Produced by Al Haines








[Illustration: Cover art]




[Frontispiece:
  1. A Camp Kitchen.  2. Lumber Jacks in the Bush.]




  TRAIL-TALES OF
  WESTERN CANADA

  BY

  F. A. ROBINSON, B.A.



  MARSHALL BROTHERS, LTD.,
  LONDON, EDINBURGH & NEW YORK




  TO THE REVEREND ROBERT JOHNSTON, D.D.,
  MINISTER OF THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN
  CHURCH, MONTREAL, AND TO FRIENDS IN
  HIS CONGREGATION WHOSE UNFAILING
  INTEREST AND KINDNESS HAVE FOR YEARS
  BEEN AN INSPIRATION IN THE WRITER'S
  LIFE-WORK.




INTRODUCTION

This book has this virtue among others, that it is a true rescript of
events that have happened in the author's personal experience.  It is
made up of human documents that deal with matters of surpassing
interest.  The book tells in simple and vivid style the story, always
fascinating and thrilling, of the triumph of the Gospel in the souls of
men.  It is a heartening book and a moving.  It will bring courage and
hope to those who read it, and awaken in their hearts a deeper passion
to share in God's great mission to men.

The new west is full of the broken driftwood of humanity, showing the
marks of the attrition of time and conflict and defeat--good stuff it
is, but waste and lost.  This book tells of its salvage to the infinite
joy of men, and to the glory of God.

The author has the further distinction of having seen himself a large
part of the events he describes.

The book will do good wherever it goes.

CHARLES W. GORDON.
  ("Ralph Connor.")

WINNIPEG, CANADA.
  _October_ 5_th_, 1914.




CONTENTS


Old Ken's Round-up

Charl

The Banner Mines

The "Hop"

"Thy Touch has still its Ancient Power"

"If a Man be Overtaken"

The Superintendent's Visit

The Cookee

The Regeneration of Bill Sanders

The Snake-room

The Bush Fire

Ruth and the Prodigal

The Cord of Love

Nell's Home-going




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FRONTISPIECE.

  A camp kitchen.  Lower half, Lumber Jacks in the
  Bush.

FACING PAGE 42.

  1. A young miner before his dark and dingy cabin.
  2. A mine and bunk-house. 3. "They buried her
  half a mile from the camp" (see page 48).

FACING PAGE 43.

  1. Company house in a mountain mining town.  2. He
  said he was "The only gentleman in the place"
  (see page 34).  3. An open-air meeting in British
  Columbia mining camp, between shifts.  4. Miners
  at entrance to a British Columbia mine.

FACING PAGE 90.

  1. A prairie shack.  2. A copper miner's shack.
  3. A bachelor's shack.  4. A shack on the hillside.
  5. A mountain-side shack.

FACING PAGE 128.

  1. A western lumber camp.  2. Lumber camp
  group in Sunday attire.  3. The day's work ended.
  4. A typical bar-room.

FACING PAGE 156.

  1. Part of a town site after being swept by bush fires.
  2. A bush fire getting under way.

FACING PAGE 157.

  1. Improvised dwellings; cover districts into which
  people have fled for safety.  2. The long line of coke
  ovens (see page 183).  3. The fire rapidly approaching.

FACING PAGE 204.

  1. British Columbia miners off shift.  2. Wrecked
  through a wash-out.  3. A section of a mountain
  mining town.

FACING PAGE 205.

  1. An exhausted prospector.  2. A miner's washing
  day.  3. Ready to start for the hills to inspect a
  mine.  4. Miners off to their daily toil.




  TRAIL-TALES
  OF WESTERN CANADA



OLD KEN'S ROUND-UP

Old Ken was "down on his luck."  For well-nigh fifty years he had "gone
the pace" in a district where certain men say glibly, "there's no God
west of the Rockies." The old prospector had been, according to those
who knew him best, in one of three conditions for some years.  He was
either "getting drunk, drunk, or sobering up."  And yet in spite of his
weakness and sin, and in spite of the curses he got, there was no more
popular man in the whole camp than Old Ken, although likely he was not
conscious of it.  One of the miners had once expressed a conviction
about Ken that was dangerously popular.  It was at the time Frank
Stacey's mother died, in the East, and Frank had not "two bits" to his
credit.  As might have been expected, it was Old Ken who started the
hat to wire that Frank was leaving on the next train, and to see that
he had "enough of the needful to do the decent thing."  "It's his last
chance, boys," said Ken, as he made the rounds during the noon hour.
"I got twenty-two dollars since eleven o'clock, so I guess, with what
you fellers is a-going to do, the old camp's on the job, as usual, when
a chap like Frank wants to pay his last respects."  There was some
mystery about those twenty-two dollars until Andy the bar-tender told
how Old Ken had "got it out of the boss" on the solemn promise that for
two weeks he would "work like a Texas steer" without touching a cent
until the debt of thirty dollars, minus eight for board, was
discharged.  Then it was that one of the boys expressed himself thus
about Ken: "By gosh, fellers, he's white clear through, that same old
soak is, when there's any trouble on.  He's a pile decenter than his
thirsty old carcase 'll let him be."

On a particular morning some months ago the old prospector stood at the
little station a mile or so away from the camp centre.  The "mixed" was
winding her way slowly around the curves of the summit of the Rockies.
From the windows of the solitary passenger car a young man looked
somewhat anxiously across the valley below.  A few shacks nestled among
the poplar brush, and in the distance an unpainted building stood, with
distinct outline, towering against the dark background of the mountain
range opposite.  The young man knew well enough, from his work among
the miners and loggers, that yonder building was as a moral cancer
eating out the best life of the community.  The outlook was not bright,
but he was on the King's Business, and he knew that he had in his care
the mightiest thing, and the greatest remedy, the world knows of.

Alone he stepped off the train, and being the only arrival he received
the entire benefit of Old Ken's curious but not unfriendly gaze.  The
new-comer, who was conducting special services at selected mining and
lumbering camps that were considered especially needy, looked around
for a district missionary who was expected to act as his pilot for a
few days.  No one but Old Ken and the station agent were in sight, so
after friendly greetings to the former the young preacher made known
the purpose of his visit.  Old Ken listened courteously.  "Well,
stranger, you've hit the right spot alright; we kin stand the gospel in
big doses here for sure; most of us is whiskey soaks or bums, and some
of us is both.  I wish you luck, partner, but I'm feared most of us is
incurable.  Yes, partner, I'm feared you've come too late, too late."

The Frenchman who was hotel-keeper, professional gambler, lumberman and
mine-owner, was not enthusiastic about allowing the sky-pilot to board
in his notorious hotel and gambling den, but eventually accommodation
was secured.

The dance-hall was procured for the services, and Ken volunteered the
information that the preacher wouldn't likely be disturbed, because
there were only four women left in the camp, and he added, "two of 'em
can dance like elephants and one's got ingrowing toenails or something
else, so there's only one on duty, and that ain't enough variety for a
good hop."

A few days after the services commenced, Old Ken managed to replenish
his treasury by the fortunate desire on the part of two men to get a
haircut.  The old man boasted that he knew how to do most things.  "I'm
never idle, preacher," he said with a wink; "when I ain't doing
something I'm a-doing nothin', so I'm always a-doing something you see."

No sooner were the locks shorn than the old man made his way to the
bar-room.  He was emerging from his favourite haunt when the preacher
met him.  "'Taint no use pretending I'm what I ain't, preacher," he
said after a few minutes' conversation.  "I'm an old fool and I know
it, but what does it matter?  Who cares?"

"It matters a good deal to you, Ken," the preacher replied quietly,
"and there are some of us who care.  Ken, if you would give God as big
a place in your life as you've given whiskey there wouldn't be room for
the things that have made you call yourself an old fool.  I know He
could make a mighty good man of you, Ken."

"Thank you kindly, preacher, but you don't know me: I'm the hardest old
guy in this country; the fellers around here think they can go it some,
but let 'em all get as full as they kin hold and I'll take as much as
any one of 'em and then put twelve glasses more on top of that to keep
it kind of settled, and then pile the whole gang under the table and
walk out like a gentleman.  Yes, sir, I kin do it; and if a feller's as
big as a house I'll whittle him down to my size and lick him.  Yer
intentions are good, partner, but you're about fifty years late on this
job."

The days allotted to the mission were rapidly passing away, and while
not a few had given evidence of seeing "the vision splendid," there
were some after whom "the little preacher," as he had come to be
generally spoken of in the camp, greatly longed.

Coming down the stairs one day he saw Old Ken standing with his back to
the stair rail.  Putting his hand on the old man's shoulder he entered
into conversation.

"Ken, you haven't been to one of the services yet, and I want you to
come to-night."

"Lord bless you, preacher, if I went to a religious meeting the roof
'ud fall in for sure, and I don't want to bust up the dance-hall."

But the little preacher was not in a mood to be "jollied" that day.
"Ken," he continued, "I'd like you to give God a chance.  Do you know,
I like the look of you, and----"

The old prospector cut the sentence short, straightened up, and gazed
appreciatively into the speaker's eyes.  "What's that you said,
preacher?  What's that you said?  You like the look o' me!  Well,
siree, that's the decentest thing that's been said to me in thirty
years!  Yes, sir, it is: I'm treated like a yaller dog around here; but
you speak decently to a yaller dog, he'll wag his tail.  He likes it,
you know.  Say, preacher, when you need me just you whistle and I'm on
the job!"

"I take your offer, old man," said the preacher.  "I've been here for
some time and I've heard a good deal that I didn't want to hear.  Some
of you fellows have been cursing pretty nearly day and night since I
came.  I didn't want to hear it, but I couldn't get away from it.  I've
heard the boys; it's only fair they should hear me.  Ken, you round
them up and bring them to the dance-hall."

Ken's hand was extended.  "Here's my hand on it, preacher; I'm yer man.
If the boys ain't there you'll see my head in a sling in the morning."

At 7.30 Ken organized himself into an Invitation Committee.  There were
rumours that he even brushed his coat.  At any rate, at 7.45 he stood
at the door of the gambling den, and with an air of unusual importance
he succeeded in getting silence long enough to tell "the boys" that
there was "a religious show on in the dance-hall."  "The procession
will form in ten minutes," he continued, "and every ---- man in this
place has got to be in it."  A few laughed; some cursed at the
interruption, and others were so engrossed in their game that they
appeared not to have heard.

In a few minutes Ken entered the barroom and started his round-up.
After telling one or two quietly that it was "up to him" to get the
boys to the religious show, he made his proclamation.  "Come out of
this, you ---- fellers, and come up to the ---- dance-hall and give the
---- little preacher a fair show, or I'll kick the ---- hide off you."
The writer has no apology to make for blasphemy either in the East or
West, but like classical music, to some ears, Old Ken's blasphemous
language was not so bad as it sounded.

After the old man had brought into use all his remarkable reserve of
Western mining camp vocabulary, there was only one man besides the
bar-tender who failed to join the procession.

The services had become well advertised throughout the entire district
by this time, so that when Old Ken arrived with his company the little
hall was fairly well filled.  But the old man was "going to see this
thing through," and so, despite the protestations that almost upset the
gravity of the preacher conducting the preliminary song service, the
gang was coaxed and forced to the front seats.  Ken directed the
seating operations in a way that suggested his ownership of the entire
place.  In a stage whisper he instructed the boys to "get a squint at
the preacher's hair."  With pride he continued, "mighty good cut that,
I performed the operation this afternoon."

At the close of the service he came to the platform.  "Say, preacher,
that was a great bunch.  There ain't a ---- (excuse me, preacher, I
forgot you don't swear), but say, there ain't a man of 'em but's done
time.  I'll tell you, preacher, we'll run this show together.  I'll
round 'em up and you hit 'em;" then with a swing of his big arm he
added, "and hit 'em hard.  See here, preacher, you take a tip from me;
us old sinners don't want to listen to none of yer stroke-'em-down-easy
preachers; we wants a feller what 'll tell us we're d---- fools to be
hoodwinked by hitting the pace, and what'll help us to get up after he
shows us we're down."

A few nights later the preacher had Ken's "bunch" particularly in view
as he delivered his message.  Near the close he asked during one of
those times of reverent silence that may be felt but not described:
"Are not some of you men tired of going the pace?  You know it doesn't
pay.  Many a time you curse yourselves for being fools, and yet you go
back to the old ways that blast your life.  Men!  God knows how some of
you are tempted, and He is ready to help.  His Son came into the world
to save sinners.  He stood in the face of the fiercest temptations, and
with the command of a conqueror He said, 'Get thee behind Me.'  And,
Men!  He is ready to stand alongside of every passion-torn man to-day
and to help him to overcome.  Isn't there some man here to-night who
wants to do the decent thing, and who will accept His offer of help in
the biggest fight any man has?"

The words were simple and commonplace enough, but the One who uses
stumbling lips was present that night.  Unexpectedly one man arose,
pulling himself up by the back of the seat in front of him--a
sin-marred man, trembling as a result of daily dissipation--and said in
a muffled voice, "I want to do the decent."  A confirmed gambler not
far away stood up and merely said, "Me too, Bob."  Another, in a tone
of despair, cried, "God and me knows there's nothing in this kind of
life!  Oh the d----, d---- whiskey, it's ruined me."  Late into the
night the preacher walked along the trail with one of these sin-wrecked
men; but the transformation of that life and other lives must
constitute a separate story.

A few days before the mission closed Old Ken came to the preacher and
announced his intended departure from the camp.  "You see, stranger,
the camp's pretty quiet, and I ain't a-making enough money to buy a
dress for a humming-bird.  I ain't got the wherewithal for a ticket,
but if I strike the right kind of conductor I guess I'll make the
grade.  You see they can't put a feller off between stations in this
country.  So I'll get one station along anyway, and if they chuck me
off I'll wait for the next train, and a few chucks and I'll get to
N---- anyway."

The following morning prospector and preacher walked together down the
railway track to the little station.  A farewell word was spoken, and a
farewell token slipped into the big hard hand.  Old Ken stood a moment
or two on the steps of the car.  There was a far-away look in the old
man's eyes as he gazed in the direction of the distant Cascade range.
"Good-bye, preacher.  Yes, maybe, maybe we'll strike the main trail
that leads home.  I hope so--God knows--maybe it ain't too late for me
yet.  I kinder think lately that God wants Old Ken.  Good-bye,
preacher; God bless you."

Three months later "the little preacher" received a letter from a
British Columbia miner.  One paragraph may be quoted here: "Poor Old
Ken was burned to death in a hotel fire in S---- three weeks ago.  He
was the kindest old man I ever met, and as long as I live I shall thank
God for the night he rounded us up and brought us to your meeting in
the dance-hall."




CHARL

When Charlie Rayson passed out of the dance-hall in the little mountain
mining town a few nights after Old Ken's round-up, he was on the
border-line between despair and hope.  Was there any chance?  For years
he had apparently worked with the logging gang only that he might give
full rein to the lusts that devoured him; and if he remained in the
bush the whole winter it was with an impatience for the days to pass so
that the spring might bring him to the bar-rooms and dens of vice,
where the awful monotony might be relieved in a spring-long spree.
Nobody had any particular interest in Charlie, and no one knew from
whence he came.

And yet there seemed to be some slight ray of hope to-night.  He had
listened for the first time since boyhood to the pearl of the parables,
and then Old Ken had asked the preacher to "sing that there Wandering
Boy piece."  Charlie knew not if his mother still lived, but the words,
"Oh! could I see you now, my boy, as fair as in olden times," came like
his mother's call through the sin-stained past.  For thirteen years he
had cut himself entirely off, so far as his whereabouts was concerned,
from that one who had never ceased to love him.

In a few minutes after the close of the service Charlie and the
preacher were alone on the mountain trail.  Suddenly Charlie stopped
and said, "Good God, preacher, you can't, you don't understand what I'm
up against.  For nineteen years I've been in the hands of the doctor or
the policeman--my passions rip me to pieces--men can't help me; I
wonder if God can?  I want to believe what you said to-night is true,
but I've always wanted to do the thing that damns me, worse than I have
wanted to do anything else, and yet I never do it without something
saying 'don't.'"

In the silence of the lonely hills the two men stood, while one asked
Him who is the Help of the helpless to be the Refuge of the
passion-pursued man.  Poor Charlie could utter but few words: "God, oh,
God," he sobbed, "I'm like that prodigal, and I'm sick of it all.  Oh,
God, can you help me?  I want to see my old mother."  With the mention
of the word mother the man burst into a passion of weeping.  For
several minutes no word was uttered, as the preacher steadied the
trembling man.  It was no easy task for Charlie to do what he was
counselled to do after he had made the Great Decision.  But that night
he read, from the Testament given him, a portion of the third chapter
of St. John's Gospel, and knelt by his bunk and asked for strength
sufficient.  To kneel down and pray in certain Western mining camp
bunk-houses is a man's job, but Charlie had realized that only One was
able to deliver from the passions that rend, and to that One he
appealed.

A fortnight later an old woman in a far-away Ontario village received a
letter bearing a British Columbia postmark.  She was a poor, lonely,
half-crippled individual, but the message of that letter enriched and
cheered her and quickened her footsteps as nothing had done in years.
To everybody she knew, and to a good many people she did not know, she
told of her new joy.  In her trembling old hands she held the precious
letter.  "Do you know, I've got a letter from my Charl.  I thought he
was dead.  I haven't heard from him in thirteen years, but he's in
British Columbia, and he says he's a Christian man now, and he wants to
see his mother--and he's going to save up so's he can come home, and
till he comes he's going to write every week--and he sent me some
money.  Oh, how good God is to give me back my Charl!"  The poor old
soul seemed raised as if by a miracle from her invalidism.

Charlie toiled on in the logging gang, and when pay-day came the
hotel-keeper reaped the usual harvest from most of the men, and was
hoping that Charlie and Bill Davis, two of his best customers, would be
coaxed back to their old habits.  Bill had been known as the "little
devil" of Primeau's gang, and his professed change of heart was a thing
incredible to the entire community.  But Charlie and Bill had been a
good deal together of late, and the latter had told Charlie all he
purposed to do and be with God's help, and so the two men became
mutually helpful.

Five months passed, and besides having purchased new clothes, Charlie
Rayson had one hundred and fifty dollars in the savings bank at Brandon
Falls.

And so at last the home journey was to be made.  It would be hard to
say who was the more excited, Charlie or his loyal friend Bill Davis.
For some time Bill thought he would "pull out" when Charlie went, but
later he decided to stay on his job a few months longer.  Nothing would
do but that Charlie should take "just a little remembrance" of $25 from
Bill to the aged mother.

On Saturday afternoon the final arrangements were made, and Bill did a
score of things to make Charlie's get-away easier and pleasanter.
While Bill was purchasing a few little necessities at the company
store, Charlie stepped across the threshold of the bar-room for the
first time in months.  He wanted to say good-bye to Andy the
bar-tender.  A number of Charlie's old pals were sitting or lounging
around, some of them well on the way to their terrible monthly debauch.
Numerous hands were extended and not a few glasses offered to Charlie.
"Not for me, boys--I've cut it out for good, thanks all the same," was
Charlie's firm response.

"Oh, come off," cried one, "you ain't a-going back on your old pals
just 'cause you've got a new suit o' clothes."

Numerous sallies followed this, but to each one Charlie gave a similar
reply, and backed towards the door.  It has always been supposed that
it was Primeau himself who tripped Charlie, but be that as it may,
somehow Charlie stumbled backwards to the bar-room floor; and when Bill
Davis was returning through the hall some of the men were holding
Charlie while others were pouring whiskey through his lips, "just to
give him a lesson in sociability."  Bill Davis could scarcely believe
that the boys had tried to make Charlie drink, but when he realized
what had happened, his indignation prompted the profanity that had
become a life habit.  He checked the words, however, and shouted at the
scoffing group to leave Charlie alone or somebody would get a headache.
There was a laugh from one and a muttered "mind your own d----
business" from another.  And then Bill took a hand in the affair.

The following day the affray was being generally discussed.  One or two
men who were participants in it were careful to keep out of the public
gaze.  Bill had not selected places where they should fall when he was
defending Charlie.  To a little group in the bar-room Andy gave the
information that "There was something doing alright, when Bill started
in to look after Charlie.  Say! the feathers was a-flying.  Bill ain't
such a blamed good Christian that he's forgot how to fight."

The taste of whiskey had aroused the old craving in Charlie, and long
after the east-bound train had pulled out he was fighting his battle
with Bill by his side.

Never had the two men felt more alone, and never had they more needed a
friend than now.  All Charlie's confidence in his ability to stand firm
seemed to be shaken.  "Bill!" he said, "I swallowed some, and it seems
like it was running all through me to find some more to keep it
company.  Bill! for God's sake don't leave me.  I feel as if I was
going to lose the game."

Bill hardly knew what to say or do.  The fight in Charlie's behalf and
the disappointment over the delayed journey had left a great
depression.  Neither of the men went down to the evening meal.  To pass
the bar-room door and to face the men again seemed more than Charlie
dare undertake.

The next train for the East passed through at 3 a.m., and after
thinking over the events of the afternoon, Bill made up his mind that
they would flag Number 56, and that he would journey a hundred miles or
so with his sorely-tempted chum.  In the darkness of midnight, the two
men passed quietly out of the building and along the trail to the
railway station.  At last they were really on the train, and having
found an empty double seat the men made themselves as comfortable as
possible, and were soon, like their fellow-passengers, getting such
fitful sleep as one may obtain on the average "local."

It was the season of the year when "washouts" make journeying
dangerous, and frequently in Western Canada trains are delayed many
hours, and sometimes days, by the swelling of the mountain streams
which in their onward rush sometimes carry culverts and ballast from
beneath ties and track.

The train had pulled out of Sinclair, and was making her usual time
through the eastern section of the Pass, when passengers were suddenly
thrown from their seats by a terrific jolt.  Lamp glasses crashed to
the aisle, and baggage was dislodged from the racks.  Charlie pulled
himself to his feet almost instantaneously, despite the knocks he had
received.  The lamps were flickering and smoking, but fortunately there
appeared no danger of fire.  The brakeman, hatless and with a bleeding
face, came rushing through the cars seeking to allay the fears.  "Stay
in the cars, please--there's no danger of fire.  You're better here
than outside.  Doctors will be here soon."

Bill had not escaped serious injury.  He found it impossible to rise,
and as tenderly as he knew how, Charlie pillowed his head and stooped
beside him as he lay in the aisle.  "I'm feared I'm pretty badly
hurted, pardner," groaned Bill.  "There was something kind o' crushed
inside.  Guess I'll just lie here for a bit."

The engine had plunged through an undermined piece of track, and
engineer and fireman were terribly cut and scalded, while the
baggage-man had been pinned beneath some heavy trunks that had shot
forward and downward when the engine crashed into the washout.

"It's the hospital for you, my man," said the doctor kindly, after a
hurried examination of Bill's injuries.  "We'll make you as comfortable
as we can before the 'special' pulls out, but you need a little
attention that you can't get in the camp even if you were able to stand
the journey."

Charlie got permission to accompany his pal, and for Bill's sake he
kept a brave heart, although the events of the past twenty-four hours
robbed him of the lightheartedness that had been his in anticipation of
the home-going.

Two days later Charlie decided to continue his journey eastward.  The
doctors were still anxious about Bill, but there was nothing Charlie
could do, and he knew the old mother was waiting for her boy.

It was a touching farewell as the sick man's hand was clasped.  A score
of times Charlie had expressed his sorrow that he had ever let Bill
accompany him, and yet each time in his own way he thanked Bill for
standing by him when he was "near bowled out."

Bill tried to say that he was glad Charlie was going home, but his tone
and look revealed his sense of loss and loneliness at the prospect of
his pal's departure, and Charlie's eyes needed a good deal of
attention, which they received surreptitiously.

Motioning for Charlie to come nearer, the sick man whispered: "You're a
brick, old pard, to stay by me this long.  I guess she's getting
anxious for yer.  Say, Charlie, when yer away down there I'll be kind
er lonely; how would it be if yer made a bit of a prayer once in a
while for me?"  Then with a last pressure on the still clasped hand, he
added, "Good-bye, old pal, God bless yer; maybe we'll hit the trail
together again some day, but say, Charlie!" (the voice was throbbing
with emotion, and the eyes reflected well-nigh a mother's
tenderness)--"say, Charlie! we'll stay by it, won't we?  If the whole
world goes back on Jesus Christ we two'll stick to him, 'cause we know
what He can do; don't we, Charlie?"

Thus they parted.  Inside of three days the one was clasped in a
mother's arms and there was great joy in the little village home; and
almost at the same hour the other reached his Father's Home, and there,
too, was great joy.




THE BANNER MINES

Charlie Rayson was the man who first suggested the holding of special
services at the "Banner."  "Oh! boys, but it's a hard spot.  I mind
when Old Ken hit the trail to get a job there.  Somebody brought word
they was paying six bits an hour for rough carpentering, and next
morning Ken took over the mountain with his pack.  He never stopped
even long enough to get on a spree.  In about a week he was back at the
old spot.  That night he was in the bar-room telling the boys about his
trip.  I mind he told 'em they could judge what it was like when he was
'the only gentleman in the place.'"  Those who knew Ken needed no
further report of conditions at the Banner Mines.

When the District Superintendent heard that the men were planning to go
to the "Banner," he wrote to tell them not to be too much discouraged
if it took a week's hard work to get half a dozen hearers.  "The spot
is known to many as the 'hell-hole of the Province,' and the Church
does not begin to figure in importance with the corner grocery, but
with two special workers and the amount of earnest prayer that is
everywhere being offered.  I am hopeful that the heartrending
indifference may be overcome."

And so on a certain Monday morning the missioners made their way to the
Junction, and then took the dirty work-train up the gulch to the camp.
In a community where men have for years read anti-church,
anti-religious literature, and where "parasite" is hissed under the
breath every time a minister of the Gospel is seen, it could scarcely
be expected that anything approaching a welcome would be given the
new-comers.

Inside of an hour the work of getting acquainted was commenced.  On the
trail, along the railway track, at the tipple, at the entrance to the
mines, in the washroom, wherever men could be met, the missioners
sought to enter into conversation with the miners.  Some answered
civilly, a few were almost cordial, many were surly, and many others
either absolutely indifferent and silent, or openly antagonistic.  Dave
Clements, a disabled miner, who looked after the wash-room, expressed
himself thus: "Religion ain't no good here; most of the mine-owners is
supposed to hev got it, and so the rest of us don't want it.  Look at
the houses what they make us live in--my missus has been sick most all
winter--jest frozen, that's why!  We pays eighteen dollars a month for
the ---- places.  The company owns everything around here: land,
houses, stores, train--even the air belongs to 'em, 'cause it's full of
their coal-dust.  We has to pay about three times the proper price for
things; but, then, that's what helps 'em to be religious; that's what
gives 'em the front seats in the synagogue, you bet; we fellers sweat
to buy church organs and plush cushions, and then the parasite parsons
pat the mine-owners on the pate and give thanks for such generous
brethren.  If anybody needs revivalling, stranger, it's that gang of
hypocrites back yonder what makes us poor devils raise the wind to blow
their glory trumpets."  Yet even Dave was compelled to say of Him whom
the missioners sought to exalt, "I find no fault in this man."

In response to an invitation to attend an evening service one miner
replied: "Meeting, eh?  Any booze going?  No?  Any dance after?
Something better than that?  Gee! it must be swell!"  Then the tone was
contemptuous: "No, siree; you couldn't get me into a religious meeting
with a couple of C.P.R. engines."

Yet the daily conversations and invitations were not all in vain, for
when there is a real concern on the part of Christians for
non-Christians, that concern is likely to be imparted to those whom
they seek to win.

Moses Evans, a Welsh miner, listened somewhat impatiently to the
missioner's words, as he stood leaning against a telephone pole.  Then
with apparent weariness he answered, "Look here, young fellow, there
ain't a ---- man in this country can live a Christian life in this
camp.  I've tried it; you ain't.  I know; you don't.  I used to be a
Christian in Wales--leastwise, I think I was--but you can't be here."
The interview ended, however, with a promise on Moses' part to be
present on the following night.  Three nights later he knelt, at the
close of the service, behind the old piano, and brokenly asked God to
make him "different again."  "Forgive my sins," he continued, "and help
me like You did in Wales."

Near the end of the week the missioners planned to hold an open-air
service a mile and a half down the gulch, at a spot called "Spanish
Camp," where nearly two hundred miners lived.  It was hoped that by
arranging the meeting between "shifts" a number might hear the Gospel
message, who had not previously been reached.  Every tent and shack was
visited twice preceding the meeting, and hand-printed signs were posted
wherever likely to arrest attention.  At the time for the meeting to
commence there were five children and eight dogs present.  It was not a
"dignified" course to pursue, and probably merited the disapproval of
the "church fathers," but one of the missioners, yearning to get a
hearing for his message, got possession of a large tin can from a
nearby rubbish heap, and with the aid of a club succeeded in getting
considerable noise from its emptiness.  The people may have appreciated
his advertising ability, or it may be they preferred to hear the Gospel
rather than the noise that was coming from the tin can; but, at any
rate, in a few minutes a circle of thirty or forty gathered around the
speakers.

A few minutes after the meeting had commenced the limping figure of
Moses Evans might have been seen on the mountain-side near No. 3 Mine.
Hurrying down the trail he crossed the rustic bridge over the little
mountain stream, and came to where the crowd had gathered.  Without any
hesitation he pushed through the circle and stood in the centre.
Reverently removing his miner's cap, he said, "I'd like to pray."  A
few faces expressed a sneer, but Moses clasped his hands and uttered
his petition, which was written down immediately thereafter.  "Oh, God,
you know as how the devil has been at me all day, saying as I dasn't
stand out in the public air and confess Thee.  You know, oh, my God!
that I want to be a good man again.  You know I can't read nor write in
English, but You've put words in my mouth; put them into my heart, and
keep it clean, for Jesus' sake.  Amen."

Moses Evans and other men, who with him made open confession of Jesus
Christ, were again and again spat upon and cursed, as they passed along
the "entry" at their daily toil in the mine.  "But it's a great thing,"
wrote the school-teacher, "that these men can be by tongue damned
higher and damned lower than anything else in this world, and yet stand
firm.  Increase the number of such men, and you have a leaven of
righteousness that will eventually permeate this whole mining
community.  This is our only hope of rescue from the mire of sensuality
and vice into which many of our miners have sunk.  Moses says to please
tell you that the words of the hymn you used to sing are true in his
own experience:--

  'Through days of toil, when heart doth fail
    God will take care of you;
  When dangers fierce your path assail,
    God will take care of you.'"




THE "HOP"

It was the acceptance of the challenge to attend the "Hop" at the
Bonanza Camp that popularized the services at the Banner Mines.

[Illustration: 1. A Young Miner before his dark and dingy cabin.
  2. A Mine and Bunk-house.
  3. "They buried her half a mile from the camp."  (see page 48).]

After the open-air meeting a number of men lounged around one of the
shacks discussing the question of religion.  When one of the preachers
approached the group to invite them to the meeting in the Hall, "Smut"
Ludlow at once began to air his grievances against the Church, and to
inform the preacher that there were "more ---- rascals in the Church
than in any other organization on earth."  Then Frank Stacy contributed
his bit of condemnation: "See here, preacher!  The last time I was back
East, I thought I'd see what sort of a show they was still running in
yer House o' God, and so I went in.  Just over the archway inside was a
fine piece of writing, something about 'the rich and the poor meeting
together, and going snooks.'  I thought it sounded pretty good, so I
made myself as comfortable as I could in one of them soft seats.  After
a while some dude started to play the organ, and folks dressed up fit
to kill strutted into their seats and bobbed their heads down and
pretended to say their prayers.  Then I watched an old guy trying to
get his overcoat off: I mind how his other coat well-nigh come off with
it; he sure was scared when he saw his shirt sleeve, and he hustled
both his coats on again like he'd been caught stealing.  Just then
somebody tapped me on the shoulder, and a coon with a silk tile in his
hand told me to sit at the back where the seats weren't rented.  I went
back looking like a fool, but you bet I didn't stop for a back seat: I
decided I'd take an outside berth, and it'll be a few hundred years
before this chicken gets caught again.  Rich and poor meet together,
and go snooks!  It looked like it, didn't it?  See here, preacher,
ain't it about time you fellers stopped talking one thing and serving
up another?  The whole thing is tommy-rot, that's what I say."

[Illustration: 1. Company Houses in a Mountain Mining Town.
  2. He said he was "The only gentleman in the place" (see page 34).
  3. An Open-air Meeting in British Columbia Mining Camp, between shifts.
  4. Miners at entrance to a British Columbia Mine.]

Hal Rinnell was not antagonistic, but objected to an illustration that
the preacher had used.  "Say, preacher, warn't that there story about
the Bishop and the silver candlesticks a bit fishy?  You mind you said
about the feller swiping 'em after the Bishop had give him a bed, and
then he got away with 'em through the night; and when the p'liceman saw
him with 'em next morning, and know'd they belonged to the Bishop, they
jest nabbed him and brought him back.  And you mind you said the Bishop
told 'em the man didn't swipe the candlesticks, but got 'em from him as
a present.  Then when the p'lice was gone, the Bishop called the thief
'brother,' and made him keep his haul and promise to be square from
that on.  Now that ain't reasonable: it ain't human nature.  I'd like
to see the pumpkin-head what would swipe my candlesticks, if I had any,
arter I'd give him a decent bed.  He'd hev his next breakfast in Hades,
you bet.  Some o' you preachers ain't reasonable; you kinder get yer
wires crossed."

The cross-firing ended by a proposition from "Smut."  "There's going to
be a hot old time to-morrow night at the Bonanza, preacher.  I'll make
a deal with you.  You don't like our style; we don't like your hot air.
You attend the ball at Bonanza, we'll attend your show, providing you
start when we start, and leave when we leave, and get home as soon as
we do.  How's that, boys?"  The "boys" trusted Smut's judgment, and
knew by his wink that the proposition was safe, hence their unanimity
to make it a "go."  None of them dreamed that the proposal would be
accepted, but after a moment's conference with his fellow-worker the
preacher agreed; and in order that there should be no misunderstanding,
he repeated Smut's proposition.

The following evening the six-mile walk to the Bonanza was commenced,
and the second party to the contract followed the leaders.  The first
mile of trail was familiar to the preacher, then the way led over
rarely-travelled paths.  Carefully he took his bearings when that was
possible, for few landmarks existed.  He observed the whisperings and
smiles when the way was wide enough for two or three of the men to walk
together, and surmised that he was the subject of the conversation.

At last the Bonanza was reached, and already the gaudily-decorated
dining-room of the boarding-house resounded with laughter and shouting
from well-nigh a hundred guests.  From all corners of the district they
had gathered, for where social opportunities are so rare the camp ball
is a great event.

The "band" consisted of violin, cornet, and horn, accompanied by the
rhythmic pounding of the performers' feet.

Women were scarce in the district, and most of the men desired to dance
with every woman present, so that the periods of rest were few and
short.

Liquor was dispensed freely, and some of the dancers became hilarious
and others quarrelsome.

Only once was there anything approaching a fight.  "Nell" Webster, a
notorious character, who was once well known in the crime colony of an
American city because of her more than ordinary attractiveness, had
passed through many degrading experiences, and had eventually taken up
her abode at the Bonanza.  Excessive use of drugs and liquor had
wrecked her attractiveness, but a dance was considered incomplete
without her, and when excited by intoxicants she could "hold the floor
with any of them."  It was through one miner attempting to monopolize
Nell's dances that the quarrel arose.  Heated words, then curses and
threats, created an ugly situation, until a few of the more sober
managed to separate the angered ones.  It was the last night they would
quarrel over Nell.  Her mad race was ended.  The girl of beauty had let
sin become her taskmaster, and now for years her cup of pleasure had
contained only the dregs.  Step by step the progress had been downward.
Once, "respectable" men with refined brutality had made her think she
was their valued companion, and then, like an orange from which the
sweetness had been extracted, they had cast her off.  For a time she
gained notoriety by being the wife of Len Walsh, counterfeiter,
burglar, confidence-man, and all-round crook.  At that time she was
known as "Len Walsh's woman," but when Len lapsed from clever crime to
simple drunkenness, she left him and took another name.  And now for
years her associates had been drunks and crooks.

Once during the revelry, as an opportunity presented itself, the
preacher spoke a few words to her about her terrible mode of living.
He thought there was a shadow of remorse as, with a forced smile, she
replied, "I don't give a d---- now; better try it on somebody younger."

Two days later the preacher was asked to return to the Bonanza and
"make a last prayer over Nell."  They had found her lifeless body the
morning following the camp ball.  Her grimy shack was littered with
bottles and glasses, and there were evidences of a fracas--sin-marred,
sin-mauled Nell lay on the filthy floor in the dress she had worn at
the dance.  They buried her half a mile from the camp, and one of the
boys crudely carved the word "Nell" on a cedar post, and placed it at
the head of the solitary grave amid the lonely mountains.  Few sadder
moments has the preacher ever spent than the ones occupied in the
burial of Nell.  Again and again were her last words to him
recalled--words that have since become an appeal in behalf of the
wandering: "I don't give a d---- now; better try it on somebody
younger."

But to return to the dance.  It was long past midnight when the
"Banner" contingent started for home.  There was something of interest
that Smut had to confidentially communicate to each man.  Then there
was a hurried shout, "All right, boys," and the crowd immediately
disappeared in the darkness.  Thus far the preacher had kept his part
in the agreement, but Smut Ludlow was planning that on the homeward
journey the rest of the contract must be made impossible.

The miners struck a furious pace, and the preacher was for a few
minutes unable to see the winding way, but he stumbled along as rapidly
as the hindmost of his fellow-travellers.  Very soon he realized that
many of the men could not maintain that pace for long, and so,
refraining from conversation, he held himself well in reserve, being
content to take his pace from the slowest in the line.  For half an
hour no change in position took place.  The foremost men were chuckling
to themselves over "shaking" the preacher, and were wondering how far
back on the trail he was, and whether he would spend the next few hours
in the woods waiting for daylight.  But their mirth was short-lived.
The preacher decided that it was his move next.  He could hear the
panting of the men immediately ahead of him, and at a favourable
opportunity he increased the length and speed of his stride, and passed
two of the boys.  At each widening of the trail he performed the same
feat, until only Smut remained ahead.

Smut was mightily amazed when he discovered who was his nearest
fellow-traveller, and an oath escaped him.  With vigorously swinging
arms he made every effort to keep the lead, trying for a while to do a
"jog-trot," but his feet began to drag heavily, and once or twice he
stumbled.  No word was exchanged, for Smut was being pressed to the
utmost expenditure of his strength, and the other contestant had never
more longed for victory.  More than once he had received the cheers of
the thousands when he was the favourite on McGill's field-day, but
somehow he felt to-night larger issues were at stake than the athletic
glory of a college.  He was still comparatively fresh, for he had been
only an onlooker at the dance, and had no alcohol in his system.
Narrating his final contest to his fellow-worker, he said, "If ever I
prayed Samson's prayer with all my heart it was right then: 'Strengthen
me, I pray Thee, only this once, O God.'"

At last the two men were side by side, but only for a few seconds.
With the enthusiasm of a victor the preacher quickly lengthened the
distance, and managed to spare enough breath to call back, "Come on,
boys; it's no use hanging around here all night."  At the first winding
of the trail he broke into a run, and kept it up until he reached the
bunk-house.  With all possible speed he unlaced his boots, threw off
his coat, made himself as comfortable as possible, and when the boys
filed in he was sitting alongside of the dining-table with his feet on
a box and a book in his hand, looking as though he had been having a
quiet night of reading.

Poor Smut!  If ever a man had it rubbed in, it was Smut Ludlow.  Even
before the camp was reached the attack commenced.  "Smut, you're a ----
fool, and you've made ---- fools of every ---- man in the camp,"
started Frank Stacey.

But with characteristic Western fair-play the preacher's stock went up
rapidly.  "That sky pilot ain't no slouch."  "Gee! whiz! you should
have seen him give Smut the go-by when he was plunging around like a
whale in shallow water, and puffing like the 'dummy' when she's trying
to make the grade with too big a haul."  Many similar expressions went
the round the next day, and the preacher was no longer regarded as the
under-dog.

"Say, pilot," said Frank at the noon hour, "where d'you learn that gait
you struck last night?"  With a smile came the quiet reply, "I was
brought up on the farm, and used to drive the calves to the water."  As
Frank walked away he remarked, "Yer guv'nor must have raised blamed
good calves."

The most annoying result of the whole incident, so far as the men were
concerned, lay in the fact that they were in honour bound to attend the
evangelistic meeting.  To some it was so exasperating that they
suggested the violation of the contract.  But that was not to be
thought of in the opinion of the majority.  "We was licked, and we'll
take our medicine, though it's ---- hard to swaller," said Hal Rinnell.

For the meeting that night the hand-printed signs gave the information
that a series of lantern slides would be exhibited at the commencement
of the service.

A few minutes after the opening, and while a popular Gospel hymn was
being sung, about a dozen men availed themselves of the mercifulness of
the semi-darkness, and slipped into back seats.  By the time the lights
were turned up they had become accustomed to their surroundings, and
bore with fair grace the suggestive glances that were directed towards
them.

The appeal was based on the words: "I find no fault in this Man."  All
the controversial weaknesses of the Church were dismissed, and the
great problems of heart and life were dealt with in a manly,
sympathetic manner, and men's thoughts were directed to that One whose
name still occupies its splendid solitary pre-eminence.  Before any
person left the building, the speaker was in his accustomed place at
the door to speak a personal word and give a handshake.  Frank Stacey
clasped the proffered hand with genuine cordiality, and in a voice that
was heard by all, said, "You're playing a bully good game, preacher.
You hit as good a pace to-night as last night, and if you keep it up
you'll lick us to a finish before your innings is out."

Smut Ludlow was not in good humour, and as the boys sat around the
bunk-house stove having their last smoke for the day, he was clearly
disgusted and maddened at the changed attitude of the camp toward the
preacher.  Once he expressed himself after Frank had praised the
preacher for his "grit."  "You're a ---- lot of turncoats; things are
in a ---- of a mess if you fellows can be bamboozled by one of these
---- parasites."

"Well! we ain't the only ones what were bamboozled, Smut.  He sure put
it all over you last night, and if you had enough brains to fill a
thimble you'd keep your fool mouth shut."  Never in their long
acquaintance had Frank opposed Smut to the extent of this deliverance,
but there was no question but that the preacher had overcome Frank's
opposition and aroused his admiration.  "Anyhow," he continued, "that
chap's a different brand to most of 'em, and I kinder think he can put
up the genuine goods."

Frank threw his clothes over the line and clambered into his untidy
bunk, and long after the heavy breathing of wearied men had become
general he lay with strangely new thoughts.  He agreed with the
preacher that it wasn't a square deal to "find no fault in this Man,"
and then to deliver Him to be crucified.  And that night the preacher
had, by numerous illustrations, compelled the worst of men to pay their
tribute to Him who was the highest that humanity has known; and yet
were they any "squarer" to Him than Pilate was?  Had they not much more
evidence than Pilate had, and yet, in the face of an absolutely
unanimous verdict of "not guilty," they pronounced what was equal to
the death penalty.  Again and again Frank said to himself "That ain't
square."

There was not a seat to spare in the dance-hall during the subsequent
nights.  Frank Stacey missed no service, and when, at the mission's
close, a meeting was called of those interested in the organization of
a Church and the erection of a building, he was one of the little
company.

When six months later they were ready to occupy the new church, Frank
was insistent that Mr. ----, "the man who showed Smut where to get
off," should be the preacher for the day.  "Impossible," said a number;
"it would cost over thirty dollars for railway fare alone."
"Impossible nothing!" was Frank's response; and twenty-four hours later
he handed fifty dollars to the Treasurer for railway fare and pulpit
supply, and after two weeks of correspondence the announcement was made
that the desired speaker was coming.

No one enjoyed the day of the opening more than Frank.  The building of
the church had absorbed all his interest, and now the effort was
crowned with success.  For several nights a dozen Welsh and English
miners had practised the hymns "to give the thing a good send-off."
They sat in the corner near the reading-desk, and led the music with
increasing confidence as the day's services progressed.

"I guess the devil over-reached himself when he tried to make a fool of
the preacher the night of the dance," said Frank, as a group stood
outside at the close of the afternoon's Communion service.  "'Tain't
often he gets as hard hit in the neck by his friends as he was that
night."

The Church at the "Banner" has had its ups and downs during the past
three years.  One of the mines has closed, and many shacks are now
unoccupied.  Frank Stacey has gone over to Vancouver Island, and some
of the "charter members" have ceased their earthly labours; but each
Sabbath-day a few faithful ones, "the salt of the earth," gather for
worship in the Church that Smut Ludlow unwittingly caused to be built.




"THY TOUCH HAS STILL ITS ANCIENT POWER"

Jack Roande was on one of his periodical sprees.  For eight years he
had been going the pace.  They had been long, weary years to the one
whom Jack had vowed to love and cherish.  Night after night, through
these long years, she had listened for the awful home-coming.  There
were few in the little mining town but had often seen her eyes reddened
by weeping, and all knew of the Eastern home she had left.  Among those
who had joined in the "send-off," nearly fifteen years ago, were two
men whose names are still honoured household words throughout the
Dominion.  There was no note of sadness that day, for Jack was a "model
young man," and every one agreed that there was "no finer girl than
Nell."

Jack blamed his downfall to dabbling in politics.  "Politics are rotten
in this province," said he, as he endeavoured to excuse his condition;
but perhaps, as a chum of Jack's said, he only blamed politics "'cause
a fellow generally tries to find a soft place to fall."  Whatever the
cause, at least the fact was plain to all in the town that Jack was
"down and out."

The business men said so, and agreed with the authorities that Jack was
a nuisance to the town.  Some of those who had assisted in his downfall
spoke of him as a "dirty loafer," and even the bar-rooms, where he had
"spent all," tolerated his presence only when the cruel pity of some
patron called him in for a treat, or when he could exhibit some coin.

It was through the "tender mercies of the wicked" to Jack that there
were three empty stockings in the Roande home on the recent Christmas
Eve.  "For the children's sake," there had been a tearful plea that the
husband would be home Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  With glad
expectancy the meagre resources of the pantry were combined by loving
hands to give the nearest possible approach to a feast.  From the
near-by woods the children had brought cedar and pine for decorative
purposes, and these, with stray bits of brightly-coloured tissue paper,
had done much to give the home a Christmas appearance.  The usual notes
had been written to Santa Claus, and the mother-heart had lovingly
suggested a curtailment of such requests as Santa might find it
difficult to grant.  The little ones had thrown their letters into the
fire, and watched some of the gauzy ashes carried up the chimney to the
mysterious but generous friend of the children, who would soon be
loading his sleigh somewhere in the far north.

Jack appeared to respond to his wife's pleadings, and so on account of
her many home duties she confided to him some of the requests the
children had made, and how the much-coveted toys were parcelled and
waiting to be called for at one of the down-town stores.  No word was
spoken of the sacrifice the purchases had involved, nor of the sting
love had endured when for the children's sake she began to take in
sewing.  It was therefore agreed that Jack should bring the parcel home
shortly before tea on Christmas Eve, and in the darkness it could be
hidden away until the little ones were asleep.

Jack was true to his word, and started for home with the precious toys
under his arm, in ample time for the evening meal.

"Merry Christmas, Jack," called a voice as Jack was rounding the saloon
corner; "come on in and have one."

"Guess I'd better get home," was the hesitating reply.  It needed
little persuasion, however, to get Jack inside, and after a second
treat he lost all anxiety to reach home, and was ready for a night's
debauch.

During the tea-hour the bar patrons became fewer, and Jack's chances
for further drinks were far apart.  In response to a request to "chalk
up a couple of whiskeys," he received an emphatic "not on your life"
from the bar-tender.

There was a momentary conflict within Jack, and then the beast became
lord over the man.  Going to the corner he brought his parcel from the
bench and placed it on the bar.  "How much can I draw on for that?"
There was a wild determination in the voice.  Unwrapping the parcel
beneath the bar, the bar-tender at once knew what the contents meant.

"I don't want 'em, Jack: you better get home to your kids."  But Jack
was insistent, and gradually the other weakened.  "Well, it's your
property, and if you're going to sell 'em I guess I may as well buy 'em
as anybody else.  I'll chalk you fifty cents."  The articles were worth
three times the amount offered, but Jack was being consumed with that
hellish thirst that he had developed through many years, and he at once
started to use up his credit.

A mile away an anxious wife awaited Jack's return.  Cheerfully she had
gone about her work until the hour for the evening meal, but with the
passing moments the husband's absence caused her fears to increase.

With forced smiles she did her best to bring into the home the gladness
that belongs to Christmas Eve, but the heart was heavy, and the little
ones saw now and again the tears that could not be suppressed.

Bedtime was prolonged to two hours beyond the customary time, but still
there was no sign of the father.  Once the mother expressed the fears
that were in her heart when she suggested that sometimes Santa Claus
did not get to homes when the father was away, at which suggestion
there were tearful little eyes and oft-expressed wishes that "daddy"
would come home.  Bravely the mother gathered the three children around
her chair for their good-night sing.  Favourite hymns of the Sabbath
School were sung, and all the time four pairs of ears were alert for
the sound of Jack's return.

It was while Grace's favourite hymn, "I am so glad that our Father in
Heaven," was being sung, that footsteps were heard at the door.
Instantly the little ones ceased their singing, as Grace joyously
shouted, "It's daddy; Santa Claus will come now, won't he, mother?"

For a minute or two before Grace's glad shout two men had stood an the
darkness outside the Roande home.  After he had been turned out of the
"Kelby House," Jack had staggered and stumbled around the streets for
some time, and at last lay prostrate in the snow not far from the home
of one who had often befriended him.  A woman hurrying along the street
suddenly saw the dark form on the snow, and with a cry of fear ran to
the near-by house.  The minister who resided there, at once recognizing
poor Jack, dragged him into the house, and after securing a neighbour's
sleigh and a driver, started for Jack's home.

From the sleigh to the house he managed to conduct Jack safely, but
when the strains of "I am so glad" from childish voices reached his
ears, he stood still for a moment.  How could he take such a father
home at such a time!  Yet it was impossible for him to remain long
outside with Jack as he was, and so he guided the poor drunken father
onward.  Jack stumbled and fell heavily against the door just as
Grace's glad shout silenced the hymn-singing.  The minister was dragged
almost to the floor as the door sprang open and Jack lurched into the
room.

Few words were spoken, for all hearts were sad as the stupefied man
almost immediately fell asleep on the floor of the sitting-room, and
filled the air with the drunkard's stench.  The little ones were
tenderly told to go to their beds.

"Had he a parcel when you found him?" whispered the mother as soon as
she could control her voice.  Then followed the narration of her plans
to fill the three stockings that had already been hung up at the back
of the stove.  And now it was too late to find out what had happened to
the parcel.  The minister looked into the mother's face, and then at
the three empty stockings with their mute appeal for a visit from Santa
Claus.

"I could bear this, hard as it is," she continued, glancing at the
drunken sleeper, "but the poor children----."  The head dropped on her
arms which were resting on the table, and quietly she wept over the
bitter disappointment the little ones must bear on Christmas morning.

"Mrs. Roande"--a hand touched her shoulder lightly--"if you are not too
wearied to wait up I'll do my best to locate the parcel."  The look
from the grateful mother was all that was needed to send the minister
forth on his errand of love.

The store from which the toys were secured was closed, but the
proprietor had not yet retired, and was able to reassure the midnight
visitor that Jack had procured the parcel shortly before supper-time.
It was not long before the clue led the minister to the home of the
bar-tender.  Wearied, but with mingled sorrow and anger, he rang the
door bell.  The man he was looking for came downstairs partly disrobed,
and was manifestly surprised at a pastoral call, especially at such an
hour.  The minister stepped unasked into the hall.  "Mr. Klint, I
apologize for disturbing you, but Mr. Roande left a parcel somewhere
that I must find to-night, and I understand he was in your bar-room.
Do you know anything about it?"

The answer not being satisfactory, a further question was put.

"No, sir, he left nothing; we had a square deal, but that's nobody's
business but mine and his."

"May I then ask if a parcel containing toys had any place in that
deal?"  No answer being given, the minister said with quiet firmness,
"I must have an answer to that question before I leave this house.  Mr.
Klint, this is Christmas Eve!  There are three empty stockings hanging
in the room where Jack Roande lies drunk, and the things intended for
those stockings must be there before morning."

"I'm not obliged to tell you or anybody else anything about my
business," answered Klint surlily; "but if you are so anxious to know,
then I can tell you that I bought that parcel to oblige Jack, and it
was his deal, not yours."

"This is not the time for much talking.  Be good enough to tell me
where the parcel is now, and what you paid for it."  Again there was
hesitancy, and again there was pressure.  At last the information was
elicited that the toys were beneath the roof that sheltered them, and
that the price paid was fifty cents.

"Be good enough for the children's sake, if not for your own, to take
back your fifty cents and let me take the parcel."

Eventually the deal was consummated.  When the toys were safely in his
possession the minister said, "Mr. Klint, if you were dealt with as you
deserve, you would spend Christmas day, not in your own comfortable
home, but in the hospital or in jail: I only hope you are not as
contemptible as your deed.  I shall see you again, some other day."

The hand-clasp from the thankful mother was ample repayment for the
midnight search, and in the early morning the exclamations of delight
from her little ones in turn lifted something of the burden from her
trouble-worn life.

Thus had it been, sorrow after sorrow, for poor Nell Roande for over
eight years, and at times she felt there was little hope of any change,
but the new day was soon to come, and the night of weeping was to be
turned into the morn of song.

On the Tuesday night following the commencement of special services, as
a little group of young men were leaving the Pool-room adjoining the
Opera House, Jack Roande came stumbling along.  It was a great joke, so
Bill Thornton thought, to "jolly" Jack into believing that there was a
"free show in the Opera House, with pretty girls and swell dancing."
Within a few minutes Jack was sitting with eyes as wide open as he
could get them, ready to take in the "swell dancing."  He quickly
realized that he had been fooled, and catching the word "religion" he
shook his fist as he departed saying, "Religion! it's all d----d rot.
There's nothing in it."  The missioner was down the aisle in a few
seconds, and as Jack was passing through the swinging doors a kindly
hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice, made tender by
acquaintance with the Friend of sinners, said "Good-night, friend; you
have the marks of a gentleman although you have made a slip to-night.
I hope you will come again."

Returning to the platform he continued his message, but it was easy to
see that the speaker's heart was out in the night whereever Jack was.
Was it that yearning that brought Jack back again in less than half an
hour?  Be that as it may, the man who had left with a curse, staggered
in again before the closing hymn, and made not the slightest
disturbance after he reached a seat.  At the close he conversed in as
intelligent a way as his intoxication permitted.  The conversation need
not be recorded.  It was one of several.  Five nights later, twenty
minutes after the clock had made its lengthiest strike, a subdued knock
was heard at the door of the home in which the missioner was being
entertained.  The burner of midnight oil hurried downstairs.  Jack
stood in the doorway.  "Mr. Williams, I've got to settle it, and I've
got to do it now."  Two souls tarried in the upper room, and while they
tarried He came.  At last the broken cry ascended, "My Father, I want
to get back to Thee.  Help me to walk in the paths of righteousness,
for Jesus' sake.  Amen."

It was a great night for the fisher of men.  Like the wearied disciples
of old, he said "It is the Lord."

The following night, Jack Jr., Mamie and Grace accompanied their father
to the service, and happily united their voices in the service of
praise.

Grace--they called her "Gay," for that was the best pronunciation wee
Jean, now departed, could once give--told several of her schoolmates
confidentially in her mother's words, that she had a "new daddy."  And
the subsequent days have proven the truth of her assertion.

The closing night arrived.  The Opera House was crowded, and from the
opening words, "Our Father," until the "And now I commend you to God,"
every one present seemed to feel that this was no ordinary religious
gathering.  An opportunity was given for a word from new converts.
Tenderly, prayerfully, these were urged to in some way publicly confess
their new-found Lord.  There was a hush as Jack stood erect.  In a low,
clear voice he addressed himself particularly to the half-hundred young
men at the back.  "I do not need to tell you what I was.  Two weeks ago
it would have been inconceivable to you and to me that the change I
have experienced could take place.  There is only One who could do it,
and He has done it.  I cannot say more now, but if you want to know all
about it, come to me at the close of this service, or come to my home."

The eyes of the wife at his side were red again, but the tears were
tears of joy.  "It is very wonderful: we are all so happy.  Oh, how
glad I am that these services have been held," were her farewell words.

Jack's hand was the last one the missioner clasped.  "Jack, you will be
God's man.  I go, but He remains.  This change is all His doing, and He
will hold you fast if you only trust Him.  Many a day I'll pray for
you, Jack.  Remember that your feelings may change, but your purposes
must endure.  Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Williams; God helping me I won't fail.  It'll be no easy
business, but I'm not in the fight alone; God's in it too.  Good-bye."

And the years that have passed since these words were spoken have shown
clearly enough that Jack is not fighting alone.  Once again prayerful
hearts are returning thanks for the touch that "has still its ancient
power."




"IF A MAN BE OVERTAKEN"

George fell--all the people knew that was what would happen.  When he
told in the church that he was going, with God's help, to be a
Christian and "act the square," there was only one at the close of the
meeting to say an encouraging word to him; the rest left him alone.  On
the whole, they did not believe in "results" from Special Services,
and, despite the Pastor's frequent appeals for their unprejudiced and
whole-hearted support, none were enthusiastic over the effort being put
forth, and many were antagonistic.  In the opinion of the majority the
regular, "well-ordered" Sabbath services gave ample opportunity for
those who wanted to lead different lives, and so far as reaching the
outsiders was concerned, the endeavour to invite personally the
non-churchgoers was quite unnecessary--all such knew they were welcome,
because the fact had been on the announcement board outside the church
for over ten years.

The missioner was told on all sides what a notoriously untrustworthy
man George was: "You see, we know his past, and you have been here only
two weeks, or you'd know better than to put any faith in what he did
and said last night.  It was just a passing emotion, and it won't mean
anything."  So George fulfilled their expectations when he returned
from the city uproariously drunk one night three weeks after the
mission closed.

The morning following the outbreak the minister's wife made a special
trip down street.  The door of the carpenter's shop was fortunately
open, and George was leaning against his bench looking, as he felt, far
from happy.  Pleasantly the little woman greeted him, and passed on.
Then, with an exquisite piece of deception, she appeared to have a
sudden after-thought, and turning quickly, she said, "Oh, George, the
doors in the pantry cupboard are so swollen that I cannot close them.
Could you fix them for me?"

The carpenter looked wearily at her.  "I ain't feeling much like fixing
anything, Mrs. Lamb, but I'd try to do most anything for you."

"Thank you, George," was the reply, "I believe you would; come as soon
as you can."

George had said what was true; he believed in Mrs. Lamb, and what was
still better, he felt that she believed in him.  When, on the night of
his confession, she took his hand and said, "I'm so glad, George," he
valued her word and tone, and look and hand-clasp, as only the
friendless man can.

But George was thoroughly disheartened to-day.  Everybody knew what he
had said in the meeting, and by now they would know that he had failed.
Yet no one would blame him more than he blamed himself.  He called
himself a fool for going to the city.  The business could have been
done equally well by correspondence.  From the time he decided to go he
feared that he would return home intoxicated.  He was quite aware of a
terrible craving, that he knew only too well made it dangerous for him
to frequent the old haunts so soon, but in spite of inner warnings he
made up his mind to go, so that the battle was lost before the
temptation was actually met.

Twice that afternoon George took up a few tools to go to the Manse in
response to Mrs. Lamb's request, and twice he put them down again.  The
prison cell would have been entered with less fear than the Manse that
day.  He felt he had betrayed one of the best friends he ever had.  And
so night came, and the pantry doors were untouched.

Family prayers were about to be conducted at the Manse.  Baby Jean was
on mother's knee, and Harold's chair was close to father's.  Just
before kneeling the good wife said quietly: "Please remember George,
papa."  There were tears in her eyes when the petition was offered "for
those who have failed," and a whispered "Amen" followed each clause
that was uttered in behalf of George.

The following morning George made his way to the Manse and attended to
the pantry doors.  When the work was finished, Mrs. Lamb led the way
through the dining-room to the front door.  Her hand rested on the
door-knob, and she seemed in no hurry to let George out.  It was
evident she wanted to say something, but the words did not easily come.

At last George broke the silence, and his voice quivered with penitence
as he looked for a moment into Mrs. Lamb's sympathetic eyes.  "I
suppose you've heard all about it, Mrs. Lamb, and the mess I've made of
things?"

"Yes, George, I know, and I'm so sorry; but you are going to win yet:
God's going to help you win.  Perhaps, George, you trusted too much in
your own strength, and you forget how weak we all are when we stand
alone.  You know the hymn that says--'Christ will hold me fast'?  You
cannot get along without Him, George.  Tell Him all about it, when you
and He are alone, and ask forgiveness, and, George, I know God can and
will make you a good, strong, true man; He loves you, and we love you."

"You are going to win yet," and "He loves you, and we love you," were
sentences that gave the man, overtaken in a fault, new hope.  Deep
yearnings were in his heart as he walked back to the shop.  He believed
his better moments were his truest moments, and yet it seemed to him
that no one except Mrs. Lamb credited him with noble aspirations.  He
knew very well that there were Christian people who were suspicious and
unsympathetic toward him, and so his better nature seemed to retire in
their presence.

Later on he told how he used to feel like saying, "Why won't you
believe in me, and stand by me, and give me a fighting chance?"  Often
he felt like a man who had been injured, and who needed support until
he could reach a place of safety; and yet few did more than look with
disgust on him, and think it unlikely that he could make the journey
without falling.  But, despite his weakness and his sin, George
believed there were possibilities of noble living even for him.

The following Sabbath he was back in his place in church, a humble,
penitent man.  The sermon that day was different from the ones the
people were used to hearing; not that it was better, for all Mr. Lamb's
sermons were of a high order, but it had an element that was unusual,
an element of great tenderness.  The text was: "Go, tell His disciples
and Peter."  Peter's past, traitorous conduct was graphically pointed
out, but so also was his weeping.  "We cannot think too harshly of our
sins," said the preacher, "but we may think too exclusively of them.
Peter thought of his sins, but he also thought of His Saviour, and when
he saw his Risen Lord, the erring but penitent disciple said: 'Thou
knowest that I love Thee,' and the Master forgave all and sent him out
to service."

The God whom the Minister was accustomed to preach about was a
splendid, strong, but rather pitiless Being; now they heard of a
loving, pitiful Father who was ever seeking those who had turned from
Him, and who was more than ready to receive them as they turned again
home.  All He wanted was to hear from their own lips, "Father, I have
sinned."  That confession opened Heaven's wardrobe for the man made
disreputable by wandering.

At the close of the evening service George accepted Mrs. Lamb's
invitation to "slip in and have a cup of cocoa."  "Just the three of
us," she added.  "You know the way; walk right in."  Hurriedly she
passed on to give kindly greetings to a few strangers she had noticed.

For nearly two hours George and the Minister sat in the glow of the
firelight.  It was a great relief to the disheartened man to be with
those who knew all, and who yet loved him, and who, by their faith in
him, gave him a little more faith in himself and in God.

Referring to his drinking habit, he said, "Sometimes I feel I'd rather
drop dead in my tracks than touch it again; and then there are other
days when it seems as if some slumbering devil had awakened within me,
and I'm so crazy for it that I'd give the whole of Canada, if I had it,
for another drink."  Then, after a pause, he continued, "I suppose a
man shouldn't try to blame his sin on others, but one of the earliest
things I can remember, Mr. Lamb, is being held in my mother's arms and
putting my hands around the beer jug while she gave me a drink.  Many a
night, when I was 'knee-high to a grasshopper' as we say, I have clung
to her skirt, as she dragged me from bar to bar, around High Street and
George Street in old Glasgow.  I guess my father and mother were drunk
every Saturday night for five years.  One night I can remember as clear
as if it was only yesterday.  It was the time of the Glasgow Fair, and
I was wishing they'd go home.  I must have been about six years old,
and my sister Janet was two years younger, and then there was a baby
they called Bobbie.  Mother had Bobbie fastened around her with an old
shawl.  She and father had been on a spree all the evening.  Father was
leaning against a lamp-post, just drunk enough to say the fool things
that amuse some of them folks who don't think anything about the big
price somebody is paying for that kind of fun.  Maybe you think it's
queer of me to talk that way, when God knows I've been guilty enough
myself.  Well! let me finish my story, anyway.  My mother was dead
drunk, sitting on the curbstone near him, and maybe Bobbie was
stupefied with liquor like I had been many a time.  Once in a while
she'd rouse up, and press her hands against her maddened head and
shriek all kinds of curses.  Police! why, Mr. Lamb, the Glasgow police
couldn't have handled the crowds that was drunk them days.  I've seen
hundreds of drunken men and women in one night around Rotten Row and
Shuffle Lane, and other streets near the corner of George and High
Streets: so long as they didn't get too awful bad the police let them
alone.  Mother was a very devil when she got fighting.  I've heard
father brag about what she could do in that line.  When she used to
roll up her sleeves for a fight, she was like a maddened beast.  I tell
you, there isn't much in the fighting line I haven't seen; but it makes
me kind of shudder yet when I think of how she'd punch, and kick, and
scratch, and all the time she'd be using language that would make a
decent man's blood run cold.  You were saying something about 'sacred
memories around the word "mother"' in one of your sermons, but that was
the kind of mother I had, Mr. Lamb.

"It must have been near Sunday morning when somebody helped to get us
home.  Janet and me had been sleeping in the gutter, and I can remember
the time they had getting father and mother up the stairs in the
'Close.'  Somebody slipped near the top, and there was a heap of us
jammed against the wall at the turning of the stairs.  But we children
were used to bruises, and we learned to keep quiet, or we'd only get
more for our trouble.  I likely cried myself to sleep on the rotten old
floor, and I suppose I'd never have remembered any more about it if it
hadn't been for Bobbie.  In the morning the poor wee chap was dead.  He
must have died through neglect; pretty close to murder I call it.  Did
the death make any difference to the parents?  Not likely!  At least I
never remember them any different.  I was ten years old when my mother
died, and she died through stumbling in a drunken fight; her head
struck the curb-stone, and she never spoke again.  After her death I
was taken care of in one of the Orphanages until I was sent to Canada,
But what I often wonder about, Mr. Lamb, is whether God will be hard on
those of us who've had parents like that, and who've been brought up
where we didn't get a fair chance.  God only knows what we kids had to
see and hear and suffer.  People don't make any allowance for bad
blood, and bad food, and bad treatment, except in cattle.  I wonder if
God does?  Yes, I know I'm having a chance now, and yet God must pity
even me when He knows how I've been handicapped for these years; but
some of those boys live and die right there, and they don't get even
the chance I've had.  It's easy for folks who know nothing about it to
say the people should get out of such places; but some of them are like
heathen, they don't know there's anything better.  What did I know
about a different kind of life?  Where could I have gone?  Who would
have wanted me?  How could a street youngster get out of the place,
where a good many of his meals were picked off the streets and out of
the ash-barrels, and he never had two coppers ahead?  And there were
thousands like I was.  I think about these things once in a while, when
I'm alone in the shop, and I've sometimes thought it was well-nigh a
crime to allow children to be born in such hell-like places.  And there
are some people have no right to be fathers and mothers at all."

It was only rarely that George unburdened his mind to such an extent;
but Mr. Lamb gave him "right-of-way" that night, and many perplexities
were expressed with a candour that gave the Minister a larger sympathy
with the handicapped man, and a resolve to deal more tenderly with men
of George's type who had such terrific battles to keep the body under.

At the close of the conversation the evening prayer especially
commended George to the Father's care, and while the encouraged man was
walking back to his dwelling-place with thankful heart, Mr. and Mrs.
Lamb were kneeling together, and in earnest petition were placing their
home and all they might ever possess at the service of the One in whose
hands things commonplace may be mighty with blessing.

The missioner has been permitted to visit again the Manse where George
did a bit of carpentering.  It was a great pleasure to find that George
was one of those invited to the evening meal.  During the after-supper
conversation he spoke confidentially to the visitor of the mistress of
the Manse.  "She's the greatest little woman in this country.  God
knows I'd have still been on the down-grade but for her; she never let
me go.  She told me one night how she'd told God that she couldn't go
to heaven and leave me outside, and thank God He's taking her at her
word."

The midnight chat which ministers are accustomed to have on such
occasions revealed the story of George's many and sore temptations and
hard battles, and of how the unfailing faith and patience of one in the
Manse had heartened the discouraged man, had led him into active
service, and had brought a new sense of responsibility and possibility
to many of the church members who were beginning to practise Paul's
injunction: "If a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual
restore such an one in the spirit of meekness, considering thyself,
lest thou also be tempted."




THE SUPERINTENDENT'S VISIT


    "Hope to visit your field Wednesday, February nineteenth--arrive
    M---- Station midnight, eighteenth.  Andrew Ransom."


The Western minister had been "house-cleaning" his study, and in
separating the valued from the useless he ran across the above
telegram, which had been buried away for several years.  He handled it
almost reverently and then put it away in his Home Mission folder for
future reference.  The story connected with it was told one night as
the missioner sat after the evening's service in the quiet of the
prairie manse, exchanging reminiscences of one of the greatest and best
loved men that ever crossed the prairie provinces--Andrew Ransom, the
great Home Missionary Superintendent.

Within fifteen minutes from the time the student missionary received
the above message, the people in McLean's general store, in Stevenson's
boarding-house, and in Mallagh's blacksmith's shop had heard the good
news, and all knew that Wednesday the nineteenth would be a great day
for those whose homes the old Doctor could visit, and for the people
who could get into the little church at night.

[Illustration:
  1. A Prairie Shack.  2. A Copper Miner's Shack.
  3. A Bachelor's Shack.
  4. A Shack on the Hillside.  5. A Mountain-side Shack.]

Those who had met and heard Dr. Ransom before, vied with each other in
recalling events connected with his former visits.  They remembered his
appeal for their "fair share" of money to help build the little church.
Everybody said the amount could not be raised until Dr. Ransom came,
but after he had painted his word-picture of their glorious
heritage--after he had pleaded that that heritage should never become
"the wild and woolly West"--after he had shown the Gospel as the
"antiseptic influence" in the life of the great Westland--after he told
them what they got their land for and what it was worth that day, and
after that strong voice, with its downright sincerity, had been lifted
in prayer, everybody in the dining-room of the boarding-house knew the
amount was raised.

And then that hand-clasp, and that identification of himself with the
poorest settler's problems, and sorrows--who could forget these things?

"D'ye mind," said Dick McNabb, "the time he was here just after Alex.
McLaren's son was killed on the railway?  Well, sir, I'll never forget
seeing them two old men standing with hands clasped.  The Doctor looked
as if it might 'a been his own boy what was killed.  "McLaren," he
said, "I'm sorry for you.  I once lost a boy, and I know what it
means;" then he whispered something, and Alex. wiped away the tears as
he still clung to the old Doctor's hand, and I guess they stood that
way for two or three minutes."

"Well, sir, you bet Grant Sinclair won't miss Wednesday night," put in
Dan McLean from behind the counter.  "D'ye mind when Dr. Ransom was
here, Grant couldn't walk at all!  Say! will I ever forget that day in
the Fall when he fell off the fence on to the scythe he was carrying?
The gash was a foot long, and there was no doctor within thirty miles,
and the road wasn't as good as it is now, and it ain't anything to
write home about even yet.  Bill Grayson was the only one who had the
grit to sew the gash up, and it was fourteen hours before the doctor
got here.  Nobody thought Grant would get over it; he lost so much
blood.  He'd been on his back about two months, I mind, when Dr. Ransom
came.  It was one of them dirty days when it don't know whether to snow
or rain, but the old Doctor had heard about Grant and was bound to get
out there.  The folks said he did him more good than the regular doctor
did.  Jim Sinclair and the boys had rigged up a pair of crutches so's
to get Grant a-moving around, but they didn't make a very swell job of
it.  Well, sir, about three weeks later the slickest pair of crutches
you ever set eyes on come out here with some express of mine.  They was
addressed to Grant and marked 'Rush.'  Mind you, they come from
Toronto, and they fitted Grant as if he'd been measured for them.
Jimmy said after they got the crutches he remembered the old Doctor
kind o' spanning the quilt along Grant's side while he was talking, but
he never paid no particular attention to it, but he says that's how he
must 'a got the measure."

The days between the thirteenth and the nineteenth were spent by Mr.
Stewart, the student missionary, in covering the district, so that all
the scattered settlers should know of Dr. Ransom's visit.  On Tuesday
morning he borrowed an extra robe, and, hitching up his team of
bronchos, started on his journey to M---- Station.  The roads were
heavy, and twenty-five miles was a hard journey through the unpacked
snow.  By mid-afternoon he reached the railway, and soon had his ponies
comfortably stabled in a near-by barn.

About midnight he tramped through the deep snow to the dimly-lighted
station.  The night operator reported the train as an hour late, with
the additional information that she would probably lose a little more
time on the grade which lay about ten miles away.

Shortly before two o'clock the welcome whistle was heard, and in a
minute or two the midnight express slowed down for M----.  The tall
figure of the Superintendent was behind the brakeman, on the steps of
the day-coach, and there was a wave of recognition before the cordial
hand-clasp and words of greeting could be given.  "We'll just wait till
she pulls out," said the Superintendent, as Mr. Stewart started to move
away after the exchange of greetings.  "Yon operator has the tongue."
His duties performed at the baggage car, the operator returned to the
office dragging a heavy trunk along the plank platform.  "Man! but
that's a great muscle you have," said the Doctor genially, and in less
than a five-minute conversation he knew the man's name, Old Land home,
length of time in Canada, and church relationship.  As he gripped the
hand in bidding good-night, he got in a message that the operator has
never forgotten.  In recalling the visit to the writer many months
later, he said, "He's a gran' man that: he'd be a wechty man gin he
lived in Edinburgh.  He mak's you think."

"Well, Doctor," said Mr. Stewart as they neared the place where a bed
had been prepared, "you'll be glad enough to get right to rest."

"How far are we from your field, Mr. Stewart?"

"About twenty-five miles," was the reply.

"Well, then, if your team is fit, I think we'll not bother about bed
just now, but get out there."  Despite the protests that were made in
the Doctor's interests, there was a kindly insistence that resulted in
the bronchos being immediately harnessed for the return journey.  In
the month of February, with deep snow and zero weather, a twenty-five
mile drive between 3 and 8 a.m. is by no means a pleasure trip.  As the
little animals ploughed their way through the drifts, the
Superintendent every now and again raised his mouth above his coat
collar to express his admiration.  "A gr-reat team that--a gr-reat
team."

The day was dawning as on Wednesday the 10th the student missionary and
the eagerly-looked-for visitor, frost-covered and shivering, drove up
to Mackenzie's barn.  Mackenzie and his wife were just getting on the
fires, and were not a little surprised at the early arrival of their
distinguished guest.  Embarrassment could not, however, remain long in
any home where Dr. Ransom entered.  Everybody but the indolent admired
and loved him, and there seemed to be no circumstance or combination of
circumstances but he could adapt himself to.

After breakfast Mr. Stewart was ready enough to get a few hours' rest,
and having conferred with Mrs. Mackenzie regarding the readiness of the
spare room for the Superintendent, he invited the latter to retire.
"Did you think I came out here to get a sleep, my boy?  When would we
visit the field?  No! no! thank you."  Protests were again futile.  "I
have to meet two Committees on Saturday, in Winnipeg, and you must get
me back to M---- Station in time for the 11.30 to-morrow morning.  What
about a horse?  Can we get right away?"

"Ain't the old Doctor a horse to work," said MacKenzie to Stewart while
hitching up his best driver.

Hurried but helpful and purposeful calls were made until it was time to
return for the evening service.  The visit that stands out most clearly
in the Missionary's memory was one made at the noon-hour.  Alex.
McDonald's place was the one spot in the whole district where no man
who had any respect for his stomach would ever dream of dining.  Few,
indeed, cared even to enter the dirty little shack.  And so it was not
to be wondered at that the Missionary was planning to pass McDonald's
on the up trip, and to reach one of those bright, clean centres of
hospitality that are usually to be found in even the most isolated
district.  But "the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley."

"Who lives in the shack on the hillside?" asked the Superintendent.

"A family named McDonald," was the reply, "but they never enter a
church---they live like pigs, and I think we had better leave calling
there until we see how our time holds out."

"We'll go there for dinner," was the almost brusque response of the
Superintendent.  Stewart laughed incredulously.

"I don't think you could swallow a homoeopathic pill in that shack,
Doctor."

"We'll go there for dinner, Mr. Stewart.  It'll do them good."

"No finer missionary stands in shoe-leather than Caven Stewart" was a
testimony that all who knew him heartily agreed with, but Stewart had
an absolute horror of dirt, and it was with feelings of distressful
anticipation that he dragged open McDonald's rickety apology for a
gate, and drove across the rough swamp to the dilapidated shack on the
hillside.

The barking of the dog brought faces to the little four-paned window.
"Drive slowly!  Give them time, give them time," said the
Superintendent, as the faces quickly disappeared.  A few fowls
fluttered from within the shack, and a family pet in the shape of a pig
grunted disapproval at being forced to take an outside berth.  For
fully three minutes there was such a house-cleaning as the old shack
had not known for many a month.

Alex. McDonald, pulling a dirty corduroy coat around him, sauntered
over to where the visitors were getting out of the cutter.  He
"guessed" that the Superintendent and the student could find
accommodation for their horse, and a bite for themselves during the
noon hour.  "We ha'ena got much of a place," he said, as the
Superintendent lowered his head to enter the miserable shack.

Each member of the family received a cheery greeting from the magnetic
superintendent, who never seemed at a loss to say the fitting word.
Mrs. McDonald was profuse in explanations and apologies.  "We wesna
expectin' onybody, and these dark mornings it seems to be noon afore
you can get turned round."  The visitors entered sympathetically into
the various reasons why things "wesna just straight."

To this day Caven Stewart remembers the deepened convictions that came
to him of the Superintendent's possibilities, as he watched him enjoy
his dinner.  By various excuses Stewart had reduced his own portion to
the minimum when the pork and potatoes were dished up, and even then
more food went to his pocket than to his mouth.  But not so with the
Superintendent.  Not only did he have a liberal first supply, but
actually passed back his plate for more, meantime complimenting
McDonald on the gr-reat potatoes he grew and the fine pork he raised,
and incidentally remarking that the best potatoes and the finest pork
were easily spoiled in the hands of an incompetent cook.  When he told
Mrs. McDonald that the dinner was just as he liked it--well-cooked and
plain--his place in her highest esteem was fixed.  That he was a man of
excellent judgment she had no doubt.

McDonald's Old Land home was well-known to the Superintendent, and as
scenes familiar to both were recalled, geniality prevailed.

At the close of the meal the Doctor asked for "The Book."  Anxious
looks were exchanged by the occupants of the shack, and ere long three
members of the family were uniting in the search.  When at last, to the
great relief of the searchers, a dusty but unworn Bible was produced,
the Superintendent held it reverently in his outstretched hand.
Looking squarely at the head of the home, he said with a yearning that
no man could miss, "Eh, mon, but I'm sorry--sorry it's not worn more.
It's the best piece of furniture you have in the house.  If any man
ought to have a well-worn Bible it's a Highland Scotsman."  A few
verses were impressively read, and then for the first time in its
history the miserable shack contained a group kneeling in the attitude
of prayer.

There were no meaningless pleasantries when the little company arose.
It seemed as though the place was hallowed ground.  A man and his Maker
had been in communion.  The invitation to "cast thy burden upon the
Lord" had been heeded, and with an exquisite tenderness the anxieties,
the problems, the hopes and the fears of the little home were brought
to the Great Burden Bearer.

The parting was little short of affectionate.  The last hand-clasp was
McDonald's.  "McDonald, I can scarcely believe you've never darkened
the kirk door, and you an Aberfeldy man.  I want you to give me your
word for it that next Sabbath morning you and the good wife and the
bairns will make a new start and be found worshipping God.  Six months
from now I expect to hear from Mr. Stewart that you've been regular in
attendance at the house of God.  McDonald! give me your word that
you'll not disappoint me--nor Him!"

No words came from McDonald's lips, but there were moistened eyes and a
lingering hand-clasp that made the Superintendent's heart glad.

When, nine months later, Stewart was leaving the field for college, and
was reporting conditions to the Superintendent, he wrote as follows:
"You will remember the visit I did not want to make at the McDonalds.
May God forgive me for my lack of interest and of faith!  Since last
February McDonald, with some of his children, has never missed a
service.  At the Communion in June, Rev. Mr. Rowatt came over from the
Fort and welcomed seven new members, John McDonald, his wife, and their
son Bruce being among the number.  The Bible you helped them to
resurrect has been much 'thumbed' since then.  I am thankful I stayed
the year on this field.  To have seen the change that has taken place
in the shack on the hillside has done more for me than the whole year's
course in Apologetics."




THE COOKEE

It had been a bitterly cold drive across what was known as "The
Plains," and the student missionary was thankful when his pony reached
the shelter of the jack-pines.  After a few miles of bush a small
"clearance" was reached.  The low-roofed shack standing at the back of
it never looked more inviting than to-day; but though twenty-five miles
from the "highway of commerce," there were homes still more remote that
had been expecting a visit from the little preacher for some time, and
so, despite his pony's protest against driving by even poor shelter in
weather like this, he had regretfully to tell her she might not turn in
that road to-day.  As was the missionary's custom in passing any
dwellings, he waved his greeting in the direction of the humble shack.
Before he had gone many yards the good-natured pioneer farmer was
outside shouting his "halloos," and, on being heard, signalled for the
preacher to stop.  Making his way through the snow, he said, "Ain't you
going to give us a call to-day?  Better come in and get thawed out;
soon be grubbing time."

"Not to-day, Mac, thanks," was the reply.  "I've been to your place
pretty often, and I thought I ought to make the end of this road
to-day."

"Well, if you won't come in, I'll tell you what I was a-wanting to ask
you.  There's a fellow I'd like you to see awful well.  Say! do you
call on anybody else except Protestants?  You do, eh?  Well, I wish
you'd see Jimmy Hayson.  He's in a bad fix.  They shipped him home from
the camp.  He was cookee there, and I guess he couldn't stand that kind
of life.  His stummick's gone on a holiday.  Anyway, he's most all in.
It ain't much of a trail to follow, but after you pass Marston's you'll
see a wood road, and then, if you keep your eyes skinned, on the north
side you'll see, about forty rod along, a foot track--Jimmy ain't got
any team--just follow the track, and you'll stumble into his shack."

The second stop that afternoon was at Hayson's.  It was a poor place
for a sick man to be in.  The entire furnishings of the home would not
have been a bargain at five dollars.  The wife was most grateful for
the visit, and before the missionary had spoken to the invalid, she
said, "You are the only preacher ever in our house; and will you make a
bit of a prayer for Jimmy?"  A few flour sacks had been made into a
curtain, and the faithful wife pulled them aside and gazed lovingly at
the sick man, and then questioningly at the missionary.  The missionary
felt that not many prayers would have to be made for Jimmy, and perhaps
there was an increased tenderness in the voice as it was lifted to the
Friend of the weary and heavy-laden.  The five children were not very
clear as to what was going on, and during the devotions the dog kept up
a low growl of distrust at the whole procedure, but the wasted form of
poor Jimmy, and the subdued sobs of the wife, overshadowed minor
disturbances.

It was the first of almost a dozen calls during the next two months.  A
round trip of thirty-two miles once a week meant something over
unbeaten tracks; but Jimmy was in need, and there was only One Helper:
other helpers had failed, and Jimmy was pathetically eager for
something he had not hitherto received.

On the occasion of the fourth visit, the wife called the visitor as far
away from the sick bed as the dimensions of the little shack permitted.
"Would you"--the voice was agitated--"would you----.  Oh! please, you
won't mind me asking, but would you stay for dinner; we've never had a
minister take a bite in our house, and Jimmy'd be so pleased?"

The invitation was most gladly accepted.  What a time ensued!  How the
poor soul exerted herself to prepare that meal!  It was over an hour
before the "bite" was ready, and in that hour one child had gone over
two miles.  The preacher saw her fluttering rags as she ran across the
snow.  He saw her come back with a little newspaper package.  It
contained a knife and fork--two miles, that the preacher might have a
knife and fork!  The meal was not appetizing, but after the trouble it
had cost, no man with a heart could leave a morsel which it was
possible to dispose of.

Day by day Jimmy weakened, and it was evident that he needed attention
and quiet, such as was not possible in the one-roomed shack.  Could he
gain entrance to the distant hospital, and was it possible to provide
anything like a satisfactory conveyance in which the sick man could
safely make the journey from that pioneer district?  These
possibilities especially occupied the mind of the missionary on a
subsequent visit.

He talked to the now worn-out wife about the matter.  Prejudices
against hospitals were very real in that remote district, and it was
some time before she could be convinced that such a course would be in
the interest of the family.  The few neighbours did much coming and
going for the next two days, and such blankets and wrappings as the
community afforded were provided for the cold journey.  Bricks and
hardwood sticks were to be heated and placed around Jimmy to keep him
as warm as possible.  Henry Wallis was to make the trip the day before
to arrange for the replenishing of these, and for some nourishment for
the sick man, at three selected stopping-places.

It was late in the evening when the sleigh pulled up in front of the
hospital.  The sufferer had stood the journey better than was expected.
The "Sisters" soon had Jimmy in the most comfortable bed that he had
occupied for years.

Two days later the missionary called at the hospital as early in the
morning as he was permitted to.  Jimmy knew his end was not far
distant.  He could speak but little, and in order to hear the feeble
whisper it was necessary to put an ear close to the patient's lips.
Very slowly the words came: "Say--about--Shepherd."  Once more the
Shepherd Psalm was repeated with its message for those whose lives are
overshadowed.  Jimmy's eyes spoke his thanks, and tenderly the student
wiped the tears off the sunken cheeks.  Something else was wanted.
Again the whisper was with difficulty understood: "Tell--about--rest."
It was the words that only the publican Matthew has recorded that Jimmy
wanted to hear.

Slowly they were repeated: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest."  Once again the parched lips
moved: "If--I--could--see children--that's all."  The eyes were so
irresistibly pleading that the student could only reply, "I'll try,
Jimmy."

A few words were spoken to the nurse.  How long would Jimmy be here?
She thought he might go that night.  Certainly within three days the
end would come.  It was no small undertaking to bring a family such as
the Haysons into town.  Clothing had to be procured in order that the
little ones might be protected on the longest journey any of them had
ever taken.  Their own scanty attire would afford little protection
from the cold wind.  And so hurried visits were made to a few homes,
and to the stores of one or two merchants.  The case was briefly
stated, and a dozen hearts instantly kindled into kindness for the
needy ones in the lonely home.  A wardrobe, such as the Hayson family
had never dreamed of, was soon stowed away on the missionary's "jumper."

Inside of two hours the long, cold drive was commenced.  At each shanty
and shack word was given as to the sick man's condition, and what the
present journey was for.  Within five miles of the lonely home, which
would soon be the abode of the fatherless and widow, the missionary
stopped for the night.  In the dimly-lighted shack of Sandy MacGregor
Jimmy's last request was made known.  MacGregor rose from a nail-keg on
which he was sitting, and said slowly and emphatically, "Well, if Jimmy
wants to see the children, he's a-going to see 'em."

The student grasped the roughened hand of the speaker gratefully.  "I
knew I could count on you, Mac.  Thanks.  I'm tired, so I'll say
good-night.  I can sleep now that that's settled."

Before the missionary appeared the next morning, Mac had everything
ready for driving Jimmy's family into the town where the husband and
father was rapidly nearing his end.

The horses were driven as hard as was consistent with mercy.  Jimmy was
still alive, the Sister told them as they stood in the hall.  In a
moment they were beside the bed.  It was one of those scenes that live
in the memory.  The sobbing wife, kissing again and again the poor, wan
face.  The little ones weeping, perhaps more in sympathy with the
mother than on account of their own realization of the coming sorrow.
Quietly the large screen was placed around the group at the bedside,
and for a few moments the family was left alone.  The journey had been
accomplished just in time.  In less than an hour Jimmy was gone.  His
last request was for the passages of Scripture mentioned above.  "Yes,
that's it," he whispered, "rest--rest."  The wasted arm was raised a
little as if he would put it around the missionary's shoulder, but the
poor Cookee's strength had departed.  They saw he would say something
more, and ears were alert to catch his every word.  "I--think----"
Then there was a long pause, and the sunken eyes turned from face to
face as though seeking to tell them what the tongue refused to utter.
They waited with tear-bedimmed gaze, but no other word was uttered.
Ere long there was a rattling in the throat, and the death-pallor
increased; a few short and long-separated gasps and the Cookee had
finished his course.  They laid him away in the quiet little cemetery
during an almost blinding snowstorm.

With less than five dollars in cash, and a rough bit of land heavily
mortgaged, the mother went back to the lonely shack to toil through
weary days to provide for her five little children.  With occasional
help from other settlers, the struggle for existence was made a little
less severe.

* * * * *

Ten years have passed away.  The poverty-stricken pioneers of earlier
days have cleared large sections of land, and the earth has brought
forth her fruit.  Prosperity abounds.  Where Jimmy Hayson's shack stood
is an attractive modern farm-house.  A mother looks proudly at her
farmer son as she introduces him to a city pastor who is visiting the
mission field of his student ministry.  A few hours later, in the quiet
of eventide, she stands with the visitor exchanging incidents of bygone
days.

"It's been a pretty hard road to travel, sir, but the neighbours were
just as good as they could be after Jimmy went.  But I often say to my
boy Allan that there is only One who can help us in such times as I
passed through then."




THE REGENERATION OF BILL SANDERS

A severe snow-storm had raged for over twelve hours, and the home
missionary was twenty miles away from head-quarters.  His little Indian
pony was "all grit," as one of the settlers said, but with darkness
only two hours away, the preacher began to reconsider his decision to
make The Valley and home that night.  Not a few days "Queenie" and her
driver had travelled fifty miles, but to-day the drifting snow almost
blinded man and beast, and with eleven miles of unbeaten path on the
storm-swept plain immediately before him, the missionary hesitated.  At
best it would be dark before he reached the bush, and he had not
forgotten a former experience, when anxious hours were spent in a
similar storm seeking to find the rarely-travelled road that led from
the plain through the bush to The Valley.

One reason out of several that made him anxious to get home was the
fact that Widow Nairn's wood-pile needed replenishing.  She was a poor
friendless old woman, who had remained on a plot of ground to which she
had only "squatter's rights," and while the few scattered neighbours
were kindness itself, the widow was, as Grayson said, so "blamed
peculiar" that it was "hard to know how to do anything for her without
making her mad."  Perhaps she could get along for one more day, and the
missionary resolved to drive directly to her shack the next morning.

The decision being made, he spoke cheerily to his pony, and after a
little manoeuvring, the cutter was turned around and Queenie was headed
towards the spot where two solitary pines rose like sentinels from the
underbush.  The road to Pearson's was not far beyond these landmarks,
and the home was one of the few he knew in this rarely-visited district.

An hour later he peered anxiously through the storm.  The snow melting
around his eyes made seeing difficult, and he began to fear he had
taken a wood-path instead of the one intended.  Pulling up his pony, he
listened for the jingle of bells, the bark of a dog, the call of a
settler, or anything that might help him to locate some abode, but no
sound except that made by the winter wind reached him.  Tying his pony
to a poplar, he plunged ahead in an endeavour to find out something
about the road he was on.  In a few minutes he saw that the trees
closed together again, and knew that the pony had taken the wrong track.

Once more the cutter was turned around with considerable difficulty.
It was a hard return journey; every sign of their own recently-made
track was gone, and the snow was still falling.

No more welcome sound had been heard by any ears that day than when
distinct, though somewhat distant, the tired traveller heard the bark
of a dog.  Stopping his pony, he engaged in a barking contest, until he
was sure of the direction from which the sound came.  "We are all right
now, thank God," he said aloud.

Through the trees a light flickered a few minutes later, and soon a
pioneer's home came into view.  The little clearance with its
low-roofed log-house was not one the missionary had seen before, but
where there was a house there was hospitality on a night like this.

Bill Sanders was soon assisting the traveller to unhitch, and with the
aid of a "bug"[*] Queenie was crowded into the roughly constructed
stable.  There were times when it would have been both difficult and
dangerous to have put her into such quarters, but that night she seemed
to understand, and behaved herself accordingly.


[*] A tin lard pail fixed to hold a candle and to serve as a lantern.


The occupants of the little home consisted of father, mother, two boys
and two girls.  When the missionary introduced himself there was
manifest embarrassment on the part of the wife, and the children gazed
in wonderment from "the room" door; they were unwilling to run any
risks through getting too close to this human novelty until they saw
how he acted.  "You see, sir, we don't have many people here, and they
aren't used to strangers: I guess you are the first minister that's
been in this house; and then, as the husband went to bring in a fresh
supply of firewood, she added half apologetically, "but I was praying
all week that God might send somebody in here that loved Him.  When I
used to work for Home Missions in Ontario, I never thought how much I'd
long for the visit of a missionary myself some day; it's very lonesome
sometimes."

Before the missionary retired to his allotted space on the floor, he
asked permission to read a few verses of Scripture.  There was no
response from the father: the mother said, "Yes, please."

The Scripture and prayer were for the encouragement of the heavy laden,
and tears were wiped away from the mother's eyes as the little group
arose from kneeling.

When prayers were mentioned after breakfast the next morning, Bill
Sanders deliberately left the shack.  "Two doses of religion within
twelve hours" were too many for him, as he often said in after years
when recalling the missionary's visit.  "We've a lot to be thankful
for," said the much-tried wife, as the visitor spoke a few words of
encouragement.  The missionary glanced at the mud floor, at the
roughly-hewn table, at the round blocks used for chairs, at the
newspaper curtains, at the flour-sacks that partitioned off the
bedroom, at the miscellaneous and damaged collection of dishes and tins
that rested on the coverless table, and wondered wherein the "lot to be
thankful for" lay.  "We don't get along well with the farm; somehow
Bill don't----."  The words were checked, and nothing suggestive of
complaint at the husband was uttered.  "The children are well," she
continued, "and they are obedient," and then, with a fine reticence
that cannot be written, she added slowly, "I am trying to teach them
about God; and I often tell them that if the shack isn't a credit to
us, we must try to be a credit to it.  You see, sir, I'm not strong,
and with the little ones to look after, I can't work outside as much as
a settler's wife ought; but anyhow, I'd rather leave my children a good
character than anything else.  Yes, God knows I would."

Late in the morning the storm was over, and with a promise on the part
of the missionary to return again as soon as possible, and on the part
of the children to come to a Sunday School being started in the
four-mile-distant schoolhouse, good-byes were said.

Many weeks passed before the missionary could visit again the lonely
little home.  This time the mother, pale and trembling, was struggling
from the stable with a pail of milk.  Inside the house lay a
four-days'-old baby boy.  The missionary's heart was heavy.  Since his
last visit he had heard of the faithfulness and goodness of the wife
and mother, and of the brutality of the husband and father, but he
found it hard to believe that any man would compel his wife to do what
this poor creature had been made to do in such a physical condition.

At first there was fight in the missionary's heart, but when the lazy,
cruel husband returned from his rabbit-snaring, the fighting spirit had
been replaced by a great yearning for this man's salvation.  To angrily
rebuke Bill might only add to the wife's burden, while "the soul of all
improvement is the improvement of the soul."  Bill's need was of a
changed heart.

A prayer for guidance was breathed forth as he walked to meet one who,
a few years ago, had promised to protect and love the wife whose spirit
was crushed and whose heart was well-nigh broken by neglect and abuse.

The two men stood talking for some time on the evening of that now
memorable day.  Often the pale face of an anxious, prayerful wife
looked out through the tiny window.  Perhaps the prayer within was
mightier than the simple message spoken without, but at any rate new
desires and purposes were awakened in Bill's heart that night.  There
was no sudden "light of glory," or ecstatic condition, but during the
next few weeks it was evident that this man was being changed.  When
the missionary suggested getting his pony hitched, Bill urged him to
remain overnight.  At retiring time, it was the father who handed a
much-soiled Bible to the preacher.  Strange that so simple an act as
that should cause the wife to weep, but at that hour she saw the
dawning of a new day.

Three weeks later the scattered settlers "visiting" outside the
schoolhouse on Sunday afternoon were amazed to see Bill Sanders
bringing his wife to church on the "jumper."

The singing in the little service was usually more hearty than
harmonious.  For two or three years it had been an unsettled and vexed
question as to whether Sam Gadsley or Martha McLeod was the finer
singer.  One faction deemed the matter settled beyond all controversy
when a late arrival at the service confided to a few friends at the
close that he "could hear Sam, good, clear across the concession,"
while he "couldn't have told whether Martha was there at all, at all."
Martha's friends felt keenly the consequent verdict of the community,
deposing their champion.

To-day the missionary broke all his own previous records in the singing
of "Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

People said "it was a great sermon that the little parson preached"
that day.  Although the congregation may not have known it, the
preacher almost broke down in prayer, his heart was so filled with
gratitude.  When he shook hands with Bill, there was a grip that
thrilled new-comer and preacher alike.  To the wife he managed to say,
"I'm so glad," and the now happy woman looked as though the opening
doxology had become a large part of her very self.

* * * * *

The visit of the Home Mission Superintendent is always a great day in
these isolated places, and when on his next visit he welcomed the new
members into full communion, and took father, mother, and two children
from the little log-house, not a few felt it was the greatest day the
schoolhouse had seen.

During the subsequent days of the missionary's term of service,
whenever there was work to be done, Bill Sanders could be counted on.

* * * * *

In the summer of 1912, after a lapse of ten years, the missionary stood
once more in The Valley.  As is true of most Western communities,
everything was changed.  A little city had arisen--the old schoolhouse
was no more, and the once well-known places could no longer be located.
But there stands a beautiful little church not far from where the old
schoolhouse once stood, and one of the honoured elders bears the name
of William Sanders.  Two of his daughters teach in the Sabbath School,
and of the five children, a well-known business man said, "Why, you'd
just be proud of every one of them, if they were your own."

In the churchyard a marble slab bears the name, "Mary Perry Sanders,"
and near the base, "She hath done what she could."  As was her desire
in the days of struggle and isolation, the patient, faithful mother had
left the precious legacy of a good character to her children.

Thus had the seed sown brought forth its fruit after many days.  Among
hallowed memories, few are so precious to the missionary as that of the
day when his now old friend "Queenie" took the wrong road.  And
whenever on lonely prairie, in quiet hamlet, or noisy city, he hears a
congregation sing Cowper's hymn, "God moves in a mysterious way, His
wonders to perform," he thinks of that distant, stormy winter day when
a barking dog led him to a home that is now transformed, and to a
darkened life that was in God's goodness guided into that light "that
shineth more and more unto the perfect day."




THE SNAKE-ROOM

The hotels in the town on the "boundary"[*] were crowded.  For several
days the men had been returning from the bush after the winter's cut,
until over a thousand "lumber-jacks" from the various camps in the
immediate vicinity had taken possession of the place.  For most of
these men the bar-room was the only social centre, and the arrival of
each gang meant the recognition of old friends and the celebration
thereof in a call for "drinks all round."


[*] Boundary line between U.S. and Canada.


In a hallway adjoining a popular bar-room the missioner stood sadly
watching the procession of hard toilers losing at the one time their
winter's earnings and the control of their faculties.  It seemed
useless to plead with the men either collectively or individually.

"It's the only way we've got to let off steam, boss--it's a fool way,
you bet, but here goes."  The speaker was a man of not over thirty
years of age.  With unsteady step he entered the bar-room again, and
pushed his way to the double line that kept the bar-tenders perspiring
as they sought to respond to the sometimes cursing demands for more
rapid service.

[Illustration:
  1. A Western Lumber Camp.  2. Lumber Camp Group in Sunday Attire.
  3. The Day's Work Ended.   4. A Typical Bar-room
  "In some districts fully 75% of shanty men's earnings
  goes over the bar.  One bank paid out 38,000 dollars
  in wages.  Within a week a near-by bar-room deposited
  22,000 dollars."]


Along the hallway were men in various stages of intoxication, and the
missioner knew from past experiences that some of the men were only at
the beginning of a debauch that would last for several days, perhaps
weeks.  Much had been done by the lumber companies to improve the
conditions in camp and to brighten and turn to good account the long
winter evenings.  Then, in order to protect the earnings of the men at
paytime, arrangements were made to furnish immediate facilities for
banking or for remitting home; yet everything proved ineffective in the
case of some.  The open bar with its foolish and dangerous treating
system had led to what had become known around town as "the
lumber-jacks' annual spring spree."

The cashier of one of the companies sauntered through the crowd, and
the missioner entered into conversation with him, questioning him about
the men thronging the bar-room.  "Yes, Reverend, I know most of the
boys; I make out pay-checks for over two hundred of them, and in my
time I've run across thousands, and most of them are splendid fellows
if you can only keep the booze away from them.  They look pretty well
damaged just now, eh?  And they'll be worse yet.  When they get started
you can't stop them till they're at the end of their tether.  See that
fellow lighting his cigar in Ern. Dean's pipe?  Wait till he turns
round a bit--there! now! his ear's half gone, see?  He's some fighter,
believe me!  A year ago last month somebody got a few bottles of
whiskey into the camp on the q.t.  We try to keep it out, but you might
as well try to keep out mosquitoes in June.  Well, sir, that night Bill
got into a fight with a chap called Frenchy, and in about ten minutes
Frenchy needed an identification label on him.  Bill was clean plump
crazy, and as Frenchy had been looking for a scrap for weeks the boys
let them have their innings for a while.  Just before the boys prised
them apart, the two of them took a deuce of a tumble to the bunkhouse
floor, and somehow Frenchy got his teeth on Bill's ear.  We couldn't
patch the thing together, so Bill had to foot it nearly thirty miles to
the nearest town, and you see what the crossbones had to do to trim off
his receiving apparatus?  Bill gets ninety dollars a month--I handed
him a check for four hundred and fifty last Saturday, and it would be
safe to bet the whiskies he hasn't fifty dollars left right this
minute.  He doesn't know what he's done with it--quite likely a pile of
it has been swiped when he was dead to the world.  Between ourselves,
Reverend, there's lots of dope served out right here, and when the boys
come to, a good part of their boodle is gone.  Just the other day Dick
Booth was yelling blue murder around here, and Bertois came from the
office and hooked his arm into Dick's and said, 'Come on, Dick, and
have one on me.'  In less than five minutes there wasn't so much as a
chirp from Dick, and he looked like the dickens for a few seconds, and
then he slid down the wall to the floor, and Bertois and Sam carried
him into the snake-room.  You bet Bertois fixed Dick's drink alright.
The trouble comes between season when the boys are off a few weeks.
They come into town to kill time, but it works the other way round."

Two days later the missioner was sitting writing at the hotel table
when Bill, blear-eyed, unshaven and dirty, came staggering toward him.
The voice was almost terrifying in its intensity of appeal, "For God's
sake give me something to eat; I've had nothing but that stuff
(pointing toward the bar-room) for three days."

Before anything more could be said, Bertois, the proprietor, hurried
from behind his desk, and grabbing Bill by the shoulder, uttered an
oath, and dragged him to a door at the end of the hall.  Unfastening
the door with his latch-key he gave Bill a vigorous shove, and the
intoxicated man, stumbling over some object, fell heavily to the floor.
Banging the door, Bertois turned to the basement stairway just around
the corner, and in a sharp voice called "Sam."  Sam immediately
responded to the call.

"How in the ---- did Bill Bird get out of there."

"Didn't know 'e was out, sir," was the reply.

"Did you give anybody your key?"

"Hi did not, sir."

"Well, then, you must have left the door unlocked; mind you don't let
any more of them d---- fools out."

As calmly as was possible the missioner protested against the treatment
Bill received.

"What would you do with them?  Would you want them around the house?"
was the gruff reply.  "Give them a bed?  Not much!  We don't keep beds
for that brand.  The only thing you can do is to kick 'em into the
snake-room.  You don't know anything about Bill's kind.  He's seeing
life; them fellows have been counting on this blow-out for months."

An hour or so later the missioner found Sam alone in the basement.  The
old man was worthy of a better job than the doing of the dirtiest and
most objectionable work around a lumber-town hotel, but times had gone
hard with him of late years, and his few relatives were on the other
side of the Atlantic.

"No, sir, hit ain't the kind of place hi expected to be in at my hage,
but beggars mustn't be choosers, you know, sir, and after hi cut me
foot half off with a hax I ad to take wot I could get, especially as me
rheumatiz bothered me a lot.  Wot's the snake-room like, did you say?
Hit just depends oo's hin it.  Hit's chuck full these days, I'm sorry
to say, and it hain't a sight yer reverence would like to see.  You
want a peep hin, eh?  Well, hi don't know as how you'd be allowed; the
boss is rather perticlar about who sees 'is customers hin the
snake-room.  It hain't a very good hadvertisement, hin my opinion."

Nevertheless Sam agreed, if the territory was clear, to show the
missioner the snake-room.  By way of apology, the old man explained
that he had often told his boss that it was a shame to put men into
such a place without any kind of bed, with no food, and frequently, in
decidedly cold weather, without any heat.

When the opportunity afforded itself, Sam and the missioner went
quietly upstairs and, unseen, entered the snake-room.  Accustomed as he
had been to see the effects of alcohol and evil-living, the scene
before the visitor was a fresh and terrible revelation of their
destructive power.

The room was probably fifteen feet square.  Its furnishings consisted
of one table and two framed pictures--the latter being advertisements
of "popular brands of whiskies," which were said to have "stood the
test for nearly one hundred years."  Some results of the test were upon
the floor.

In order to get inside, Sam had pushed hard against the door, crowding
back the feet of the man nearest.  There was scarcely more floor space
than the two men needed to stand on.  Curses, snores and groans came
from the filthy, stench-laden mass of men that covered the floor.
Several boards in the wainscotting were spattered with human blood.
One man with a recently made gash across his forehead was lying on his
side, and with eyes closed, kept striking out with his fist, sometimes
hitting the leg of an old man who seemed absolutely paralysed with
liquor, and sometimes hitting the partition.  Every blow was
accompanied by profanity.

Partly under the table lay two camp cooks.  One of them, Heinrich
Lietzmann, was a most generous individual, and a great favourite with
his fellow-workers.  Because of his appearance he was dubbed
"Roly-Poly" Lietzmann.  His broken English was very attractive, and
nothing pleased the younger men better than to "get him going" on
international politics.  Judging from his terribly bruised face, he had
either fallen heavily or been in a fight.  Poor Heinrich made several
attempts to raise himself to a sitting posture, each time falling back
with a disturbing effect on the men nearest him, and receiving
therefore their muttered curses, which he returned in full measure.

Along the table, on his back, lay Chris. Rogers.  Nobody knew the
history of Chris. although, because of a remarkable gift of speech
which he manifested when excited by liquor, the report that he had once
been a "Shyster lawyer" in a Western State was generally believed.  He
was far above the average lumber-jack in knowledge, but far below in
vice.  After the discovery of an unusually mean trick, Bill Bird had,
in the opinion of the camp, fittingly described Chris, when he said,
"That dirty rascal is so near mongrel dog, that if he had a bit more
hair on him he'd start running rabbits."  Just why Chris. had been
given charge of the camp stores was a mystery, but for nearly two years
he had held the position.  He was a slender, wiry man with a singularly
repulsive face.  His teeth were gone, and his long pointed moustache
drooped alongside of the hard mouth that was continually stained with
tobacco juice.  His coat and vest were plastered with grease from
careless eating and his whole appearance suggested a dirty
demon-possessed man.

Bill Bird, the fighter, had managed to get into a corner, and was
sitting with arms on knees and drooping head--a picture of
wretchedness.  Once he managed to look up, and for a moment gazed in a
dazed way at the missioner: "By God!  I wish I was dead:" then there
was a prolonged cry on the word "Oh," as of a man in great agony.  A
few of the stupefied men roused themselves enough to utter a curse in
Bill's direction.  Gazing once more at the missioner, Bill cried out:
"Oh! oh! the devil's got me for sure."

Sam laid his hand on the missioner's arm; "We'd better slip out now,
sir, or there might be trouble."

With a sigh and a heavy heart the missioner passed into the hall and up
to the room he had been occupying for ten days.  With a whispered cry,
"How long, O Lord, how long?" he fell on his knees at his bedside, and
then in silence he pleaded with his God that at least Bill Bird might
be released from the grip of the Evil One.

After the regular service that night, a few Christian people met for
prayer.  The missioner confided in those present, and with sadness told
of his visit with Sam to the snake-room.  "What are we doing," he
asked, "either as a church or as individuals, for these men?  Has Satan
any opposition from us as he enslaves our fellow-countrymen?  Surely it
is not a matter of indifference to us when these men are wrecking their
own and other lives, in dens of vice that have been allowed to plant
themselves in this town, and that can only thrive as manhood and
womanhood are debased?

"Several lumbermen in this district say that in the past fifteen years
there has been a steady deterioration in the men employed in the woods.
After every pay-day, by their debauchery, seventy-five per cent. unfit
themselves for the work to be done, and take from two to eight weeks to
get back to normal condition.  There is much that may and must be done
along social lines if we are going to arrest these degrading
influences, but in the meantime is it not possible for us as
individuals to get into personal touch with some of these boys, and
throw around them the protection of our Christian friendship and
hospitality?  Preaching is not the only means for advancing the
Kingdom.  So much may be done if Christian people will put themselves
and their possessions at the service of humanity, and learn to love the
lowest as well as the best of the race.  Some of these lumber-jacks
might go back to camp changed men if we gave God a fair chance to use
us.  Perhaps some of you business men, or some of you ranchers, could
get alongside of at least one poor fellow from that snake-room, and
live for his reclamation.  There are many ways of keeping in touch with
these men, even when they return to the bush, and, in this land of
investments, you would find nothing yield such a dividend as the
investment of your time in the attractive presentation of the love and
power of Jesus Christ.  Will you at least make the effort, and leave
the results to your Master?"  The words were spoken and the question
asked with an earnestness that had been intensified by the
heart-rending appeal of the broken manhood that the speaker knew was
represented by what he had looked upon in the snake-room.

In the prayerful atmosphere and the silence that followed the question,
one man said in his heart, "I will."  That man was George Clarke.

George Clarke had a small ranch a short distance from the town.  He was
one of the most industrious men in the Province, but his industry had
not resulted in the prosperity that most of his neighbours enjoyed.  He
had met with enough reverses to absolutely dishearten the average man,
but he had borne them all bravely, keeping his disposition unsoured,
and his character clean.  His extreme reticence, however, often led
strangers to misjudge him, and to underestimate his worth.  In public
affairs he treated himself as though he had no right to anything but
the most inferior position, and to have given expression to his own
opinion before even a small audience would, in his own judgment, have
resulted fatally.  Once, under great pressure, he had consented to pass
the collection plate at a church service, but after getting on his
feet, "everything was a blur."  The boys at the rear vowed that he
stumbled against every bench-end but one, and that by the time he was
half way down the aisle "he didn't know which side of the plate should
be up."  In replacing the plate on the organ, to the great surprise of
the organist, he unceremoniously deposited most of the offering in her
lap, and was too much overcome with embarrassment to assist her in
replacing it.  During the closing hymn he made his escape to a quiet
spot in the bush, where he could wipe his profusely perspiring brow and
where he could solemnly promise himself not to be entrapped again.  But
despite his reticence he was an exceptionally intelligent man, and when
any individual could get George to express himself on questions of
importance, it was not long before "this is what George Clarke thinks,"
was passed from mouth to mouth throughout the community.  All through
the years he had resided in the West he had been absolutely upright in
his dealings and conduct, and though his reticence prevented him from
taking an aggressive part in certain moral reforms that were advocated
from time to time, yet there was never a shadow of a doubt as to which
side he would be on.  The cynical individual who stated that "every man
has his price," was compelled to make an exception in the case of
George Clarke.

And so it will not be deemed irreverent if we say that when George
Clarke said in his heart "I will," God knew he could trust him.

Very thoughtfully George passed, with his wife, from the meeting out
into the darkness.  "I'm going to look for Bill Bird, Mary, and if I
get him I'll bring him home--how would it do if you go on with the
Frasers?"  The suggestion was all that Mrs. Clarke needed, and her
neighbours, without any questioning, cheerfully made room for her in
their democrat.

George halted several times on his way to the hotel shed where his
horse and buggy had been left--he was wondering how best to carry out
his resolve.  That resolve was to do his utmost to help Bill Bird to a
new life.  Years ago in the East he had been on very friendly terms
with the Bird family, and though he had once or twice tried to show
Bill a kindness, yet he knew he had not measured up to his
opportunities and he felt condemned.  Quietly he walked down the
roadway to the rear of the Imperial Hotel.  The shouts and oaths of the
drinking and the drunken, and the clatter of glassware reached his ears
as he passed along.  Was Bill still inside, and if so, how could he get
hold of him?  A side door opened, and George stepped back into the deep
shadow of the building.  Bertois, the proprietor, and some man whom
George did not know, came to the step and stood in the light for a
moment.  Then the door was pulled to, and the men stood silent as if
listening to assure themselves they were alone.  Under ordinary
circumstances George would have spoken to Bertois, but this night he
deemed it wiser to remain unobserved.  The men conversed in low tones
at first, but after a while Bertois' words reached him:

"Don't play too swift a game for a start: give 'em plenty of bait;
they'll keep on biting till we land 'em.  We can easily clear five
hundred from those three suckers if you watch yourself.  Dick knows the
drinks to dish out.  Here's for luck!  Come on."

Re-entering they closed the door quietly, and George still waited,
hoping that Sam would come out, and that the old man might be persuaded
to get Bill Bird into the yard.  Many times during the next fifteen
minutes the door opened, and each time George Clarke got, in some form
or other, information of the hell that was inside.  The hour was late,
yet he felt he must remain longer.  Bill Bird was in his keeping, for
like those near the blind beggar of old, George had heard the call from
the Great Physician, "Bring him hither to Me."

To face the crowd of men he knew would be inside the hotel was more
than he felt equal to, and he knew that in all probability any attempt
to get Bill out under such circumstances would fail.

Once more the side door opened--this time slowly and unsteadily.  A man
leaned against the jamb for a few seconds as if needing support.  Then
some one from within slammed the door against him, and he slipped
heavily down to the narrow platform.  There was a curse and a drunken
hiccough, and then the words the missioner had heard were uttered
again, "By God, I wish I was dead."

George Clarke did not immediately recognize the voice, but he did
immediately step near to his needy brother-man, and said
sympathetically, "What's the matter, mate?"

Taken by surprise the man asked, "Who in the ---- are you?"

George recognized the voice and the form and said, "I'm George Clarke,
and I'm your friend, Bill Bird."  His hand was laid upon the shoulder
of the sickened man, and in a kindly voice he persuaded him to
accompany him to his home.  "The place here is crowded, and we've got
lots of room at our place and can give you a comfortable bunk for the
night: come along, Bill, for old time's sake."

Linking his arm in Bill's, he led the staggering man to the drive-shed,
and after some difficulty and a few arguments, got him safely into his
buggy, and not a soul in the place was the wiser.

Mrs. Clarke was a worthy helpmeet for George, and though her household
cares were many, she grudged no extra labour that would please her
husband and help a fellow-being.  And so everything necessary for the
comfort of the fallen man had been done.  A supper had been prepared,
and the guest-room made ready.  Bill ate as freely as his condition
would allow, and then very willingly acted on the suggestion that he
should "creep in."  George gave the dirty, tired, whiskey-soaked man
such assistance as he felt would be advisable.  Once Bill raised his
heavy eyelids and appeared to be trying to understand the "why" of
things.  "This is no place for me, George Clarke--by God, no!"  The
body wobbled wearily, and Bill could think and talk no more.  And so
with most of his clothes on, filthy from his stay in the snake-room,
Bill Bird was placed in the best bed in the best room of one of the
truest homes with which the district was blessed.

Before retiring himself, George Clarke went to a wicker-basket in the
parlour, and searched through the family collection of photographs.  At
last he found the one he sought.  It was of the Bird family, and was
taken shortly before the oldest boys went West.  George took it out to
his wife, who was still working in the kitchen.  Pointing to the face
of a bright manly boy who stood with hand upon his mother's shoulder,
he said to his wife, "If Bertois and his gang changed a boy's face as
terribly as Bill's has been changed, and did it in a few minutes, they
would be sent to the 'pen' for five years, and yet we let that same
gang take their time on the job, and do it in hundred lots, and
scarcely raise so much as a finger to stop it--and I'm as guilty as the
rest of them.  Poor Bill! he used to be as decent a little chap as you
could find in the County of Addington."

The photograph was returned to the parlour, and dropped somewhat
carelessly upon the table, but the unthinking, and yet perhaps not
unguided act was the first of many influences that brought better days
to Bill Bird.

Long into the morning the occupant of the guest-room slept on.  George
Clarke had opened the door quietly at breakfast time, but the heavy
breathing caused him to leave the wearied man undisturbed.  About the
middle of the forenoon, after much yawning and stretching, Bill's
consciousness slowly returned.

He pushed back the white coverlets and gazed around the room.  Many
times he had awakened in a drive-shed, twice in the police cell, more
than once in the "snake-room."  But this morning everything was
different.  What had happened?  Was he dreaming?  The room was the most
attractively furnished of any he had slept in for years, and his soiled
clothes on the chair at the bedside were strangely out of harmony with
the surroundings.

He had confused memories of events since he came out of the camp, but
he knew he had spent his money in the way most of his earnings had gone
for the last few years, and he condemned himself for having been a fool
again.  With a half-consciousness of some one being near, he looked to
the opposite side of the room.

The bedroom door had been quietly opened and a bright "good-morning"
greeted him.  There need be no hurry, he was told, but whenever he was
ready he might just as well have a bite of breakfast.

No word was spoken in explanation of his presence, nor in regard to the
trouble George had had in getting him away from the "Imperial" the
night before.  Slowly and with mingled feelings of embarrassment and
disgust, Bill attempted to clean himself up a little.  He knew he was
in George Clarke's home, and in his own words, "felt like a fool and
looked the part to perfection."

It was not easy to face those he knew had befriended him, for sin had
not yet lost its shame to Bill Bird.

His bedroom door opened into the parlour, and he stood alone for a few
seconds.  Then his eyes fell on the old photograph.  His hands trembled
as he held it and gazed into the faces of mother and brothers and
sister.  Pictures of the old home and of happy family relationships of
past years crowded themselves upon his memory.

He remembered how his widowed mother had toiled and struggled to bring
up her six boys aright and give them the best equipment possible for
the battle of life.  He recalled his own setting out from home--from
the home to which he had never returned, and to which he had rarely
written.  The "Western fever" had gripped him in his early twenties,
and nothing could induce him to stay on the Homestead.  And so ere long
the property had to pass into other hands, because there were no boys
left to work the place.  The mother's sorrow over the parting with her
"Willie" had rested very lightly on him the morning he started
Westward.  Yet to-day he viewed it in a different light, and he lived
the parting over again with very different feelings.  The last
breakfast had been prepared in silence by the one who had never ceased
to love him.  More than once she had tried to speak, but the lump in
the throat prevented.  At last they stood in the hall, and her words
were uttered with sobs as she clung to her "baby boy."  "Good-bye, my
Willie, and remember, that as long as your mother has breath she will
pray every day for her boy, and ask God to take care of him."  He had
assured her he could take care of himself.  He remembered the last
flutter of the handkerchief as she stood on the milk-stand watching the
buggy disappear from the sideroad on to the "gravel."  He had "taken
care of himself," and a mighty poor job he had made of it, and there
seemed little chance of any improvement.

While he was in the midst of such thoughts, George Clarke entered.
Bill was still holding the photograph.  With moistened eyes he looked
into the face of his hospitable friend.  "George Clarke," he commenced,
"it takes a man a long time to own up that he has made a botch of
things; it's too late now to make a fresh start, but I've been looking
at this picture, and God knows I'd like to have as good a character as
I had when that was taken.  That woman is as good a mother as any boys
ever had, and I haven't shown her the gratitude of a dog."

To this day, George Clarke feels that he never made a poorer attempt at
trying to speak a helpful word to a discouraged man than on the morning
when Bill Bird stood in his little parlour on the old ranch.  One
result of the conversation, however, was the decision on Bill's part to
accept the invitation to remain at the Clarke ranch for at least a few
weeks, and during those weeks he saw demonstrated the best type of
Christian living with which he had ever come in contact.  On several
occasions he accompanied George to the hall in which the special
services were being held.  Rather to the surprise of the Clarkes, he
made no response to the appeals from the missioner, which seemed to
them so powerful.  One Sabbath evening, however, as they sat around the
stove, Bill expressed himself in such a way as to bring a thrill of joy
to the hearts of those who were greatly concerned in seeing him make
the "Choice of the Highest."

"George Clarke," said Bill, "I haven't taken much stock in religion,
but if there's a kind that makes a man do what you and your missus did
for me when I wasn't fit company for a pig, I guess I ought to go in
for it."  Then in a lower and subdued tone he added, "For anybody to
take an interest in me is a stunner, the dirty tough that I was."

It was Bill's own opinion that for him life in the bush was no longer
safe, and so, until his future was fully decided, he agreed to assist
the Clarkes with the work on the ranch.  When a few months later,
through the death of a brother in the East, George Clarke decided to
make his home in Nova Scotia, Bill Bird said in effect, "Where thou
goest, I will go."

And it so happens that to-day, down by the Eastern sea, the former
lumberjack is building a home, a business and a character.  He has not
again returned West, but he has often told intimate friends that there
is a rancher's small home in the distant province which he never
forgets; and he thanks God for those who valued a dirty, wrecked, but
God-loved man more than furniture and carpets, and whose hospitality
and service awakened desires that have transformed a life.

But it was not to Bill Bird alone that an uplift came.  Let George
Clarke speak for himself.  His words were spoken as he renewed his
acquaintance with the missioner two years later.  The audience had
dispersed, and George and the speaker walked down the street of the
little fishing village.  Bill Bird was the main subject of their
conversation.  For a long time they stood in the darkness as George
narrated all that had transpired after the missioner's departure from
the Western town.  When his story was ended, the missioner clasped his
hand and said, "God bless you, Clarke, for what you did in Bill's
behalf.  If only we could multiply that kind of effort we could redeem
this dominion."

George clung to the extended hand as he said, "You are very good, sir,
to say that to me, but I tell you honestly, when I tried to do that
little bit for Bill Bird, I did a deal more for George Clarke.  I have
had my ups and downs as you know.  Since I've been in the East I've
done pretty well on the whole, but honestly, sir, the palmiest days
I've ever had, and the best returns my bank-book ever showed, are as
nothing in value compared to the satisfaction that came to me and my
wife when we saw Bill Bird solidly on his feet as a Christian man.  If
you're going back by the Intercolonial, try to stop over at C----.
Bill would be mighty glad to see you, and you'll see what the Lord can
do with a man who has gone even as far as the "snake-room."

[Illustration:
  1. Part of a Town Site after being swept by Bush Fires.
  2. A Bush Fire getting under way.]

[Illustration:
  1. Improvised Dwellings: cover districts into which
  people have fled for safety.
  2. The long line of Coke Ovens.  (See page 183.)
  3. The Fire rapidly approaching.]




THE BUSH FIRE.

"Bush fires are said to be raging throughout the vicinity of Lundville."

This bulletin was one of several occupying the boards in front of "The
Journal" building in Carlton Mines--a British Columbia mining town.  As
Lundville was thirty miles south-west, no unusual anxiety was felt by
those who read the brief announcement about noon-tide on an August day.
The atmosphere had been heavy with smoke for the past forty-eight
hours; but that was not at all uncommon during that month.

By nightfall, however, the town was enveloped in a dense cloud of
smoke; and from the roofs of high buildings on the outskirts the
atmosphere seemed to be penetrated by the lurid glow of the raging
fires which now extended for several miles.  Telephone communication
with Lundville had been impossible since noon, and from Burnt River,
only fifteen miles away, the last message received told of the whole
population being engaged in a desperate effort to effectively check the
fire which threatened to wipe out the village.  From Burnt River to
Carlton Mines there were unbroken timber lands, a fact which caused
deep anxiety to many of the inhabitants of the mining town.  Not a few
retired that night with forebodings that made anything but fitful and
troubled sleep impossible.  Many were the fervent hopes that ere
morning the heavens might open and send forth an abundance of rain upon
the sapless woods and withered grasses.  Nothing but a heavy downpour
of several hours' duration would penetrate the parched earth far enough
to quench the fire which was well into the root-filled soil.

Fire rangers, assisted by many citizens, including nearly a hundred
miners, spent the night in the woods at the edge of the town, cutting
down as much bush as was possible, and clearing it away from such
points as were considered dangerous connecting links with Carlton
Mines.  By dawn it was felt that the night's hard toil and the
precautions taken had left the town fairly secure.

Shortly after daylight, however, the rough trail into Carlton Mines was
dotted for miles with settlers hurrying distractedly, they scarcely
knew where, before the cruel flames that had driven them from their
homes, and that had by this time destroyed those homes and many other
results of several years of hard labour.

All sorts of vehicles, from home-made toy wagons to dump-carts and
ranch-wagons were loaded with household effects, some of which had to
be left behind, when a few hours later, all that most people could hope
to save was life itself.

By six o'clock, fire, church, and school-bells clanged out their
general alarm, calling every available citizen to the fire-fighting,
that perchance united effort might save the town.  Already huge sparks
were raining upon the south-west section, but fortunately in that
section the shacks and buildings were few and far between.  Yet it was
soon apparent that the fire-fighters could not hold their position,
even there, but would have to take up a fresh stand nearer the town's
centre.  Every household was on guard; tubs, barrels, pails, milkcans
and kitchen utensils were filled with water, and for a time the falling
sparks were quenched almost as quickly as they fell.  Straddle-legged
on the ridge of the roofs in the fire zone, boys and men with dampened
clothes were kept busy extinguishing the sparks that would so easily
ignite shingles upon which no rain had fallen for five weeks.

Throughout these long anxious hours, when men were toiling side by side
for the protection of their town and their homes, no man had acquitted
himself more worthily than the stalwart minister of St. Paul's Church.
Until that night no one knew how he could make the chips fly from the
tree trunk, and when the most needed work was the turning over of sods
to arrest the fire running through the dry grass, no hands were readier
than those of the Reverend Walter Nicholson, and when his palms began
to blister and to peel, no one knew of it except himself.

When, after the general alarm, reinforcements arrived, he felt he could
no longer leave his loved ones without some word of the probable and
immediate danger.  Stopping at only one or two homes on the way, he
hastened to the manse.  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Mrs.
Nicholson could not restrain her laughter, as her husband stood,
coatless and vestless, at the door of the dining-room.  Pieces of
coarse string had been substituted for certain important buttons which
had been lost in his strenuous activity at the fire-fighting.  The
all-night's toil in the dirt and the smoke, amidst falling ashes, had
transformed the immaculately clean husband into a dirt-begrimed
labourer.

"It looks as if the town was doomed, Jess," he commenced.  "The
brewery's gone (though that's no particular loss), and a number of
shacks are already burnt down.  I must get right back with the men, but
in the meantime you'd better get what you value most into a couple of
valises.  You'll need a few extra clothes for the youngsters and
yourself.  Put my marginal bible and my black suit in if you can.  It's
of no use trying to take much, as we may have to foot it for quite a
distance.  The 'Eastbound' hasn't come in yet, and it's hard to get any
information because the wires are down, but it looks as if some of the
bridges had been burned, so there isn't much hope of getting out by
rail.  You can count on me being back in about half an hour."

Mrs. Nicholson, as a bride, had brought to her Western home the
handiwork of three busy years, and when the furnishing had been
completed and her "extras" tastefully arranged, the minister and his
young wife had looked with grateful pride upon the attractiveness of
the manse.  During the ten subsequent years her enthusiasm in keeping
that home orderly, clean and cosy, had never failed.  And now she had
less than half an hour in which to select what she most desired from
that home that had become endeared by ten years of effort to keep it,
as it had been kept, a radiant centre of helpfulness--and that
selection from their entire earthly possessions must fit the narrow
compass of two valises.

The reader who is able to imagine Mrs. Nicholson's feelings on that
memorable nineteenth day of August will readily believe that a few
minutes were lost in the feeling of helplessness as to what was best to
select.  A glance through the window at the smoke-filled street, and
occasional sparks, put an end to her hesitancy.  Whatever was to be
done must be done quickly.  Her husband's request was first complied
with, then such clothing as she and the children might need was
included, and a small supply of food for immediate needs.  Within a few
minutes she had gathered together the few articles of jewellery she
possessed, a package of business papers, a bit of silverware, one or
two photographs, and an "encyclopædic" scrapbook which contained, among
many other interesting items, several newspaper clippings of the work
and doings of the Rev. W. Nicholson.  From her much-prized secretary, a
Christmas gift from the children in her Sunday School class, she took a
locket in which was a small curl of hair--her mother's hair.

In her hurried packing she had not forgotten that at least two things
must be included from her box of relics and sentimental treasures in
the attic.  The first pair of baby shoes ever worn in the manse were
among Mrs. Nicholson's most valued reminders of the happy days spent in
caring for Baby Dorothy--now a bright girl of eight years.  Whenever a
visit had been made to the box in the attic, the little shoes were
always taken out and looked upon with a loving smile.

There were many other articles of much greater value than what was Mrs.
Nicholson's final selection, but she could not leave "dear little
Hugh's favourite toy."  How he had loved that little horse!  Even after
the terrible accident that had left the "gee gee" noseless, nothing
could ever displace it in his affections.  For at least a year it had
shared his bed without one night's exception, and though it was usually
taken from his arms after the little lad had fallen asleep, it was
always placed on the chair at the bed-side, so that on awakening he
might immediately find his valued wooden friend.  And when, during his
long and fatal illness, he was unable to take an interest in any other
toys, the wasted hand would rest for hours across the back of the
broken toy-horse.  And so the noseless little animal, with its stand
minus two wheels, found a place among the most valued things that were
chosen from the well-furnished manse when but a brief half-hour was
given in which to make a final choice.

The thirty minutes had not fully elapsed when Mr. Nicholson came
rushing in to say there was not a moment to lose.  The wind by this
time had increased well-nigh to a hurricane, and no force of men could
have protected the buildings from the fiery embers that were being
hurled in large quantities in all directions.

Walter Nicholson went forth with the two valises strapped over his
shoulders, while on his left arm he carried his eighteen months old
baby boy.  Close behind him came his wife with a few extra wraps thrown
over one arm, and her free hand clasping that of the trembling little
Dorothy.  Thus the Nicholson family departed from the manse, that
twelve hours later was nothing but a heap of smouldering ashes.

The streets were filled with terror-stricken people laden with such of
their worldly possessions as their strength would allow.  The fierce
wind hastened them on in their frenzied race for life.  Shouts,
shrieks, agonized cries and prayers greeted the ears of the minister
and his wife as they joined the homeless throng on the streets of
Carlton Mines.  "Every house in Freeman's Terrace is burning."  "The
Methodist Church is ablaze."  "The Opera House was on fire when we came
by."  "Oh, my God! what'll we all do?"  "There won't be a house left in
town."  "God have mercy on us!"  Such were the cries from scores of
voices in the terrified crowd.

Here and there aged and sick folk were being borne in the arms of loved
ones or neighbours, although each one rendering such willing service
knew that the delay involved was imperilling his own life.  Perhaps the
saddest sight in the whole sad procession was that of a poor Italian
woman, whose little girl had died the previous morning.  The father was
working in a construction gang several miles away, and the word of the
child's death had not yet reached him.  When the fire had spread to the
humble dwelling, the distracted and sorrow-stricken mother could not
endure the thought of leaving her darling to the devouring flames.
Tenderly lifting the little one from the casket, she wrapped a shawl
around the lifeless form and struggled with her burden alongside of
some who knew not what she carried.  Cries and prayers in her native
tongue were intermingled with her broken English.

Walter Nicholson had forgotten for the moment that the previous
afternoon he had heard of the poor woman's sorrow and had fully
intended to at least call and offer such sympathy and help as was
possible.  But the call to the fire-fighting had caused everything else
to be put aside.  When, however, he heard the pathetic wail, "Oh, ma
Annetta, ma leetle Annetta," and glanced at the strange-looking bundle
the Italian woman was carrying, he at once surmised the meaning of it
all.

Burdened and anxious though he was, he walked alongside of the lonely
mother that he might share her burden also.  The sad-eyed woman looked
into his face, and in an appealing tone said, "Please not mak' her go
from me--ma dear leetle Annetta.  Da father, he no come yet.  Oh! he
must come first!"  Walter Nicholson hurriedly readjusted his baggage
and then held his baby boy so as to leave his right arm free to give
the poor Italian woman such support as was possible.  The assistance
given was only slight, but his sympathetic words and the touch of his
hand soothed a little the aching heart of one who felt that day the
loneliness of a bereaved stranger in a strange land.

Information was passed through the fleeing crowd that the work-train
was taking the people out of danger as rapidly as possible, and that
the best course to pursue was to make for the railway station.  In any
case, the railway track eastward would be the safest highway down the
Pass, as the mountain stream two miles away might be reached on foot if
necessary.  A place of at least temporary protection would be found
there.

Before the station-house was reached, another member was added to the
Nicholson party.  A lad of not more than five years had either wandered
away from his home before his friends had felt the necessity to leave,
or had become separated from them on the way.  At any rate, he was
doing his very best to make everybody acquainted with the fact that he
was lost.  To attempt to locate his friends was out of the question.
Mrs. Nicholson bent over him for a moment, and her words and looks
produced a quieting effect on the little lad, who at once did as he was
bidden, and clung to one of the wraps on the arm of his newly-found
guardian.

By the time the railway station was reached the fire had made such
headway that it would have been impossible to make a safe return as far
as the manse, which had been left less than fifteen minutes before.
The frame buildings of which most of the town was composed made the
onrush of the flames the more rapid.

The station platform was packed with an impatient crowd awaiting the
return of the work-train which had already made two trips as far as the
coke-ovens at Twyford.  The line was single track, and the only
rolling-stock available consisted of an antiquated engine and two dingy
passenger cars with rough board seats lengthwise beneath the windows.
The morning of the fire there had been added to these cars a few open
coal trucks.  The old engine could not make the grades with anything
but a light train, so that it was seen by many how improbable it was
that all those then waiting could find transportation before the
buildings around them would be licked up by the approaching fire.
Surrounding roofs had been saturated by the station fire-hose, but the
gauge-ball on the water-tank was rapidly lowering, and the engineer at
the pump-house had been compelled to leave his post half an hour
before, so that at best their protection by water was a matter of only
an hour or so.

Yet it needed no small amount of courage to isolate oneself from the
throng and to pass out of sight in that heavy cloud of smoke which
prevented one seeing more than a short distance ahead.  The fire now
seemed to have gained headway in other directions, so that even if they
went forth they might soon find themselves in a position where advance
and retreat were alike impossible.  Frequent explosions and loudly
crackling timbers added to the anxiety of those who awaited the return
of the work-train.

The Rev. Walter Nicholson was soon surrounded by a group of those
anxious to hear any suggestion he had to make.  The Station Agent
assured him that even if the track remained clear, at least two
additional trips would need to be made before all on the platform could
be removed to a place of safety.  "Then the wires are dead, Mr.
Nicholson, and we've no news of any other train being on the way, so
there isn't a minute to spare."  He explained that the station-yard
might be a comparatively safe place for a while, yet, in view of the
extent of the fire, those remaining might find themselves hemmed in and
have difficulty in getting over the burned and burning earth for many
hours.  Several buildings west of the station had already collapsed,
blocking certain portions of the road-bed.

A number decided to follow the minister's lead and start on the journey
along the eastward track.  Mrs. Nicholson refused to remain for the
train, preferring to share the fortunes or misfortunes of her husband,
while the poor Italian woman, still clinging to her precious burden,
followed every move her sympathizer made.  Would she not wait and try
to get on the train?

"Oh, no, please me walk wid you.  I will be so strong!"  Even the
little lad refused to be transferred to the care of others, and as none
were particularly anxious to add to their responsibilities, there was
nothing for it but to take him along.  It was no easy task that the
Nicholsons had undertaken.  The usual heat of mid-August was
intensified by many miles of burning bush, while the smoke added
greatly to the discomfort.  Then the poorly ballasted track made
walking exceedingly tiresome.  Yet no complaints were uttered: even the
children realized that every effort must be made to reach the stream
before the resistless enemy overtook them.  Little more than half a
mile had been covered when the whistle and rumble of the work-train
announced that it was returning for its third load of passengers.  A
glance at the cars as the train passed was sufficient to show that fire
had broken out further east, at some point between the pedestrians and
Twyford.  The old paint was covered with blisters, and many of the
windows were badly cracked through intense heat.  A few minutes later
the train returned with every foot of space occupied, even to the steps
of cars and engine.  A number of passengers tried to let their slower
fellow-travellers know that the station-house was in flames, but the
noise from the train drowned most of their words.

The inhabitants of Carlton Mines who had not driven or walked out
earlier in the day or been conveyed on the railway were now hastening
to the limit of their powers in the direction of Twyford.  Fortunately
for the almost exhausted pastor, the last half-mile of his journey was
made a trifle easier by the voluntary assistance of a rugged Galician
girl who had been well known at the manse.  One small coarse bag
contained her few belongings, and accustomed as she had been to long
walks and heavy loads when she had lived on the Saskatchewan prairie,
the carrying of the baby boy would make small difference to her.

And so at last the mountain stream was reached, and after crossing the
bridge the wearied refugees laid down their burdens on the pebbly bed
at the water's edge.  At that point the width of the open space between
the stream-divided bush was only about a hundred feet, so that in case
the fire continued its course the danger would still be very great.
Already they had seen showers of sparks carried much farther than the
short distance that separated the banks between which they stood, and
there was every probability that the timber on each side of the stream
would be ablaze simultaneously.

But to continue their flight through the thick bush that lined both
sides of the track for miles might be to place themselves in a much
worse plight.  Where they now stood was an abundance of water, and
fortunately it was shallow enough to make it safe for all to stand in
the centre when that time became necessary.  It would then be a matter
of endurance against the stifling heat.

Within five minutes the number of those seeking refuge at the stream
side was considerably over a hundred.  The Station Agent was the last
one to arrive, and reported that when the third train-load was leaving,
the railway yards and the station-house was seen to be on fire,
everyone had immediately set out on foot.  He had kept in the rear to
be sure that no one was missing.

Except for an attempt on the part of some to safeguard certain
belongings by burying them in the gravel, there was nothing to do but
wait--and to many the moments seemed as hours.  It was a race between
old Dave Minehan, the driver on the antiquated engine from the East,
and the devouring elements from the south-west.  Which would reach them
first?  A few men acted as sentinels, and paced the track to discover
the progress of the fire.  The wind had dropped a little, but the
flames were still making rapid headway, and very soon no report was
needed from the outposts--the fire's own voice could be heard only too
plainly.  The agent figured out that the work-train had been due over
ten minutes--something must have happened!  Surely the train-crew
realized the need of the courageous ones who had voluntarily walked,
and of the others for whom no accommodation was possible.

Flames were now visible to all who were close to the bridge, and the
scorching heat, the stifling smoke, and the ash-laden wind combined to
make waiting almost unendurable.  Brows of fainting ones were being
bathed in the merciful stream, and the strongest were becoming fearful.

"Thank God, she's coming!"  The shout was from the throat of the
Station Agent who had been down the track listening for the return of
the work-train.  The words had scarcely ended when the shrill whistle
from the little engine confirmed the statement.

When a few days later a number of men were discussing the disaster, one
of them spoke for each individual at the stream when he said, "Say!  I
used to hate that blooming raspy whistle, but that day it was the
finest bit of music I ever heard."

Dave Minehan slowed up as he neared the bridge, and the Agent signalled
him to stop, and at once scrambled aboard to let him know that
everybody had reached the bridge and that there was no need to try to
go farther.  Old Dave was trembling with excitement and irritation, but
just then he had no time to tell of the fretful delay over a hot box,
and all the trouble entailed in putting in a new "brass" at
Twyford--and neither then nor later did he tell of the terrible strain
that he had endured in taking his train through a piece of blazing bush
three miles down.

The eager, frightened people were rushing up the banks, but Dave kept
his train moving until it was about midway on the bridge.  From the cab
he shouted to them to "keep off."  The moment he brought his train to a
standstill he leaped from his engine and again thundered the same
prohibition.  Sharply he yelled to the men to line up and form a
bucket-brigade.  The fireman passed a dozen buckets from the tender,
and Dave, with harsh and hasty commands, got the men on their job.  For
about five minutes, with a rapidity that would have done credit to a
trained brigade, the double line passed the buckets and old Dave dashed
the water over such portions of the cars as in his judgment needed the
protection.  In the meantime he had ordered the rest of the men to soak
a few camp blankets that he had taken the precaution to bring along.
"There's one bad spot where you'll maybe need to cover yourselves a
bit: it'll be raining fire by when we get back--better give your coats
and hats a dip too, boys!  Get a move on!"

It was no longer possible to remain on the bridge.  The old engineer
shouted "All aboard," and hurried back to his engine.  The women and
children were rushed into the passenger car.  At one end stood the
Nicholsons, while in the corner the bereaved Italian mother sat with
her lifeless child.  More than once had the minister felt that he must
insist on her leaving her burden behind, but each time that he glanced
at the sad face and saw the passionate pleading of her eyes, and
observed the tender clasp of the mother arms, his courage deserted him.

The last foot was scarcely off the ground when old Dave reversed the
lever and opened the throttle, and with a jerk the train started once
more.

Let the brakeman tell the story of the return trip, as we heard it from
his lips months after in one of the temporary buildings that had arisen
among the ash-heaps of Carlton Mines.

"Yes, siree, you just bet it kept me firing that morning.  The
west-bound express was away late, or it could have got the whole crowd
out in two trips.  I never thought "Old 98" would stand the gait she
did that day.  On that last trip we hit a clip both ways that would
make your hair stand.  Davie was bound to get them people to Twyford.
We got a scorching on the up-trip let me tell you.  Gosh! it seemed
like we was running through Nebuchadnezzar's furnace.  I wondered if
Davie would face the return trip, 'cause the blaze was getting worse
every minute.  I moved over to him and asked him if he was going to try
it.  Whew!  I wish you could have seen him!  He hadn't cooled off from
the mad he had on at Twyford.  We had to put a 'brass' on the front
car, and when the boys down there couldn't find their jackscrews, Davie
got rip-tearing mad, 'cause he knew what the rest of the crowd at
Carlton was up against, and he was scared he might be too late.  Well,
sir, he dumped all the bad language what was in his system on me.  It
was the kind you don't put in mother's letter.  He finished up with the
sickliest kind of smile I ever set eyes on, and yelled, 'You fool: do
you think I'm up here on a Sunday School picnic?'  But Davie knew what
was what when we reached the bridge.  He lined up the bosses and
parsons and the rest of that crowd like he was a British General.  And
he got his orders obeyed in double-quick time too.

"But it was that last down-trip that this child won't need a diary to
remember by!  Gee! you know that curve about a mile and a half below
the bridge?  Well, we'd got most all the head on we could carry, and I
was feeling about as safe as if I was having a smoke on a can of
dynamite.  I was watching for Dave to slow up for the curve, but blame
me if he didn't open the throttle another notch.

"As Billy S---- would say, 'Religion isn't my long suit,' but I got
ready to say my prayers; I backed up a bit into the coal-bunker, and
gripped the side of the tender, and I told the Almighty I hadn't
bothered Him much for a long time, but that if He'd keep the cars on
the track around the curve I'd be much obliged.  Seemed to me like some
of them cars jumped clean off the rails, and I thought we were on the
home stretch to Kingdom-come, but Davie brought us through O.K.  Did we
pass through much fire?  Well, I should say!  There wasn't a rail or
post for half a mile that wasn't burning.  If it hadn't been for the
way Davie soused them cars, and got the fellows to fix their coats and
the blankets, we'd never have made it.

"Did you see the watch they gave Davie?  Get him to show it to you!
It's a dandy--solid gold--got a whole lot of writing on the
back--something about 'a tribute to Mr. Dave Minehan's courage and
skill in the face of grave danger and difficulty.'  He don't say much,
but he's as tickled about it as the fellow what got a Christmas-box of
sealskin underclothes.  Davie's alright, you bet.  I'd rather fire for
him on 'Old 98' than for any guy I know on a big Mogul.  He's a bit
rough-like sometimes, but if he can help anybody he's on the job; he'd
break his neck to do somebody a good turn."

Such was the brakeman's narration of Dave Minehan's final race on "Old
98," on the day that Carlton Mines was levelled by the bush fire.

* * * * *

The shadows of evening had fallen over Twyford on what is still
regarded in Carlton Mines as "disaster day."  The afternoon had been a
busy one for the inhabitants of the almost verdureless village that is
known chiefly for its long lines of coke-ovens.  Generous hearts had
made shacks and homes have an expansive hospitality that would have
seemed incredible before the homeless throng arrived.  But after every
available lodging device had been resorted to there were many people
unprovided for.  And so the coke-ovens were the best accommodation that
could be offered those still unhoused.

In one of these unusual lodging-houses a candle cast its dim light over
the figures of two men and a woman who were kneeling in the attitude of
prayer.  In one corner a black box rested on two backless chairs.  It
had been made an hour or two before by the local carpenter, and covered
with black cloth by the kindly hands of Mr. and Mrs. Nicholson.  Little
Annette was to be laid away in the early morning, and this was the best
that loving hearts could devise in that place and under those
circumstances.  The manse valises had made their contribution to the
final robing of little Annette, and the weeping mother, looking upon
what Christ-like friends had done, clasped and kissed the hands that
had dealt so kindly with her and her "leetle Annetta."  For nearly
eight hours the father had walked seeking his wife, and now they were
kneeling together in the presence of their dead child.

Walter Nicholson's voice was tremulous with sympathy as he commended
the sorrow-stricken strangers to the all-pitying Father.  The mourners
did not understand all that was uttered, but they understood the spirit
that was manifested and were deeply grateful.  A few words of comfort
were spoken, and the minister passed out into the darkness to another
oven in which his own loved ones were awaiting his return.  Mrs.
Nicholson was sitting on a box with Dorothy on her knee.  Angus and the
five-year-old stranger had fallen asleep on the ashy floor.  No trace
had been discovered of the lad's friends.  He could give little
information beyond the fact that his name was Hans Kuyper, and that he
was "losted."  Mrs. Nicholson had quieted the wee chap's fears, by
assuring him that his mother would come soon, and though, with darkness
at hand and no sign of mother, a few tears had been shed, it was not
long before the wearied and worn child was asleep.

The husband and father sat alongside of his loved ones in sympathetic
silence for a few minutes.  The all-night's toil, the hours of
solicitude for others, the heat of the day, the burdens carried, the
sympathy extended and the discomforts endured, had combined to produce
a feeling of depression.  "We have lost everything, Jess: maybe I'll
feel better by morning, but to-night I've lost my courage as well as
everything else, and I can scarcely bear to think of the future."

Little Dorothy placed herself between her father's knees, and looking
lovingly into eyes where the unbidden tears had forced themselves, said
quietly, "Isn't it a good thing, daddy, that you haven't lost mamma and
Angus and me?"

Walter Nicholson enfolded the child in his big arms and kissed the
curl-encircled face.  "Yes!  God bless you, little sunbeam, that is a
good thing, and maybe daddy was forgetting.  Now let us say the
twenty-third Psalm and have our good-night prayer."

With sometimes unsteady voices the three repeated the Psalm they had so
often joined in at home under such different circumstances.  Then
father, mother and child knelt beside the box, and a prayer of
thanksgiving and a cry for strength came from a thankful but needy
heart.  Walter Nicholson's arm rested on Dorothy's shoulder, and his
voice quivered again as he thought of the little black box in the
near-by oven; and prayed for those to whom the past hours had brought a
double sorrow that had left them homeless and childless.

As was her custom, Dorothy offered up her own prayer at her mother's
knee.  A sweet confidence in religious matters had always existed
between child and mother, and there was never any restraint in the
expression of the little one's thought toward God.  Tired though she
was, her "poetry prayers," as she called them, were said in full, and
then her own additions followed.  "Thank you for taking care of us all,
and we are glad that papa and mamma and Angus and Dorothy are all here.
Help the little boy's mamma to find him, and please to take care of the
poor Italian woman now that her little girl is gone to heaven.  Bless
papa and mamma and Angus, and make me a good girl, and please help us
to get another home soon, for Jesus' sake.  Amen."

The fire had almost spent itself by nightfall, and with the dawn the
long-wished-for rain began to fall.  By the middle of the forenoon the
danger of any further outbreak was past.  The construction gang from
the East, and a number of section men from the West, were immediately
put to work at clearing the track and repairing culverts and bridges.

By the middle of the afternoon a number of men who had fled from the
burning town were able to make the return trip.  For four or five miles
the outlook from the car-windows was a very dreary one.  The underbrush
had been entirely burned up, and of the standing timber little but
charred, jagged remnants of tree-trunks remained.  Only here and there
had a telegraph pole escaped, and even the protruding ends of many of
the railway ties had smouldered to the ballast.

The entire business section of Carlton Mines was destroyed.  A few
isolated buildings in the residential portion north-west, and a few in
the north-east had escaped, but all the rest had been reduced to ashes.
What could be done under such circumstances?  Who would have the
courage to attempt a fresh start and face all the difficulties arising
out of such a disaster?  Who?  _Every man who that afternoon stood
gazing at those ash-heaps_.  With that inextinguishable optimism that
has its headquarters in Western Canada, they began then and there to
formulate their plans.  Several contracts for rebuilding were signed
before night, and ere the ashes were cold, men started to rear a new
and better town.

The preacher, with the rest of the impoverished ones, went back to his
job.  Not only did he assist in clearing away the debris, in
preparation for a new church and manse, but many a lift did he give to
others who were busily engaged in getting a roof over their heads.

During the months of rebuilding he preached successfully in the
open-air, in shack-restaurant, sawmill, hotel, opera-house, and
finally, after many disappointments and discouragements, in the new
church.

Among the interesting contributions received by Mr. Nicholson for the
Building Fund, was one from the mother of the boy who was "losted."
When on the morning of the fire she was compelled to hastily leave her
dwelling, she felt quite sure her little lad was with some of his
playmates in a neighbour's home.  On the way she discovered that her
friends had already departed, but she was still hopeful that her boy
was in their care.  And so she had very gladly accepted a ride in one
of the last vehicles leaving the town, and, after a rough and rapid
drive, had reached a mining camp a mile or two south of Twyford.  Her
friends had gone in a different direction, and it was over twenty-four
hours before she found them.

They could give her no news of her lost boy, and she began to fear that
he had never left the town.  Two days later, without having received
any word of his whereabouts, she suddenly saw him, riding "pickaback"
with arms twined around the neck of the Rev. Walter Nicholson.

Mr. Nicholson still delights to tell how the mother and child were
unexpectedly brought face to face as he was turning the corner of a
building.  He professes to have confused memories of certain details,
but states that before he had a chance to get the lad from his
shoulders or extricate himself, he was the centre of the most vigorous
hugging and kissing imaginable.  When the overjoyed mother learned all
that had taken place, her gratitude to those who had befriended her boy
was simply unbounded.  For some months after the fire she struggled
along in a small shack several miles away from Carlton Mines.  The
following letter from her to Mr. Nicholson is reproduced exactly as
written, except for corrections in spelling:


"DEAR SIR,--I shall thank you very much for what you have done to me.
Never will I not forget it.  It is sorry for me that I not can write
much English.  Dear Sir, I am well here, but the work is very still and
so we not can get money.  I went to the church on all the Sunday.  I am
glad to be a better woman.  I wish you my blessing and Hans do it too.
After 25th I will send you $1.00 for your another church.--G. KUYPER."


The one dollar arrived in due time, and knowing the sacrifice it
involved, it was valued out of all proportion to the amount.

Walter Nicholson's courage in facing the future did not fail.  He
stayed at his post until his work was completed.  To "preach to a
procession," as the work in some districts has frequently been
described, to face an appalling indifference on the part of some, and a
cynical antagonism on the part of others, and to struggle along with an
inadequate income, constitutes a task that only the bravest can face
year after year, yet in the face of all this he said cheerfully, "I've
seen a lot of preachers come and go, but I think God wants me here, and
the need is call enough for any man, so here I stay as long as He
wills.  I've had many rewards, and I thank God I've had the chance to
do my bit in this great Westland."




RUTH AND THE PRODIGAL

THE PRODIGAL

"Isn't he awful looking, Mother?  Why does daddy let him come in so
much?  I don't like the way the study smells after he's been in."

Little Ruth, of a village manse, made many other observations, and
asked many other questions as a poor, wretched-looking man shuffled
across the lawn in the early evening of an autumn day.

The mother's smile changed quickly to a look of sadness, and giving the
wee girl a kiss, she said, "Mother will tell Ruthie all about it at
story-time to-night."

From the Children's Bible Story Book that night the mother read of the
Prodigal Son.  There were a number of interruptions from the occupant
of the little bed: "Why didn't he go home before he got so dreadful
hungry, Mother?"  "Where was his mother?"  "Why did his father run so
far?"

After answering many questions the mother continued: "There are lots
and lots of prodigal sons still living; men who have been bad, and who
then, like some little children who have been naughty, run away from
those who love them best.  And all the time those who love them are
wishing so much that they would come back, and say they are sorry and
that they will try to be better.  God is our Father, and He loves
everybody; you know what we often say when daddy has prayers: 'For God
so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever
believeth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'  Well,
darling, you wanted to know why daddy let poor Mr. Gage come in so
often?  He lets him come because God would let him come.  The poor man
thinks that God doesn't want him because he's been so bad, and because
he's gone, oh! so far away, and daddy is trying to tell him that God
does want him, and that God will take care of him if he will only love
Him and trust Him, like you trust daddy and mother to take care of you.
Mr. Gage is awful looking because sin is awful, and he has let sin be
his master instead of God.  But mother's darling will be nice and kind
to him, because God loves him, and we must love those whom God loves.
Perhaps some day you will see him look as much different as the
Prodigal Son looked after he came back home."

Ruth did not altogether forget her mother's words, and when the
half-drunken man was brought to the Manse for a meal a little later on
in the week, she somewhat timorously handed him two or three asters
that she had picked from the garden.  John Gage looked a little
embarrassed, and at first seemed inclined to leave them in Ruth's
possession, but the little hand remained outstretched, and with sweet
winsomeness the child told him she had picked them for him.

"Picked them for me!  Well, well! then I guess I'll take them.  Thank
you."

On several occasions, as he sauntered around the village, his attention
was arrested by a childish voice calling him by name, so that he came
to feel he had a friend in the minister's little girl.

There were many head-shakings among the village wiseacres regarding the
minister's interest in John Gage.  It was generally agreed that while
the preacher was well meaning enough, his knowledge of human nature was
not very keen.  The village constable knew John so well that he felt
able to speak authoritatively on the matter.  "'Tain't no use, young
man," he said to the preacher.  "We wus talking about him the other day
in Cyrus Haag's blacksmith shop, and every man says the same as I do.
He's just a-bleeding you, that's all.  Five years' hard labour is what
he needs; s'long as you'll take care of him when he's drunk, and feed
him when he's broke, he'll just bum around.  Don't I know the whole
bunch?  Didn't me and the county constable arrest his father when he
pretty nigh murdered Sam Collins?  Ain't his brother in Kingston
Penitentiary this very minute?  The only way to improve them fellers is
to hang 'em."

The authoritative information having been given the preacher, there was
no further need of sympathy for him if he wilfully rejected the
constable's gratuitous, labour-and-money-saving counsel.

And the passing of the weeks seemed to confirm the "'tain't-no-use"
judgment.  People living near the Manse reported everything that
happened, and a good deal that did not happen, in connection with the
visits of John Gage and others of his type, for it was generally known
that the preacher was "easy."  But the preacher went on with his work,
and whatever the results of his efforts might be, nobody ever doubted
his belief in the Gospel he preached.

Every Sabbath evening, in some form or other, he dealt with the Fact of
Sin and its Soul-destroying power.  He knew that "sin and punishment go
through the world with their heads tied together," but he knew also,
and he preached it as a fact that for him was beyond all controversy,
that by immediate act of God salvation might come, and had come,
delivering the life from the gripping, enslaving, murderous power of
sin.

* * * * *

The year was drawing to its close.  The little village had its share of
Christmas festivities, and family reunions were taking place.  There
were men from the East, and men from the West, back in the old haunts
for the holiday season.  Wonderful stories of material success were
told as "the boys" from the West expounded the opportunities of the
prairie provinces.  As is too often the case, the bar-room was the main
social centre of week-day life in the village, and John Gage was always
ready to fall into line when the prosperous ones gave the all-inclusive
invitation, "Come on, boys."  And so long as John helped to swell the
receipts, his drunken presence was tolerated around the bar.  Scores of
times did he join in the greeting "A Merry Christmas," and the merrier
it seemed to be to the frequenters of the Derby House bar, the sadder
it really was to the homes from which they came.



THE PRODIGAL'S DELIRIUM

Weeks of drinking, followed by the revelry of Christmas, brought John
to such a condition that when the bar-room closed on Saturday night he
was turned out of the house, and a little later dragged out of a corner
of the drive-shed, and told to "get clean away" from the premises.

There was a strange look about the man on this particular Saturday
night--a wild, almost savage appearance.  He stood a moment on the
sidewalk as if uncertain of his whereabouts, and then turned and walked
in the direction of the Manse.

The minister answered the door-bell, and without a word John walked
right in and through the hall to the study.  At last he spoke.
"You--told--me--to--come--any--time.
I--want--to--stay--here--to-night."  Then, with body bent, and as if in
pain, with arms crossed, he rocked himself to and fro.  "Oh, God! but
I'm sick; three days nothing but whiskey: I've got it to-night for
sure."

After much persuading the minister had the man in bed.  The mistress of
the Manse had prepared strong coffee as fast as her trembling body
would let her.  Once before she had passed through a night such as she
feared this would be, and the prospect might well make her timorous.
But the Manse and its furniture had three years ago been pledged to His
service, and she murmured not.

The doctor had been sent for, but he was on a country call, and was not
expected back until eleven.

At one end of the bedroom the minister sat watching John Gage.  In some
way the drink-inflamed man had placed under his pillow an old revolver
and a short stiletto.  After a time the hands clasped these with a
vice-like grip.  Suddenly standing out on the carpet he looked at the
preacher, and said, "Why in the devil don't you go home?  D'you want a
fight?  Say!  I could rip you so's they'd have to pick you up in
baskets."

A little later he imagined he was once more on the South African
battle-field.  With a sickening shudder he pointed to where his deluded
eyes saw again the wounded and bleeding.  "My God! see that poor devil
with his leg nearly off!  Look! ain't that awful.  See that one
squirming!--him yonder with his head half open!"  Then straightening
himself, he said, as if addressing some audience, "Friends, I say, and
I know, _war is hell_!"

From time to time, under persuasion, he would return to his bed.  Once
he imagined he was driving down the old concession road near his
grandfather's farm as in boyhood days.  The sheets were jerked and
handled as if reins.  "Well, now, this _is_ a slow horse.  It will,
ladies and gentlemen, be quite appropriate to sing we won't get home
till morning.'  I tell you what I'll do--I'll put the horse in the rig,
and I'll get in the shafts, and then there'll be a horse in the buggy
and an ass in the shafts, but we'll make better time."  Then followed a
weird burst of laughter.

The doctor arrived about midnight.  For a couple of hours he watched
the effect of his treatment, but rest would not come to the occupant of
the guest-room.  The eyes would appear to be closing in sleep, and then
would suddenly open wide as if their owner were in terror of some
impending disaster.  Then the danger spot seemed to have been located,
and with a series of jerks the head was raised higher and higher until
John was sitting up in bed.  Never once did the gaze leave the corner
of the room.  With the utmost stealth, first one foot and then the
other was pushed from under the bedclothes to the floor.  Very slowly
and noiselessly, with knife still gripped, the demon-possessed man
glided toward the corner.  With great caution, as if measuring the
distance, he bent the left knee, and at the same time lifted the right
hand ready to strike.  Then with blasphemous exclamations he stabbed
the imaginary monstrosities.  Again and again he seemed hurled back as
by some real enemy in the fight.  At last the knife went deep into the
floor, and he seemed to have conquered.  Never once taking his gaze
from where the knife stood he backed slowly toward the bed.  "Ah!  I
got him that time!  See him! see him!"  Then followed a blood-chilling
burst of profanity at the wriggling object of his delirium.  "But he
can't get up!  No! no! no! it's through his neck."

And so the long night wore on, and the wearied preacher, looking upon
what drink could do with "God's Masterpiece," vowed anew to fight the
cursed traffic in intoxicants as long as life lasted, and never
knowingly to have his home defiled by such a life-blasting beverage.

It was nearly seven o'clock on Sabbath morning when John Gage fell
asleep.  At ten o'clock the bell of the adjoining church awakened him.
The minister had anticipated the awakening, and was at the bedside.
John seemed dazed for a time, but in a little while conversed with the
one who had befriended him.  He was urged to remain quietly in bed, and
after a few words the minister clasped the hand of the outcast man, and
kneeling at the bedside, laid the burden of his heart upon the One who
is mighty to save.  As the Amen was uttered Ruth approached the door.
"Alright, little one, come and see your friend John," were her father's
words.  Ruth was ready for church, and with garments and face alike
attractive, laid her little hand in the big hand of the sin-wrecked
man.  Who can understand the power of the touch of a child's hand?
Closing his fingers over the dainty, wee hand, John Gage turned his
face to the wall and sobbed aloud.  Little Ruth hardly knew what to do.
Gently she placed the other hand on the dirty, unshaven cheek, and
merely said sympathetically, "Don't cry."

John turned his head back again long enough to say brokenly, "God bless
you, little gal."

[Illustration:
  1. British Columbia Miners off shift.
  2. Wrecked through a wash-out.
  3. A section of a Mountain Mining Town.]

Leading Ruth out the room, the minister gathered up his books and went
to the morning service.  When he returned John Gage had departed.
Early Monday morning Allan Short, a near-by farmer, called to tell him
that John was out at his place cutting away at the winter's wood-pile.
Allan promised to do what he could for John, but incidentally remarked
that he did not see why a man couldn't "take a glass of beer without
making a fool of himself."

[Illustration:
  1. An Exhausted Prospector.
  2. A Miner's Washing Day.
  3. Ready to start for the hills to inspect a mine.
  4. Miners off to their daily toil.]

A day or two later the minister drove by the Short homestead,
presumably to make a call at the Meen's farm, where he had several
faithful church-goers.  As he passed, he recognised John at the
saw-horse, and waved a greeting as to a friend.

On his return he drove up the road to the Short Farm, and John at once
came forward, with the customary Canadian courtesy, to tie up or
unhitch the horse, according to the visitor's wish.  After a few
pleasantries the minister went to the house and made a call on such
members of the Short family as were home, and then returned to where
his horse was tied.  Hesitating a moment, he turned and walked to the
wood-pile, and after complimenting John on his ability to swing the
axe, spoke a few encouraging words.  For a moment the hand rested on
John's shoulder as he said, "You will be one of God's good men yet,
John.  I know it's a terrible fight, but God knows all about it, and
with Him you can conquer.  Come and see us any time you are in, but for
the life of you don't loiter around the village, and do keep clear of
the men who would be likely to make it easy for you to get what you
know is ruinous to you.  And don't forget we are your friends always,
always."

As he turned the corner of the side road, he met Allan Short returning
from a trip to the village.  Referring to John Gage the farmer said,
"He's been as straight as a British Columbia pine since he came out;
but, say! it's kind o' pitiful, after all, the way he craves for
whiskey.  Me and the Missus watched him yesterday.  She's been keeping
her eyes open.  Well!  John was taking a breathing spell, after he had
done a fine lot of splitting (and he's no greenhorn with the axe, let
me tell you!), when all of a sudden he went to the fence-post where his
coat was hanging, and putting it on as he walked, he made down the
road.  He got about ten rod and then stopped like as if he'd forgotten
something, and then he started back, took off his coat, and pitched
into that wood-pile as if it was sure death if he didn't get it
finished by night.  The missus says he's done the same thing three
times to her knowledge, and once he went so far she was sure he was
gone for good.  But she says he sure did 'lambaste' them blocks when he
got back."



RUTH'S ILLNESS

The following Sunday morning little Ruth was missing from the Manse
pew, and her absence from that service was so unusual as to cause many
inquiries.

"Nothing serious," said the mother.  "Just a little throat trouble, and
as she seemed somewhat feverish we thought we had better leave her at
home.  Lizzie is taking care of her."

But on Monday morning the doctor looked very anxious after an
examination of Ruth's throat, and in departing advised the minister to
keep out of the child's room until an examination a few hours later.

On Tuesday morning it was a bit of village news that was passed from
mouth to mouth, that the minister's little girl had diphtheria, and
that the house was placarded.  The occupants of the Manse were deeply
touched during the following days by that spontaneous expression of
practical sympathy that is characteristic of village life.  But perhaps
no one stirred the deepest emotions as did John Gage.  Darkness had
fallen over the village on Tuesday before he had heard of Ruth's
sickness.  There was some look of solicitation on Mrs. Short's face
when John "guessed" he would stroll to the village.

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

The little patient's symptoms showed severe infection, and a second
doctor was in consultation when the minister heard a very gentle rap on
the door.

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

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

"She is a very sick little girl, John.  Dr. Dodds is with Dr. Burnett
just now.  We can only give her the best care possible, and hope and
pray.  It is good of you to call, and when the wee girl is better she
will be pleased to know you came.  The poor little soul has been
restless and feverish all the afternoon."

"Poor little gal!  Tell her John hopes she'll soon be alright.  I ain't
much of a friend, God knows, but all the same I've been that lonesome
like, since I heard she was sick, I don't feel as if I want to do
anything, but just wait around.  If there's any job I can do to help, I
give you my word I'll be in trim to do it as long as the little gal
needs me."

For two weeks John's "little gal" caused anxious days and nights--some
of them days and nights when tearful prayers were sobbed out in the
solitariness of study or bedroom--times when the physicians found no
hopeful signs, and the little life seemed to be passing beyond human
reach.  It was on one such night that John brought a few delicacies
from the farm for the minister's household, and waited for the report
from the sick-room.

"The doctor has been with her an hour, John, and the wee girl is alive,
and that's all we can say."  The voice broke into a sob as the last
words were spoken.

The two men stood in silent sympathy for a few minutes, and then John
broke the silence.  "She was friendly to me, sir, and I'll never forget
it.  Lots of folks what thinks they're big toads in the puddle treats
me as if I was dirt, but the little gal is the biggest Christian of the
lot, and she's done me more good than the whole gang of 'em.  Say! the
way she put her little hand on my face that Sunday morning was better'n
any sermon I ever heard.  Queer, ain't it, but it broke me all up."
Then in response to a request from the minister John continued, "I'm
afeared it wouldn't count much if I tried to pray, sir; but there ain't
anything I wouldn't try my hand at for her."

The following day there was better news, and two days later the little
sufferer was able to smile in response to the tokens of love that were
showered upon her.

The physicians' faces relaxed, and they were delighted that
professionally they were winning the battle, and the big-hearted senior
physician rejoiced for other reasons.  "By the way," he said that night
in the Manse study, "I have met that fellow John Gage several times
lately, and his interest in Ruthie is really remarkable.  I didn't
think it was in the man to care for anybody.  And stranger still, he
was sober each time.  The little girl may yet be the salvation of the
poor chap, and do what no one else has been able to do."

Shortly before St. Valentine's Day the Manse was thoroughly fumigated,
and the placard removed.  Ruth was amusing herself cutting out the
kindergarten suggestions for Valentines, and sending them to selected
friends.  On a crudely shaped heart in poorly fashioned letters that
she had learned to print, were the words, "Ruth loves John."  On
February the 14th, John Gage received the tiny envelope containing his
Valentine.  Nothing he had received in years pleased him quite so much.

"Now, ain't that great," he confided to Mrs. Short, "'tain't worth a
cent, I suppose, but just this very minute they're ain't enough money
in the whole village to buy it."



THE PREPARATORY SERVICE

The quarterly communion service was about to be conducted in St.
Andrew's Church.  The usual invitations had been given from the pulpit,
and a few had called at the Manse to discuss the question of
membership.  It was always a time of prayerful concern on the part of
the minister lest any should take the step without realizing its
obligations and privileges.  At the minister's invitation, John Gage
had spent over an hour in the study.

"Nothing less than an out and out surrender will do, John.  You have
had your way, and the devil has had his way, now you must be willing to
let God have full control.  There must be an entire breaking away from
past associations, and you must take the step that can never mean
retreat.  Unless you do that the path back to the old ways will be too
attractive, and too easy."

Once again the two men read passages from well-thumbed pages in the
study Bible, and again the shepherd of souls called on the One who is
Mighty to Save, and then John prayed, and as the long silence was
broken and a wanderer in a far country turned his face to his Father
and uttered penitent words, the minister's tears of joy could no longer
be restrained.  As they rose from their knees, hands were clasped, and
those feelings, too deep for words, found expression in the pressure of
a protecting and a trusting hand.

In the eyes of the majority of the Kirk Session, there was little risk
in receiving into membership the well-to-do respectable sinner, but
when the minister narrated the conversations he had had with John Gage,
and suggested his name as a candidate for membership, eyebrows were
raised and heads shook ominously.

"Wad it no' be better to put him off for a few months to see whether he
could stan' alone first?" was the question of John McNair, the senior
elder.

Colonel Monteith, who was greatly burdened with the responsibility for
maintaining the dignity of the Presbyterian Church, wondered whether
"this rather disreputable man Gage would not find more congenial
associates down in the Free Methodist Hall."  Tom Rollins didn't know
"how the people would take it."

Murray Meiklejohn, characterized by his reticence and good common
sense, moved that "John Gage be received," and stammeringly added that
so far as leaving John to stand alone was concerned, he "guessed" they
had been doing that ever since he came to town, ten years ago.

And so with some misgivings, and with some wounded pride, the Session
included John Gage in its reception list.

On Friday night, an hour before the time for preparatory service, John
called at the Manse.  "I'm a-trembling all through," he said to the
minister, "and I was half-minded not to come.  If it hadn't been for
what you said about the hospital being a place for sick folks, I
wouldn't had the courage to face it."

The preparatory service of that night is still spoken of in the quiet
village.  Perhaps the atmosphere was created by one who had prayed much
that day that the congregation might receive a new vision of the
Redeemer, through the words of one for whom not an individual in the
entire congregation had any hope six weeks before.

The sermon over, the minister and elders extended the right hand of
fellowship to the little company occupying the front seats.
"To-night," said the minister, as he returned to the platform, "I have
asked my friend Mr. John Gage to say a few words."  The lecture-hall
had probably never known stiller moments than those immediately
following the announcement.

John Gage, pale and trembling, not daring to look at his audience,
stood facing the platform.  In a low voice he said, "Well, friends, I
have been a bad man--that's no news to anybody, but God helping me I'm
going to be better.  Seems like a miracle, don't it, that John Gage has
been sober for five weeks?"

As he sat down, the "Let us pray" of the minister preceded a petition
for "our brother," that made most hearts tender and prayerful.

"It's a new day for St. Andrew's," said Murray Meiklejohn, as he shook
the hand of the minister after the benediction.  "Nothing like
to-night's meeting in my memory.  Looks as if we were going to stop
singing 'Rescue the Perishing' and get on the job."

It is no easy task for the average Presbyterian elder to utter a
fervent "God bless you," but that night hearts were stirred and tongues
were loosened, and John Gage felt that after all the world was not so
unfriendly as he had imagined.  Hand after hand was extended in genuine
welcome.  But the finest thing of all, as the minister said a little
later, was the way the Colonel warmed up to John.  He had never been
seen to manifest the same cordiality in the Church before.  "A manly
step to take, sir--a manly step--needs courage to fight that kind of a
battle.  Personally I am glad to welcome you to St. Andrew's."

When story-time came at the Manse on the following evening, Ruth was
all attention as her mother told of the homecoming of another prodigal,
and of all it might mean.

Ruth's prayer had two additional words that night.  The closing part
was uttered more deliberately than usual, as if in anticipation of the
seriousness of the added petition.  "Bless daddy and mamma,
and--all--the--friends--I--love--_and John_, for Jesus' sake.  Amen."



THE TEMPTATION

John Gage secured temporary work in the village delivering freight for
a local carter.  Whenever opportunity afforded, the _habitués_ of the
bar-rooms did not spare him their sneers and jeers.  "Folks say you're
a hell of a good preacher, John."  "When are you going to wear the
starched dog-collar, John?"  Calling him to a little group on the
sidewalk, one of his former chums said, with mock solemnity, "Let us
pray."  A roar of laughter followed, as John, crimson-faced, walked
away.

There were days when the sting in some of the taunts was hard to
bear--days when only One knows the conflict in that will that had
become enfeebled by sin.  But John Gage was steadily gaining the
victory, and the visits to the Manse and the new friends around the
church were displacing the former associations.

Signs of a material prosperity that John had never before known were
gradually appearing.  The village tailor took particular pride one
morning in showing the minister a piece of blue serge, "as fine a bit
of goods as is imported.  I'm cutting a suit out of it for John Gage,
and it will be as good as I can make it.  Did you ever think how much
the tailor can co-operate with God in fixing a man up?"

But not all the villagers were desirous of co-operating with God in the
reformation of John Gage.  A little crowd had gathered one night in
McKee's barber shop, and the minister of St. Andrew's was being harshly
criticized for his frequent attacks on the liquor traffic.  The
proprietor of the pool-room, who attended St. Andrew's at the time of
the Lodge annual parade, announced his intention of absenting himself
unless the minister "minded his own business."  Others made similar
threats, which in the aggregate might bring the minister to the proper
frame of mind which became one who "received his bread and butter from
some of the very people he had been abusing."

Then the case of John Gage was discussed, and uncomplimentary terms
were freely applied.  McKee thought "it would be a d----d good joke on
the Presbyterian preacher if John could be made as full as a goat, and
then sent to the Manse."  To the lasting disgrace of the barber, he
attempted to perpetrate the "joke."

Bud Jenks was a willing tool of anybody who would reward him with a
whiskey, and when McKee offered him all he could take at one standing
if he got Gage to take a drink, he was ready to at least make the
attempt.  And so on a day when John had shovelled coal from car to
waggon and waggon to cellar for eight hours, and was warm, tired and
thirsty, Bud appeared with a little pail, as if coming from the town
pump.  John was at the grating tramping the coal further into the
cellar, and his head was about on a level with the sidewalk.
"Good-day, Bud," he called up as Bud stood for a moment.

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

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

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

"Sure I will, and thank you," answered the thirsty toiler with hand
extended to the pail, which was placed on the sidewalk.  Quickly Bud
removed the lid, and gave the pail a tilt as the rim came near John's
face.  Just a touch of froth from the lager beer was carried to John's
lips, but instantly he pushed back the pail with an exclamation almost
of pain.  At the same moment he slid further into the cellar, and
kneeling on the coal, with hands clasped against the wall, cried out
again and again, "Oh, my God, help me, help me, help me!"

Bud peered into the darkness and called several times to John.  At last
John approached the grating again.  "Bud," he said quietly, "for God's
sake go away and leave me alone; I'd rather drop dead than put another
drop of that to my lips."

Bud did not immediately depart, despite the pleading of the man in the
cellar, and not until a passer-by had entered into conversation with
him, and the two had moved off together, did John pull himself to the
sidewalk and drive away.  "Oh, the smell of it near drove me mad for a
few minutes," he said, as he confided the occurrence to his friends at
the Manse.  "If it wasn't for the little gal, and coming up here, I'd
get far enough away from this place, so's I wouldn't have the same
temptations."

"Temptation is not a matter of locality, John, and you would not escape
it by crossing a continent, and besides, we need you right here.  If
you win out and give God the glory, you will do more to prove His power
than a year of sermons could."



THE COLONEL'S OUTBREAK

"Bully for Colonel Monteith!  He's a brick, by jinks he is!  The words
were uttered in an excited voice by the young minister on his return
from one of his daily trips to the Post Office.

"Why, daddy," exclaimed the wife, "I'll report you to the Session for
using bad language.  But what has happened anyway?"

It was several minutes before the cause of the "bad language" could be
satisfactorily narrated.  The conversation in McKee's barber shop was
related, and the indignation of the mistress of the Manse was all that
could be desired.

"Well," continued the minister, "somebody who heard it happened
casually to tell Colonel Monteith.  Within half an hour, the Colonel
was in the shop.  McKee was lathering Lawyer Taskey, but that didn't
seem an important matter to the Colonel, for without waiting until he
was through he at once faced him with what he had heard, and asked if
it was true.  At first McKee tried to evade the question, but the
Colonel pressed for an answer.  'Well, suppose I did.  Is it any of
your business?' replied McKee.  Then with a sneer he added, 'And
anyhow, I didn't know that you and _Mister_ John Gage were such bosom
friends.'  'Look here, McKee,' and the voice of the Colonel trembled
with emotion, 'I hold no brief for this man Gage any more than I do for
any other man in the village, but when a fellow puts up a fight like he
has for the last two months--a fellow, as you know very well, with
veins full of bad blood--it is in the highest degree reprehensible for
any man to be even a party to such a devilish scheme as you tried to
work out by making a poor sot like Bud Jenks your catspaw.  And nobody,
sir--I say, sir, nobody but a contemptible cur would attempt such a
dastardly act.'  And then the barber got impudent and told the
dignified elder to go on a long trip.  Moving nearer to him the Colonel
said, 'Before I go there, McKee, there's a place I wish to accompany
you,' and quick as a flash he grabbed McKee and tried to drag him to
the back of the shop.  McKee didn't know what was going to happen, and
naturally objected some, but Jim Morton, who saw it, says the Colonel
was 'mad from the toes up,' and after laming a few chairs, and damaging
a mirror in the scuffle, he got the rear door open and pulled McKee
after him down the bank to the creek.  The barber likely surmised what
was the next item on the programme, and not caring for cold baths in
March, he did some furious scuffling, but though the Colonel's hat and
a few buttons had disappeared, he was able to report progress.  Jim
says the language of McKee as he got near the water has never been
surpassed in Emsdale.  Lawyer Taskey felt like going to McKee's rescue,
as he doubtless earnestly desired to have his shave finished, but when
he got his hat on and started down the bank the Colonel thundered
something at him that caused him to decide it would be pleasanter to
remain in the shop.

"Unfortunately the Colonel could not part company with McKee at the
critical moment, and the two of them fell into the water together.  The
Colonel stood the shock well enough to have sufficient presence of mind
to immediately grab the barber and duck him thoroughly, and then the
two of them scrambled out, and the air is still blue around McKee's
place; but taking a conjunct view of the entire affair, the Colonel
appeared satisfied.

"Jim says that the Colonel's language was not what would be expected
from an elder, and that when there was the final scuffle at the edge of
the creek, he heard him call McKee 'a blawsted skunk.'  I suppose
that's terrible in a member of St. Andrew's Session, but I'm sinner
enough to be glad that McKee got a small percentage of his deserts, and
my backbone feels stiffer and I shall carry my head a little higher
because Colonel Monteith's on my Session."

The minister jumped to his feet, and swinging his arm in a circle above
his head shouted, "Bully for Colonel Monteith, the man who turned
McKee's 'joke' into a boomerang."

The eyes of the minister's wife had sparkled with interest as she
listened to what had happened to McKee, and the minister was satisfied
when at the conclusion of the incident she said quietly, "I am so sorry
Colonel Monteith fell in the creek.  Ask him up for dinner to-morrow,
or some day soon.  I'll do my very best to show my appreciation of his
well-meaning defence of our John."



THE VALENTINE

Some weeks later John procured a position in a distant city.  Ruth and
her father went to the station to bid him farewell, the latter assuring
him of the unfailing interest of his friends at the Manse, and uttering
a few words of counsel, now that distance would prevent the frequent
visits of the past.

For a while all went well, and encouraging reports reached the village
Manse.  Sometimes the letter was addressed to the Minister, but oftener
to Ruth, and all of them revealed the strong hold the little one had
upon the reforming man.

Then came word of dull times and scarcity of work and loneliness.  It
was after a letter that revealed unusual despondency, that an urgent
invitation was sent for John to return to the village and spend a few
weeks at the Manse until labour conditions improved.

No answer came to this invitation, but two weeks later a letter came
from John's boarding-house, which read as follows:--


"Dear Sir,--I take the liberty of writing you, because there is a Mr.
Gage boarding at my place, and he is real sick and don't seem to have
no friends near here, and I can't take care of him no longer.  He says
you are his best friend, and so I thought you would tell me what to do,
as he hasn't got no money, and I am a hard-working woman and can't
afford to do without it.  He ought to go to the Hospital, I guess, but
he don't take to the notion.  Please do something right away.--Mrs.
JOHN McCAUL, 14, St. Lawrence Lane."


The following morning the minister started for the city, and late that
afternoon stood at the door of No. 14, St. Lawrence Lane.  The lane
consisted of a long, monotonous row of dingy little houses on the one
side, and a miscellaneous group of stables and sheds on the other.
Factory buildings, with their "insolent towers that sprawl to the sky,"
overtowered the whole, shutting out much light, and pouring forth from
their immense chimneys the smoke that usually hung like a pall over the
narrow lane.

Mrs. McCaul was greatly relieved by the presence of the minister, and
as they sat in the ventilation-proof parlour she told him of John's
hard luck, interspersing most of her family history in the narration.
"He's terrible discouraged," she added, "and the doctor says he'd
oughter be in some more cheerfuller place, although I'm doing the best
I can."

It was a poorly furnished dark bedroom into which the minister was
ushered, and the surroundings of the whole place reminded him of a
popular description of certain American city boarding-houses, which are
said to "furnish all the facilities for dying."

John clasped the extended hand with gratitude, and the visitor's
presence did much that medicine had failed to do.  As he stood talking
to the sick man, his eyes rested a moment on a little red Valentine
that had been inserted between the glass and the frame of the tinselled
mirror.

"I see you're looking at me Valentine," said John.

"Yes!  I did notice it."

"Well, sir, many a day the last few weeks I've wondered whether I could
hold out.  When a fellow ain't got a job, and money and friends is
scarce, it seems like it's easier for the devil to get th' inside
track.  There was some days when it seemed as if all the devils in hell
was after me a-trying to get me back to the old life, and I used to
come up here and look at me Valentine.  I've stood before that there
glass a good many times lately, and looked at the red heart what Ruthie
cut out, and said, 'God help me to be faithful to the little gal.'"

After a good deal of persuasion John consented to go to the hospital,
so that he might receive proper care.

For seven weeks the disease, which was a part of "the wages of sin,"
held sway.  Once John thought the end was near, and that probably, ere
many days, he must pass away.  He expressed his fears in a broken voice
to the nurse, and then asked for the Valentine.  Tears filled his eyes
as he gazed at the trifling token of a child's love.  With an effort he
controlled his voice and said huskily: "If anything happens, nurse, I
want to have that Valentine with me.  You know what I mean, don't you?"

The nurse nodded her head.

"You see, nurse, it was sent me by a little gal--the minister's little
gal.  I was pretty far gone a year ago, and if ever God sent an angel
into this world to help lift up a poor wretch of a man, it was when
that little gal started to be my friend.  And when them little hands
cut out the heart for my Valentine and sent it to me, and I read 'Ruth
loves John,' I felt as good as if I'd been sent a fortune."

The news of John's sickness had its effect on Ruth's nightly prayer:
"Please, God, make John better, because he's very sick.  For Jesus'
sake.  Amen."

John's sickness was not unto death.  Slowly he regained health and
courage, and as soon as he was able to work he secured a position in a
city factory.  Much of his leisure is being given to City Mission Work.

He has often been seen on a street corner joining in an open-air
service.  Not long ago he was telling a crowd of men what the Gospel
had done for him.  "Say, fellows, when I think of it--think of what I
was--I just know He's able for anything.  I'm ashamed of myself, but
I'm proud of Him."

As he finished his testimony a workman in the same factory, who was
standing at the rear of the crowd, called out, "Yes, and John's the
decentest feller in the factory, so he is."

The red heart has faded almost to a brown.  It no longer occupies its
place on the mirror.  A stranger picking up John Gage's Bible might
wonder why a soiled and worn bit of paper in the shape of a heart
should be pasted on the front inside page; but often a tired workman,
reading his "verses" for the night, turns first of all to the front
inside page, and reads three words that light and time and dirt have
almost effaced--"Ruth loves John."

Sometimes the gaze is long, and sometimes the fading words are still
further dimmed by tears, but the faded Valentine is fragrant with
precious memories of a child's love that resulted in the homecoming of
the prodigal.




THE CORD OF LOVE

A transcontinental express was speeding across the prairies to its
Pacific Coast terminus.  Two hours before it shrieked its approach to a
foothill city, the local police received a message which, being
interpreted, read: "Detain Lavina Berson, travelling on No. 96; age
about fifteen, black hair, very attractive.  Travelling in company of
two men when train left B----."

When No. 96 pulled into the depôt, two plain-clothes officers boarded
the train and soon located the girl wanted.  At first the flashing
black eyes looked defiantly into the face of Staff-Inspector Kenney as
he requested her to accompany him.  But the law must be obeyed, and on
being shown a detective's badge the little runaway passed with her
escort comparatively unnoticed into the city street.

At the police-station she sat in the ante-room with the matron, while
the inspector, the staff-inspector and the plain-clothes detective
discussed the case.  The girl's youthfulness and attractiveness
appealed to their sympathies.

"It's too blamed bad to send a pretty youngster like that to the
cells," said one.

"Why not send her to that new Rescue Home till we get more particulars?
They'll take care of her.  There's a woman there that knows her job
alright."

And so to the Redemptive Home Lavina was sent, the authorities giving
the usual instructions governing such a case.  For a few hours the
new-comer was silent, but few girls could long be silent in the
presence of the big-hearted, winsome Superintendent of that Home.  It
was a new experience for Lavina; the only kindness she had known was
the traitorous type, and it was hard for her to believe that there was
such a thing as unselfish love.  Forty-eight hours from the time she
crossed the threshold of the Home, the hand that was almost ready to
strike any one who seemed to have co-operated in checking her reckless
career was slipped along the forearm of the Superintendent.

"Everybody thinks I'm bad, and I guess I am, but I believe if I had
lived with you I might have wanted to be good."

The words did not come easily, but when the Superintendent stroked the
black hair and put an arm around the wanderer, drawing the head to her
shoulder, she realized that love had won its first battle in that
misguided life.

The following morning a young man rang the door-bell of the Home in an
impatient manner.  When the Superintendent appeared he said, "Is this
where Lavina Berson is?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Well, I want her, and I want her d----d quick.  She's a d----d
nuisance.  She's never been any good.  Nobody can do anything with
her."  Then, drawing a rope from his pocket, he said, "I'll bind the
little devil with this, and if that won't do I've something else in
here (putting his hand over his hip-pocket) that will settle her."  His
face was red with passion, and his eyes flashed with anger.  "Oh! you
needn't tell me," he continued.  "I know all about her; I'm her
brother.  I'm sick of getting her out of difficulties.  I say she's a
d----d nuisance, and I ain't going to let her forget this trip I've had
to take, not on your bottom dollar I ain't.  I've got something else to
do than to be chasing over the country after her."

"You cannot get possession of your sister to-day," answered the
Superintendent.  "Even if I were not under obligation to the
authorities to detain her, pending their instructions, I could not let
her go with you just now.  She is a friend of mine, and I love her.
She has told me her story; she is only just sixteen.  Ropes and pistols
and policemen are not the remedy, sir; she needs a brother--a real
brother.  If you call in the morning I shall be glad to have a quiet
talk with you."

Ten days later, in her own town, the court-room was crowded when the
case of Lavina Berson was called.  The trial resulted in a mass of
evidence to show that she was bad.  There seemed no other course open
to the Judge but to send her to a reformatory.  She had associated with
the fastest boys and girls, and with the most lawless men and women her
town had known.  The policeman, giving evidence, made it clear that the
town would be well rid of her.  Not one witness, even to the girl's
mother, had any hopeful word to speak.

In the face of such evidence there seemed only one course open.  When
the word "reformatory" reached the girl's ear she broke into a passion
of weeping, so that the Judge hesitated a moment.  Then there was some
movement and whispering near the witness-box.  The Superintendent
mentioned had journeyed Eastward to be present at the trial, and she
was now conferring with the Morality Inspector.

The weeping girl looked appealingly through her tears at the one who
had befriended her.  "Oh, please," she whispered, in a voice broken
with sobs, "don't let them send me to that awful place.  It'll only
make me worse; take me with you.  I'll do anything you tell me; please,
oh! please, Miss Moffatt."

Turning to the Judge the Superintendent said, "Your Honour, I am a
stranger to you, but as a representative of the Women's Council of the
---- Church in Canada may I say a few words?"  The Judge nodded assent,
and with a heart full of love for the wayward, Miss Moffatt made one of
the most impassioned appeals conceivable.  In closing, she said, "I ask
your Honour to give this girl into my charge for one year.  In view of
the evidence given, may I be allowed to say that she has been brutally
sinned against.  No man who has spoken has referred to her partners in
sin, nor has any man suggested that the stronger sex has any
responsibility to be a brother and protector of girls.  The evidence
reveals the fact that plenty of men co-operated in her downfall;
apparently not one made any effort to uplift.  Some of her betrayers
are still counted as respectable men, while she receives all the blame
and the shame.  One remedy does not seem to have been tried, and in the
name of the One who long ago said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and
sin no more,' I ask you to be gracious enough to allow me to try a
corrective which I believe will be more effective than what has been
suggested."

The Judge caught the light in those eyes, and with manifest emotion
addressed the accused: "Lavina, you have found a friend; so long as you
are true to her you will not again be called to appear before this
Court.  May Heaven's blessing rest upon such women as the one who has
spoken in your behalf!  The case is dismissed."

Once again Lavina journeyed Westward.  Once again she was on No. 96,
but no longer with betrayers.  By her side was the Superintendent with
her sweet, sheltering influence.

And so life began again for Lavina in the Redemptive Home.  In view of
her past life, it was worth crossing a continent to see the gladness in
her eyes when one day Miss Moffatt put her hand upon her shoulder and
said playfully, "Lavina is my right-hand girl; I think she'll soon be
Assistant Superintendent."

As one of the workers was passing along the hallway upstairs some
months later she was arrested by the sound of a pleading voice--some
one was offering a prayer.  Noiselessly she drew near the room from
which the voice came.  The last petition was being uttered, "O God,
please help the other girls to be good like You helped me, for Jesus'
sake.  Amen."  The little dark-eyed girl was kneeling by the bedside
with arm around the shoulder of a young Hungarian maiden who had been
rescued from a life of shame.  It developed later that these two
rescued ones were daily praying for others who were being sheltered in
the Home.

How it all reminds one of that far-away scene!  "No man could bind him;
no, not with chains; because that he had been often bound with fetters
and chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the
fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him....  Jesus
said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit."  And the
modern evil spirit and its rebuke is like unto that.  "Nobody can do
anything with her; I've got this rope to bind the little devil with."
And then this: "O God, please help the other girls to be good like You
helped me, for Jesus' sake.  Amen."  On the heels of the failure of all
others Jesus comes and reveals Himself to-day, as of old, as the master
of demons.

What the future days hold for Lavina Berson we know not, but the height
of her ambition to-day is that she be accepted for training, so that
some day she may work among those of the class to which she once
belonged.




NELL'S HOME-GOING

St. Andrew's Church was losing its respectability.  It was one of the
oldest in the Province, and the town in which it was situated had for
some years prided itself in being a "Society" town.  The select few who
had for so long been undisturbed by the "common" people were having to
endure the presence, in near-by pews, of some who had no entrance into
the best social circles--and the shocking part of it was that the new
minister, who was reported to have come from one of the best families
in Montreal, rather gloried in this condition of affairs.

Two families had already withdrawn from the membership of St.
Andrew's--two of the wealthiest and gayest--and that within six months
of the minister's induction.  The withdrawal of the Farsees and Shunums
happened on this wise.  A few Sabbath evenings previous to the
"interview" that Mrs. Farsee had had with the minister, a young woman
of unsavory reputation had dared to enter St. Andrew's.  Perhaps the
minister was not aware of what he did, but there was no denying the
fact that he shook hands with the said young woman, and hoped she would
"always feel welcome at St. Andrew's."  After seeing, with her own
eyes, a second and a third visit, and a second and a third welcome,
Mrs. Farsee, with the moral backing of Mrs. Shunum, had her now
much-talked-of interview with the Rev. Thomas Fearnon.

"Mr. Fearnon," she commenced in an agitated tone, "there is a matter
that so greatly affects our church that, although it is rather a
delicate subject, I felt I must be frank enough to speak with you about
it.  Do you know--but of course you don't know--the character of the
young woman who has been sitting in Mrs. Greatheart's seat for the past
three Sunday evenings, and to whom you have given three distinct
welcomes to St. Andrew's?"

"Yes," was the reply, "I think I know something of her character and
past, and it is very sad."

"But, Mr. Fearnon," exclaimed Mrs. Farsee, "you surely cannot sanction
her attendance at _our_ church!  What _will_ people say?"

"Mrs. Farsee," was the quiet rejoinder, "I wonder what my Master would
say if I did not sanction the presence of any for whom He died.  For
whom are our services, if not for the sinful?"

"Yes, but, Mr. Fearnon, that kind of person should go to some other
place--for instance, there's the Salvation Army."

"Thank God there is the Salvation Army, but so long as Thomas Fearnon
is pastor of this church, yonder doors shall never be too narrow to
admit the sin-burdened."  Thomas Fearnon's voice thrilled with emotion
as he uttered these words.

"Well, I suppose it's no use saying anything more," said Mrs. Farsee
with an injured air, "but it's hard to hear people sneer at one's
church, and twice lately I've heard people--and prominent society
people too--say that our church was getting to be a 'House of Refuge,'
and I tell you that kind of thing goes hard with people who have taken
the pride we have in St. Andrew's Church."

"To me," said Mr. Fearnon, "that report is encouraging, and I covet
that intended sneer as a permanent tribute to any church of which I may
be pastor--a House of Refuge is what I want St. Andrew's to be.  Surely
the young woman you have named needs a place of refuge?"

"Then I understand you will still allow her to attend our church,
despite the wishes of two of the most loyal and best-giving families
you have, Mr. Fearnon?"  Mrs. Farsee placed an unmistakable emphasis on
"best giving."

"Your understanding is quite correct, Mrs. Farsee, and if ever St.
Andrew's Church closes its doors on any man or woman, in like
circumstances to the one you refer to, I care not how sinworn and
wretched, it closes them at the same time on Thomas Fearnon--we go out
together."

"If that is your decision," replied Mrs. Farsee haughtily, "please
remove the names of Mr. and Mrs. M. T. Farsee and Miss Lucy Farsee from
the membership roll, and I am also authorized by Mrs. Shunum to tell
you that all the Shunums withdraw from the church for the same reason."

Thomas Fearnon retired that night sad at heart--not that the loss of
these two families from the membership roll gave him much concern, for
to tell the truth he was more concerned to know how they ever came to
be put on the roll, but he was concerned to find that kind of spirit
among the membership of the congregation to which he had come with such
high hopes, fresh from college.  So far as losing members was
concerned, he reminded himself that, in God's arithmetic, subtraction
often produced an increase.  Perhaps of his congregation the words of
Scripture were true, "The people are yet too many."  Nevertheless, the
offended families needed His Saviour and the ministry of the church as
much as, perhaps more, than the poor creature whose very presence they
thought defiled their heretofore select congregation.

The following Sabbath morning the text was Luke xix. 10, "For the Son
of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost."  Those who had
attended Mrs. Farsee's "afternoon bridge" on the preceding Thursday
knew that the sermon was the outgrowth of the "interview."  None of
them used their favourite adjective "lovely" of Thomas Fearnon's sermon
that morning; the mission of the Master and the consequent mission of
His church was presented with a clearness and an earnestness that made
not a few decidedly uncomfortable.

"I charge you, my fellow workers," he pleaded, "never to degenerate
into dilettante church parlour triflers, but strike out for God in hard
work to recover the lost.  There are those whose life's roses are
turned to ashes, those who have almost forgotten how to smile, those
from whose hearts all music has fled.  What an incomparable joy to tell
them of, and seek to lead them to, the One who with divine delicacy
said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more.'  That welcoming
Saviour would speak through us to those whom too often we, professedly
His followers, would cast out.  If every individual in this world
treated the fallen as you do, my friend, would it be easy or hard for
that one to get into the Kingdom of God?  Where shall the wanderers be
welcome if not in the Father's House?  Where shall those whom He
created and for whom He died find friendship and help, if not in that
company of worshippers who cry 'Our Father'?"

To not a few the message of that morning seemed intensely personal.  In
that inner judgment hall, where the prisoner and the judge are one,
some verdicts were arrived at, and the verdicts were "guilty."

"If every individual in this world treated the fallen as you do, would
it be easy or hard for that one to get into the Kingdom of God?"

Thomas Fearnon had asked that question with an intensity of feeling
that revealed itself in the whispered words, and that produced a
profound silence throughout the sanctuary.  And it was not in vain that
he had put his best into prayer and preparation for that morning's
message.  At least one in the congregation asked to be forgiven for
passing by, like priest and Levite, needy ones to whom there should and
could have been a ministry of mercy.

Jessie Buchanan saw the "vision splendid" that morning, and no longer
could she be satisfied with her life of elegant ease.  From that very
hour her life and all the trappings of life were promised fully to her
rightful Lord--no longer would she hope to have Him as _Saviour_ but
reject Him as _Lord_.

* * * * *

A peaceful Sabbath day's services had closed, and in the quiet of her
beautiful and cosy little "den" Jessie Buchanan sat talking to a friend
before the flickering embers in the fireplace.  Three months had passed
away since Thomas Fearnon's sermon on Luke xix. 10: three months of
sometimes perplexing but always joyous service to Jessie Buchanan.
Already several lives had been gladdened and helped by the radiating
influence of her consecrated life.

The Buchanan home on the hillcrest had gladly opened its doors during
these three months to some who had never expected to cross its
threshold.  And so to-night, for the third time, the young woman who
had unknowingly caused the departure of two families from St. Andrew's
Church, sat in the fire-light with her new-found friend.

Wisely and unostentatiously Jessie Buchanan had made her acquaintance,
and their meetings had been invariably away from the public eye.  But
into the broken life was coming the conquering power of an unselfish
love.  To-night, as the flames diminished, the young woman unfolded a
little of her life.

"Please don't hate me for it--I had to tell some one.  Oh! if only some
one like you had helped me when I first went to the city; but it was my
own fault.  Still, if you do wrong, there seem so many more to help you
to keep on in the same way than there are to help you back."

For some minutes she talked on, and then Jessie Buchanan moved her
chair a little closer and laid a hand sympathetically upon the girl's
shoulder.

"You think my name is Flossie, don't you, Miss Buchanan?" the girl
asked slowly.  "Well, it isn't.  Nobody here knows either of my right
names, but I'm going to tell you: my right name is Nellie Gillard; and
Miss Buchanan, I want to be good again, and maybe get back home
soon--only, I am afraid, for I haven't even written for nearly a year."
Tears were wiped away as the memory of the old home was revived in the
light of new desires.

* * * * *

Another week was nearing its close, and Jessie Buchanan was as usual
making her plans for a hospitable Sunday.  Glancing down the driveway,
she was surprised to see Nellie Gillard approaching the house.  This
was the first daylight visit Nellie had made, and Saturday morning was
so unusual a time that Jessie Buchanan was at the door before the
bell-handle could be pulled.  A cordial greeting and Nellie was
accompanied to the now familiar den.  As the door closed the visitor at
once made known the purpose of her visit.  "Miss Buchanan, I'd like to
go home, but I cannot--I dare not go alone."

"Oh!  I'm so glad you have decided.  How soon do you wish to go, dear?"
Jessie Buchanan's voice and face revealed her joy and thankfulness.

"I'd like to go right away" was the reply.

Within a few hours Nellie and her new-found friend were on their way to
the railway station.

The "local" was nearly three hours late when almost at midnight it
pulled into a little flag station in North-Western Ontario.  It was
over two miles to the Gillards' home, and Jessie Buchanan suggested the
desirability of getting the station agent to assist them in procuring a
vehicle and driver.

The night was clear and bright, and Nellie urged that if it was not too
tiring for her companion she would much rather walk.  "I know every
step of the way, and--and--well you are the only one I want with me
just now."

In the moonlight of that early October night two young women might have
been seen walking along the fifth concession.

At a turn of the road Nellie pointed to a little building: "There is
the schoolhouse I attended."  When a church spire stood out clear
against the sky, there was a sob in the voice, "I used to teach in that
Sunday School and sing in the choir."

The gate of the old homestead was reached at last.  The wanderer's hand
clung for a moment to the top rail and the head rested on her forearm.

"I wonder--I wonder if Father will let me in; I don't deserve it, but I
believe he will."  And she was not mistaken.

At the side of the old roughcast dwelling, two bedroom windows had been
raised a few inches.  Beneath these the only daughter of the home
called out in a trembling voice, "Father."  There was no response.
Could anything have happened?  A second time on the silent night the
voice anxiously uttered the same word.  Immediately thereafter they
heard a movement and a man's head appeared at the window.  "Father!
it's Nell: I want to be your Nell again.  Will you let me come home?"

"Let you come home?  You bet I will, Nell--you bet I will."  The last
words were re-uttered after the head had disappeared.

The only other words they heard were, "Ma!  Ma!" uttered in a voice
trembling with joy.

No pen can adequately describe that home-coming.  Jessie Buchanan was
forgotten for the moment, but as she saw the daughter's head resting
first on father's and then on mother's shoulder, and heard the old man
say again and again, "My Nell: oh! my Nell," her cup of joy was full.

It was not what one could call a praying home, but on that early
Sabbath morning four people knelt in the little sitting-room, and
Jessie Buchanan's first audible prayer was offered in thanksgiving for
the home-coming of the wanderer.  And to-day, in the little church in
the grove, one of the regular worshippers is Nellie Gillard.











End of Project Gutenberg's Trail-Tales of Western Canada, by F. A. Robinson