office.\n\n\"Why, daddy,\" exclaimed the wife, \"I'll report you to the Session for\nusing bad language.  But what has happened anyway?\"\n\nIt was several minutes before the cause of the \"bad language\" could be\nsatisfactorily narrated.  The conversation in McKee's barber shop was\nrelated, and the indignation of the mistress of the Manse was all that\ncould be desired.\n\n\"Well,\" continued the minister, \"somebody who heard it happened\ncasually to tell Colonel Monteith.  Within half an hour, the Colonel\nwas in the shop.  McKee was lathering Lawyer Taskey, but that didn't\nseem an important matter to the Colonel, for without waiting until he\nwas through he at once faced him with what he had heard, and asked if\nit was true.  At first McKee tried to evade the question, but the\nColonel pressed for an answer.  'Well, suppose I did.  Is it any of\nyour business?' replied McKee.  Then with a sneer he added, 'And\nanyhow, I didn't know that you and _Mister_ John Gage were such bosom\nfriends.'  'Look here, McKee,' and the voice of the Colonel trembled\nwith emotion, 'I hold no brief for this man Gage any more than I do for\nany other man in the village, but when a fellow puts up a fight like he\nhas for the last two months--a fellow, as you know very well, with\nveins full of bad blood--it is in the highest degree reprehensible for\nany man to be even a party to such a devilish scheme as you tried to\nwork out by making a poor sot like Bud Jenks your catspaw.  And nobody,\nsir--I say, sir, nobody but a contemptible cur would attempt such a\ndastardly act.'  And then the barber got impudent and told the\ndignified elder to go on a long trip.  Moving nearer to him the Colonel\nsaid, 'Before I go there, McKee, there's a place I wish to accompany\nyou,' and quick as a flash he grabbed McKee and tried to drag him to\nthe back of the shop.  McKee didn't know what was going to happen, and\nnaturally objected some, but Jim Morton, who saw it, says the Colonel\nwas 'mad from the toes up,' and after laming a few chairs, and damaging\na mirror in the scuffle, he got the rear door open and pulled McKee\nafter him down the bank to the creek.  The barber likely surmised what\nwas the next item on the programme, and not caring for cold baths in\nMarch, he did some furious scuffling, but though the Colonel's hat and\na few buttons had disappeared, he was able to report progress.  Jim\nsays the language of McKee as he got near the water has never been\nsurpassed in Emsdale.  Lawyer Taskey felt like going to McKee's rescue,\nas he doubtless earnestly desired to have his shave finished, but when\nhe got his hat on and started down the bank the Colonel thundered\nsomething at him that caused him to decide it would be pleasanter to\nremain in the shop.\n\n\"Unfortunately the Colonel could not part company with McKee at the\ncritical moment, and the two of them fell into the water together.  The\nColonel stood the shock well enough to have sufficient presence of mind\nto immediately grab the barber and duck him thoroughly, and then the\ntwo of them scrambled out, and the air is still blue around McKee's\nplace; but taking a conjunct view of the entire affair, the Colonel\nappeared satisfied.\n\n\"Jim says that the Colonel's language was not what would be expected\nfrom an elder, and that when there was the final scuffle at the edge of\nthe creek, he heard him call McKee 'a blawsted skunk.'  I suppose\nthat's terrible in a member of St. Andrew's Session, but I'm sinner\nenough to be glad that McKee got a small percentage of his deserts, and\nmy backbone feels stiffer and I shall carry my head a little higher\nbecause Colonel Monteith's on my Session.\"\n\nThe minister jumped to his feet, and swinging his arm in a circle above\nhis head shouted, \"Bully for Colonel Monteith, the man who turned\nMcKee's 'joke' into a boomerang.\"\n\nThe eyes of the minister's wife had sparkled with interest as she\nlistened to what had happened to McKee, and the minister was satisfied\nwhen at the conclusion of the incident she said quietly, \"I am so sorry\nColonel Monteith fell in the creek.  Ask him up for dinner to-morrow,\nor some day soon.  I'll do my very best to show my appreciation of his\nwell-meaning defence of our John.\"\n\n\n\nTHE VALENTINE\n\nSome weeks later John procured a position in a distant city.  Ruth and\nher father went to the station to bid him farewell, the latter assuring\nhim of the unfailing interest of his friends at the Manse, and uttering\na few words of counsel, now that distance would prevent the frequent\nvisits of the past.\n\nFor a while all went well, and encouraging reports reached the village\nManse.  Sometimes the letter was addressed to the Minister, but oftener\nto Ruth, and all of them revealed the strong hold the little one had\nupon the reforming man.\n\nThen came word of dull times and scarcity of work and loneliness.  It\nwas after a letter that revealed unusual despondency, that an urgent\ninvitation was sent for John to return to the village and spend a few\nweeks at the Manse until labour conditions improved.\n\nNo answer came to this invitation, but two weeks later a letter came\nfrom John's boarding-house, which read as follows:--\n\n\n\"Dear Sir,--I take the liberty of writing you, because there is a Mr.\nGage boarding at my place, and he is real sick and don't seem to have\nno friends near here, and I can't take care of him no longer.  He says\nyou are his best friend, and so I thought you would tell me what to do,\nas he hasn't got no money, and I am a hard-working woman and can't\nafford to do without it.  He ought to go to the Hospital, I guess, but\nhe don't take to the notion.  Please do something right away.--Mrs.\nJOHN McCAUL, 14, St. Lawrence Lane.\"\n\n\nThe following morning the minister started for the city, and late that\nafternoon stood at the door of No. 14, St. Lawrence Lane.  The lane\nconsisted of a long, monotonous row of dingy little houses on the one\nside, and a miscellaneous group of stables and sheds on the other.\nFactory buildings, with their \"insolent towers that sprawl to the sky,\"\novertowered the whole, shutting out much light, and pouring forth from\ntheir immense chimneys the smoke that usually hung like a pall over the\nnarrow lane.\n\nMrs. McCaul was greatly relieved by the presence of the minister, and\nas they sat in the ventilation-proof parlour she told him of John's\nhard luck, interspersing most of her family history in the narration.\n\"He's terrible discouraged,\" she added, \"and the doctor says he'd\noughter be in some more cheerfuller place, although I'm doing the best\nI can.\"\n\nIt was a poorly furnished dark bedroom into which the minister was\nushered, and the surroundings of the whole place reminded him of a\npopular description of certain American city boarding-houses, which are\nsaid to \"furnish all the facilities for dying.\"\n\nJohn clasped the extended hand with gratitude, and the visitor's\npresence did much that medicine had failed to do.  As he stood talking\nto the sick man, his eyes rested a moment on a little red Valentine\nthat had been inserted between the glass and the frame of the tinselled\nmirror.\n\n\"I see you're looking at me Valentine,\" said John.\n\n\"Yes!  I did notice it.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, many a day the last few weeks I've wondered whether I could\nhold out.  When a fellow ain't got a job, and money and friends is\nscarce, it seems like it's easier for the devil to get th' inside\ntrack.  There was some days when it seemed as if all the devils in hell\nwas after me a-trying to get me back to the old life, and I used to\ncome up here and look at me Valentine.  I've stood before that there\nglass a good many times lately, and looked at the red heart what Ruthie\ncut out, and said, 'God help me to be faithful to the little gal.'\"\n\nAfter a good deal of persuasion John consented to go to the hospital,\nso that he might receive proper care.\n\nFor seven weeks the disease, which was a part of \"the wages of sin,\"\nheld sway.  Once John thought the end was near, and that probably, ere\nmany days, he must pass away.  He expressed his fears in a broken voice\nto the nurse, and then asked for the Valentine.  Tears filled his eyes\nas he gazed at the trifling token of a child's love.  With an effort he\ncontrolled his voice and said huskily: \"If anything happens, nurse, I\nwant to have that Valentine with me.  You know what I mean, don't you?\"\n\nThe nurse nodded her head.\n\n\"You see, nurse, it was sent me by a little gal--the minister's little\ngal.  I was pretty far gone a year ago, and if ever God sent an angel\ninto this world to help lift up a poor wretch of a man, it was when\nthat little gal started to be my friend.  And when them little hands\ncut out the heart for my Valentine and sent it to me, and I read 'Ruth\nloves John,' I felt as good as if I'd been sent a fortune.\"\n\nThe news of John's sickness had its effect on Ruth's nightly prayer:\n\"Please, God, make John better, because he's very sick.  For Jesus'\nsake.  Amen.\"\n\nJohn's sickness was not unto death.  Slowly he regained health and\ncourage, and as soon as he was able to work he secured a position in a\ncity factory.  Much of his leisure is being given to City Mission Work.\n\nHe has often been seen on a street corner joining in an open-air\nservice.  Not long ago he was telling a crowd of men what the Gospel\nhad done for him.  \"Say, fellows, when I think of it--think of what I\nwas--I just know He's able for anything.  I'm ashamed of myself, but\nI'm proud of Him.\"\n\nAs he finished his testimony a workman in the same factory, who was\nstanding at the rear of the crowd, called out, \"Yes, and John's the\ndecentest feller in the factory, so he is.\"\n\nThe red heart has faded almost to a brown.  It no longer occupies its\nplace on the mirror.  A stranger picking up John Gage's Bible might\nwonder why a soiled and worn bit of paper in the shape of a heart\nshould be pasted on the front inside page; but often a tired workman,\nreading his \"verses\" for the night, turns first of all to the front\ninside page, and reads three words that light and time and dirt have\nalmost effaced--\"Ruth loves John.\"\n\nSometimes the gaze is long, and sometimes the fading words are still\nfurther dimmed by tears, but the faded Valentine is fragrant with\nprecious memories of a child's love that resulted in the homecoming of\nthe prodigal.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CORD OF LOVE\n\nA transcontinental express was speeding across the prairies to its\nPacific Coast terminus.  Two hours before it shrieked its approach to a\nfoothill city, the local police received a message which, being\ninterpreted, read: \"Detain Lavina Berson, travelling on No. 96; age\nabout fifteen, black hair, very attractive.  Travelling in company of\ntwo men when train left B----.\"\n\nWhen No. 96 pulled into the dep\u00f4t, two plain-clothes officers boarded\nthe train and soon located the girl wanted.  At first the flashing\nblack eyes looked defiantly into the face of Staff-Inspector Kenney as\nhe requested her to accompany him.  But the law must be obeyed, and on\nbeing shown a detective's badge the little runaway passed with her\nescort comparatively unnoticed into the city street.\n\nAt the police-station she sat in the ante-room with the matron, while\nthe inspector, the staff-inspector and the plain-clothes detective\ndiscussed the case.  The girl's youthfulness and attractiveness\nappealed to their sympathies.\n\n\"It's too blamed bad to send a pretty youngster like that to the\ncells,\" said one.\n\n\"Why not send her to that new Rescue Home till we get more particulars?\nThey'll take care of her.  There's a woman there that knows her job\nalright.\"\n\nAnd so to the Redemptive Home Lavina was sent, the authorities giving\nthe usual instructions governing such a case.  For a few hours the\nnew-comer was silent, but few girls could long be silent in the\npresence of the big-hearted, winsome Superintendent of that Home.  It\nwas a new experience for Lavina; the only kindness she had known was\nthe traitorous type, and it was hard for her to believe that there was\nsuch a thing as unselfish love.  Forty-eight hours from the time she\ncrossed the threshold of the Home, the hand that was almost ready to\nstrike any one who seemed to have co-operated in checking her reckless\ncareer was slipped along the forearm of the Superintendent.\n\n\"Everybody thinks I'm bad, and I guess I am, but I believe if I had\nlived with you I might have wanted to be good.\"\n\nThe words did not come easily, but when the Superintendent stroked the\nblack hair and put an arm around the wanderer, drawing the head to her\nshoulder, she realized that love had won its first battle in that\nmisguided life.\n\nThe following morning a young man rang the door-bell of the Home in an\nimpatient manner.  When the Superintendent appeared he said, \"Is this\nwhere Lavina Berson is?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" was the reply.\n\n\"Well, I want her, and I want her d----d quick.  She's a d----d\nnuisance.  She's never been any good.  Nobody can do anything with\nher.\"  Then, drawing a rope from his pocket, he said, \"I'll bind the\nlittle devil with this, and if that won't do I've something else in\nhere (putting his hand over his hip-pocket) that will settle her.\"  His\nface was red with passion, and his eyes flashed with anger.  \"Oh! you\nneedn't tell me,\" he continued.  \"I know all about her; I'm her\nbrother.  I'm sick of getting her out of difficulties.  I say she's a\nd----d nuisance, and I ain't going to let her forget this trip I've had\nto take, not on your bottom dollar I ain't.  I've got something else to\ndo than to be chasing over the country after her.\"\n\n\"You cannot get possession of your sister to-day,\" answered the\nSuperintendent.  \"Even if I were not under obligation to the\nauthorities to detain her, pending their instructions, I could not let\nher go with you just now.  She is a friend of mine, and I love her.\nShe has told me her story; she is only just sixteen.  Ropes and pistols\nand policemen are not the remedy, sir; she needs a brother--a real\nbrother.  If you call in the morning I shall be glad to have a quiet\ntalk with you.\"\n\nTen days later, in her own town, the court-room was crowded when the\ncase of Lavina Berson was called.  The trial resulted in a mass of\nevidence to show that she was bad.  There seemed no other course open\nto the Judge but to send her to a reformatory.  She had associated with\nthe fastest boys and girls, and with the most lawless men and women her\ntown had known.  The policeman, giving evidence, made it clear that the\ntown would be well rid of her.  Not one witness, even to the girl's\nmother, had any hopeful word to speak.\n\nIn the face of such evidence there seemed only one course open.  When\nthe word \"reformatory\" reached the girl's ear she broke into a passion\nof weeping, so that the Judge hesitated a moment.  Then there was some\nmovement and whispering near the witness-box.  The Superintendent\nmentioned had journeyed Eastward to be present at the trial, and she\nwas now conferring with the Morality Inspector.\n\nThe weeping girl looked appealingly through her tears at the one who\nhad befriended her.  \"Oh, please,\" she whispered, in a voice broken\nwith sobs, \"don't let them send me to that awful place.  It'll only\nmake me worse; take me with you.  I'll do anything you tell me; please,\noh! please, Miss Moffatt.\"\n\nTurning to the Judge the Superintendent said, \"Your Honour, I am a\nstranger to you, but as a representative of the Women's Council of the\n---- Church in Canada may I say a few words?\"  The Judge nodded assent,\nand with a heart full of love for the wayward, Miss Moffatt made one of\nthe most impassioned appeals conceivable.  In closing, she said, \"I ask\nyour Honour to give this girl into my charge for one year.  In view of\nthe evidence given, may I be allowed to say that she has been brutally\nsinned against.  No man who has spoken has referred to her partners in\nsin, nor has any man suggested that the stronger sex has any\nresponsibility to be a brother and protector of girls.  The evidence\nreveals the fact that plenty of men co-operated in her downfall;\napparently not one made any effort to uplift.  Some of her betrayers\nare still counted as respectable men, while she receives all the blame\nand the shame.  One remedy does not seem to have been tried, and in the\nname of the One who long ago said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and\nsin no more,' I ask you to be gracious enough to allow me to try a\ncorrective which I believe will be more effective than what has been\nsuggested.\"\n\nThe Judge caught the light in those eyes, and with manifest emotion\naddressed the accused: \"Lavina, you have found a friend; so long as you\nare true to her you will not again be called to appear before this\nCourt.  May Heaven's blessing rest upon such women as the one who has\nspoken in your behalf!  The case is dismissed.\"\n\nOnce again Lavina journeyed Westward.  Once again she was on No. 96,\nbut no longer with betrayers.  By her side was the Superintendent with\nher sweet, sheltering influence.\n\nAnd so life began again for Lavina in the Redemptive Home.  In view of\nher past life, it was worth crossing a continent to see the gladness in\nher eyes when one day Miss Moffatt put her hand upon her shoulder and\nsaid playfully, \"Lavina is my right-hand girl; I think she'll soon be\nAssistant Superintendent.\"\n\nAs one of the workers was passing along the hallway upstairs some\nmonths later she was arrested by the sound of a pleading voice--some\none was offering a prayer.  Noiselessly she drew near the room from\nwhich the voice came.  The last petition was being uttered, \"O God,\nplease help the other girls to be good like You helped me, for Jesus'\nsake.  Amen.\"  The little dark-eyed girl was kneeling by the bedside\nwith arm around the shoulder of a young Hungarian maiden who had been\nrescued from a life of shame.  It developed later that these two\nrescued ones were daily praying for others who were being sheltered in\nthe Home.\n\nHow it all reminds one of that far-away scene!  \"No man could bind him;\nno, not with chains; because that he had been often bound with fetters\nand chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the\nfetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him....  Jesus\nsaid unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit.\"  And the\nmodern evil spirit and its rebuke is like unto that.  \"Nobody can do\nanything with her; I've got this rope to bind the little devil with.\"\nAnd then this: \"O God, please help the other girls to be good like You\nhelped me, for Jesus' sake.  Amen.\"  On the heels of the failure of all\nothers Jesus comes and reveals Himself to-day, as of old, as the master\nof demons.\n\nWhat the future days hold for Lavina Berson we know not, but the height\nof her ambition to-day is that she be accepted for training, so that\nsome day she may work among those of the class to which she once\nbelonged.\n\n\n\n\nNELL'S HOME-GOING\n\nSt. Andrew's Church was losing its respectability.  It was one of the\noldest in the Province, and the town in which it was situated had for\nsome years prided itself in being a \"Society\" town.  The select few who\nhad for so long been undisturbed by the \"common\" people were having to\nendure the presence, in near-by pews, of some who had no entrance into\nthe best social circles--and the shocking part of it was that the new\nminister, who was reported to have come from one of the best families\nin Montreal, rather gloried in this condition of affairs.\n\nTwo families had already withdrawn from the membership of St.\nAndrew's--two of the wealthiest and gayest--and that within six months\nof the minister's induction.  The withdrawal of the Farsees and Shunums\nhappened on this wise.  A few Sabbath evenings previous to the\n\"interview\" that Mrs. Farsee had had with the minister, a young woman\nof unsavory reputation had dared to enter St. Andrew's.  Perhaps the\nminister was not aware of what he did, but there was no denying the\nfact that he shook hands with the said young woman, and hoped she would\n\"always feel welcome at St. Andrew's.\"  After seeing, with her own\neyes, a second and a third visit, and a second and a third welcome,\nMrs. Farsee, with the moral backing of Mrs. Shunum, had her now\nmuch-talked-of interview with the Rev. Thomas Fearnon.\n\n\"Mr. Fearnon,\" she commenced in an agitated tone, \"there is a matter\nthat so greatly affects our church that, although it is rather a\ndelicate subject, I felt I must be frank enough to speak with you about\nit.  Do you know--but of course you don't know--the character of the\nyoung woman who has been sitting in Mrs. Greatheart's seat for the past\nthree Sunday evenings, and to whom you have given three distinct\nwelcomes to St. Andrew's?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" was the reply, \"I think I know something of her character and\npast, and it is very sad.\"\n\n\"But, Mr. Fearnon,\" exclaimed Mrs. Farsee, \"you surely cannot sanction\nher attendance at _our_ church!  What _will_ people say?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Farsee,\" was the quiet rejoinder, \"I wonder what my Master would\nsay if I did not sanction the presence of any for whom He died.  For\nwhom are our services, if not for the sinful?\"\n\n\"Yes, but, Mr. Fearnon, that kind of person should go to some other\nplace--for instance, there's the Salvation Army.\"\n\n\"Thank God there is the Salvation Army, but so long as Thomas Fearnon\nis pastor of this church, yonder doors shall never be too narrow to\nadmit the sin-burdened.\"  Thomas Fearnon's voice thrilled with emotion\nas he uttered these words.\n\n\"Well, I suppose it's no use saying anything more,\" said Mrs. Farsee\nwith an injured air, \"but it's hard to hear people sneer at one's\nchurch, and twice lately I've heard people--and prominent society\npeople too--say that our church was getting to be a 'House of Refuge,'\nand I tell you that kind of thing goes hard with people who have taken\nthe pride we have in St. Andrew's Church.\"\n\n\"To me,\" said Mr. Fearnon, \"that report is encouraging, and I covet\nthat intended sneer as a permanent tribute to any church of which I may\nbe pastor--a House of Refuge is what I want St. Andrew's to be.  Surely\nthe young woman you have named needs a place of refuge?\"\n\n\"Then I understand you will still allow her to attend our church,\ndespite the wishes of two of the most loyal and best-giving families\nyou have, Mr. Fearnon?\"  Mrs. Farsee placed an unmistakable emphasis on\n\"best giving.\"\n\n\"Your understanding is quite correct, Mrs. Farsee, and if ever St.\nAndrew's Church closes its doors on any man or woman, in like\ncircumstances to the one you refer to, I care not how sinworn and\nwretched, it closes them at the same time on Thomas Fearnon--we go out\ntogether.\"\n\n\"If that is your decision,\" replied Mrs. Farsee haughtily, \"please\nremove the names of Mr. and Mrs. M. T. Farsee and Miss Lucy Farsee from\nthe membership roll, and I am also authorized by Mrs. Shunum to tell\nyou that all the Shunums withdraw from the church for the same reason.\"\n\nThomas Fearnon retired that night sad at heart--not that the loss of\nthese two families from the membership roll gave him much concern, for\nto tell the truth he was more concerned to know how they ever came to\nbe put on the roll, but he was concerned to find that kind of spirit\namong the membership of the congregation to which he had come with such\nhigh hopes, fresh from college.  So far as losing members was\nconcerned, he reminded himself that, in God's arithmetic, subtraction\noften produced an increase.  Perhaps of his congregation the words of\nScripture were true, \"The people are yet too many.\"  Nevertheless, the\noffended families needed His Saviour and the ministry of the church as\nmuch as, perhaps more, than the poor creature whose very presence they\nthought defiled their heretofore select congregation.\n\nThe following Sabbath morning the text was Luke xix. 10, \"For the Son\nof Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.\"  Those who had\nattended Mrs. Farsee's \"afternoon bridge\" on the preceding Thursday\nknew that the sermon was the outgrowth of the \"interview.\"  None of\nthem used their favourite adjective \"lovely\" of Thomas Fearnon's sermon\nthat morning; the mission of the Master and the consequent mission of\nHis church was presented with a clearness and an earnestness that made\nnot a few decidedly uncomfortable.\n\n\"I charge you, my fellow workers,\" he pleaded, \"never to degenerate\ninto dilettante church parlour triflers, but strike out for God in hard\nwork to recover the lost.  There are those whose life's roses are\nturned to ashes, those who have almost forgotten how to smile, those\nfrom whose hearts all music has fled.  What an incomparable joy to tell\nthem of, and seek to lead them to, the One who with divine delicacy\nsaid, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more.'  That welcoming\nSaviour would speak through us to those whom too often we, professedly\nHis followers, would cast out.  If every individual in this world\ntreated the fallen as you do, my friend, would it be easy or hard for\nthat one to get into the Kingdom of God?  Where shall the wanderers be\nwelcome if not in the Father's House?  Where shall those whom He\ncreated and for whom He died find friendship and help, if not in that\ncompany of worshippers who cry 'Our Father'?\"\n\nTo not a few the message of that morning seemed intensely personal.  In\nthat inner judgment hall, where the prisoner and the judge are one,\nsome verdicts were arrived at, and the verdicts were \"guilty.\"\n\n\"If every individual in this world treated the fallen as you do, would\nit be easy or hard for that one to get into the Kingdom of God?\"\n\nThomas Fearnon had asked that question with an intensity of feeling\nthat revealed itself in the whispered words, and that produced a\nprofound silence throughout the sanctuary.  And it was not in vain that\nhe had put his best into prayer and preparation for that morning's\nmessage.  At least one in the congregation asked to be forgiven for\npassing by, like priest and Levite, needy ones to whom there should and\ncould have been a ministry of mercy.\n\nJessie Buchanan saw the \"vision splendid\" that morning, and no longer\ncould she be satisfied with her life of elegant ease.  From that very\nhour her life and all the trappings of life were promised fully to her\nrightful Lord--no longer would she hope to have Him as _Saviour_ but\nreject Him as _Lord_.\n\n* * * * *\n\nA peaceful Sabbath day's services had closed, and in the quiet of her\nbeautiful and cosy little \"den\" Jessie Buchanan sat talking to a friend\nbefore the flickering embers in the fireplace.  Three months had passed\naway since Thomas Fearnon's sermon on Luke xix. 10: three months of\nsometimes perplexing but always joyous service to Jessie Buchanan.\nAlready several lives had been gladdened and helped by the radiating\ninfluence of her consecrated life.\n\nThe Buchanan home on the hillcrest had gladly opened its doors during\nthese three months to some who had never expected to cross its\nthreshold.  And so to-night, for the third time, the young woman who\nhad unknowingly caused the departure of two families from St. Andrew's\nChurch, sat in the fire-light with her new-found friend.\n\nWisely and unostentatiously Jessie Buchanan had made her acquaintance,\nand their meetings had been invariably away from the public eye.  But\ninto the broken life was coming the conquering power of an unselfish\nlove.  To-night, as the flames diminished, the young woman unfolded a\nlittle of her life.\n\n\"Please don't hate me for it--I had to tell some one.  Oh! if only some\none like you had helped me when I first went to the city; but it was my\nown fault.  Still, if you do wrong, there seem so many more to help you\nto keep on in the same way than there are to help you back.\"\n\nFor some minutes she talked on, and then Jessie Buchanan moved her\nchair a little closer and laid a hand sympathetically upon the girl's\nshoulder.\n\n\"You think my name is Flossie, don't you, Miss Buchanan?\" the girl\nasked slowly.  \"Well, it isn't.  Nobody here knows either of my right\nnames, but I'm going to tell you: my right name is Nellie Gillard; and\nMiss Buchanan, I want to be good again, and maybe get back home\nsoon--only, I am afraid, for I haven't even written for nearly a year.\"\nTears were wiped away as the memory of the old home was revived in the\nlight of new desires.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAnother week was nearing its close, and Jessie Buchanan was as usual\nmaking her plans for a hospitable Sunday.  Glancing down the driveway,\nshe was surprised to see Nellie Gillard approaching the house.  This\nwas the first daylight visit Nellie had made, and Saturday morning was\nso unusual a time that Jessie Buchanan was at the door before the\nbell-handle could be pulled.  A cordial greeting and Nellie was\naccompanied to the now familiar den.  As the door closed the visitor at\nonce made known the purpose of her visit.  \"Miss Buchanan, I'd like to\ngo home, but I cannot--I dare not go alone.\"\n\n\"Oh!  I'm so glad you have decided.  How soon do you wish to go, dear?\"\nJessie Buchanan's voice and face revealed her joy and thankfulness.\n\n\"I'd like to go right away\" was the reply.\n\nWithin a few hours Nellie and her new-found friend were on their way to\nthe railway station.\n\nThe \"local\" was nearly three hours late when almost at midnight it\npulled into a little flag station in North-Western Ontario.  It was\nover two miles to the Gillards' home, and Jessie Buchanan suggested the\ndesirability of getting the station agent to assist them in procuring a\nvehicle and driver.\n\nThe night was clear and bright, and Nellie urged that if it was not too\ntiring for her companion she would much rather walk.  \"I know every\nstep of the way, and--and--well you are the only one I want with me\njust now.\"\n\nIn the moonlight of that early October night two young women might have\nbeen seen walking along the fifth concession.\n\nAt a turn of the road Nellie pointed to a little building: \"There is\nthe schoolhouse I attended.\"  When a church spire stood out clear\nagainst the sky, there was a sob in the voice, \"I used to teach in that\nSunday School and sing in the choir.\"\n\nThe gate of the old homestead was reached at last.  The wanderer's hand\nclung for a moment to the top rail and the head rested on her forearm.\n\n\"I wonder--I wonder if Father will let me in; I don't deserve it, but I\nbelieve he will.\"  And she was not mistaken.\n\nAt the side of the old roughcast dwelling, two bedroom windows had been\nraised a few inches.  Beneath these the only daughter of the home\ncalled out in a trembling voice, \"Father.\"  There was no response.\nCould anything have happened?  A second time on the silent night the\nvoice anxiously uttered the same word.  Immediately thereafter they\nheard a movement and a man's head appeared at the window.  \"Father!\nit's Nell: I want to be your Nell again.  Will you let me come home?\"\n\n\"Let you come home?  You bet I will, Nell--you bet I will.\"  The last\nwords were re-uttered after the head had disappeared.\n\nThe only other words they heard were, \"Ma!  Ma!\" uttered in a voice\ntrembling with joy.\n\nNo pen can adequately describe that home-coming.  Jessie Buchanan was\nforgotten for the moment, but as she saw the daughter's head resting\nfirst on father's and then on mother's shoulder, and heard the old man\nsay again and again, \"My Nell: oh! my Nell,\" her cup of joy was full.\n\nIt was not what one could call a praying home, but on that early\nSabbath morning four people knelt in the little sitting-room, and\nJessie Buchanan's first audible prayer was offered in thanksgiving for\nthe home-coming of the wanderer.  And to-day, in the little church in\nthe grove, one of the regular worshippers is Nellie Gillard.","title":"Trail-Tales of Western Canada","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":44185}