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“Mr. Falkner,” said Amy, when they had walked some distance in silence. “I don’t know what you think of finding me here at this hour, but I don’t want you to think me worse than I am.” And then she told him the whole story; how she had gone to the park with her friends to spend the evening; and how they had a few refreshments. Dick ground his teeth; he knew what those refreshments were. Then she told how her companion had frightened her and she had run until she was exhausted and had stopped to hide in the unfinished house. “Oh, what must you think of me?” she said, at the point of breaking down again.
“I think just as I always have,” said Dick simply. “Please calm yourself, you’re safe now.” Then to occupy her mind, he told her of the work the Young People’s Society was doing, and how they missed her there and at the Mission.
“But don’t you find such things rather tiresome, you know?” she asked. “There’s not much life in those meetings seems to me; I wonder now how I ever stood them.”
“You are very busy then?” asked Dick, hiding the pain her words caused him.
“Oh yes; with our whist club, box parties, dances and dinners, I’m so tired out when Sunday comes I just want to sleep all day. But one must look after one’s social duties, you know, or be a nobody; and our set is such a jolly crowd that there’s always something going.”
“And you have forgotten your class at the Mission altogether?” Dick asked.
“Oh no, I saw one of the little beggars on the street this summer. It was down near the Mission building, and don’t you know, we were out driving, a whole party of us, and the little rascal shouted: ‘Howdy, Miss Goodrich.’ I thought I would faint. Just fancy. And the folks did guy me good. The gentlemen wanted to know if he was one of my flames, and the girls all begged to be introduced; and don’t you know, I got out of it by telling them that it was the child of a woman who scrubs for us.”
Dick said nothing. “Could it be possible?” he asked himself, “that this was the girl who had been such a worker in the church.” And then he thought of the change in his own life in the same period of time; a change fully as great, though in another direction. “It don’t take long to go either way if one only has help enough,” he said, half aloud.
“What are you saying, Mr. Falkner?” asked Amy.
“It’s not far home now,” answered Dick, and they fell into silence again.
As they neared the Goodrich mansion, Amy clasped Dick’s arm with both her little hands: “Mr. Falkner, promise me that you will never speak to a living soul about this evening.”
Dick looked her straight in the eyes. “I am a gentleman, Miss Goodrich,” was all he said.
Then as they reached the steps of the house, she held out her hand. “I thank you for your kindness–and please don’t think of me too harshly. I know I am not just the girl I was a year ago, but I–do you remember our talk at the printing office?”

At that instant the baby, catching sight of the canteen, called from the rear seat: “Barba wants drink. Barba thirsty, too.”
As though Texas had pulled the trigger the Irishman dropped his hand. Slowly he looked from face to face of his companions–a dazed expression on his own countenance, as though he were awakening from a dream. The child, clinging to the Seer with one hand and pointing with the other, said again: “Barba thirsty; please give Barba drink.”
A look of horror and shame went over the face of the Irishman, his form shook like a leaf and his trembling hands could scarcely hold the canteen. “My Gawd! bhoys,” he cried, “fwhat’s this I was doin’?” Then he burst suddenly upon Tex with: “Why the hell don’t ye shoot, domn ye? A baste like me is fit for nothin’ but to rot in this Gawd- forsaken land!”
The fierce rage of the man at his own act was pitiful. Texas dropped his gun into the holster and turned his face away. Jefferson Worth held out a cup. “Give the little one some water, Pat,” he said, in his cold, exact way.
With shaking hands the Irishman poured a little into the cup and, screwing the cap back on the canteen, he returned it to its place. Then with a groan he bowed his face in his great, hairy hands.
Just before sun-down they climbed up the ancient beach line to the rim of the Basin and the Mesa on the east. Halting here for a brief rest and for supper, they looked back over the low, wide land through which they had come. All along the western sky and far to the southward, the wall-like mountains lifted their purple heights from the dun plain, a seemingly impassable barrier, shutting in the land of death; shutting out the life that came to their feet on the other side. To the north the hills that rim the Basin caught the slanting rays of the setting sun and glowed rose-color, and pink, and salmon, with deep purple shadows where canyons opened, all rising out of drifts of silvery light. To the northwest two distant, gleaming, snow-capped peaks of the Coast Range marked San Antonio Pass. To the west Lone Mountain showed dark blue against the purple of the hills beyond. Down in the desert basin, drifting above and woven through the ever-shifting masses of color, shimmering phantom lakes, and dull, dusky patches of green and brown, long streamers, bars and threads of dust shone like gleaming gold.
Texas Joe, when he had poured for each his portion of water, shook the canteen carefully, and a smile spread slowly over his sun- blackened features. “What’s left belongs to the kid,” he said. “But we’ll make it. We’ll jest about make it.”
The Irishman lifted his cup toward the Desert, saying solemnly: “Here’s to ye, domn ye! Ye ain’t got us yet. May ye burn an’ blishther an’ scorch an’ bake ’til yer danged heart shrivels up an’ blows away.”
Then he fell to amusing the child with loving fun-talk and queer antics, until she laughed aloud and permitted him to catch her up in his big hairy hands and to toss her high in the air. Texas and Abe, joining in the frolic, shared with Pat the little lady’s favor, while the Seer looked smilingly on. But when Jefferson Worth approached, with an offering of pretty stones and shells which he had gathered on the old beach, she ran up to the engineer’s arms. Still coaxing, the banker held out his offering. The others were silent, watching. Timidly at last, the child put forth her little hands and accepted the gift, shrinking back quickly with her treasures to the shelter of the big man’s arms.

　　The old mattress was precisely where he and Scully had left it. He wentthrough the hole in the wall. He then climbed down the ladder into the coalcellar.
　　He cast the beam of his flashlight onto the wooden crate. Tooms’strophies shone back at him. Mulder recognized the pipe and cigarette lighter.
　　But this time there was a new trophy too. One that sent ice throughMulder’s veins. Hanging from the trophy crate was Scully’s necklace.
　　Scully stood in her bedroom, facing her mirror. She was pinning up herhair for her bath. Her mind was still on the case. She knew they’d got closerto finding Tooms. And what they’d found made her agitated. Could Mulderpossibly be right? she wondered. Is Tooms some kind of mutant whohibernates for thirty years and then keeps himself alive by murdering peopleand eating their livers? Has he really been alive since the beginning of thecentury?
　　Scully shook her head. Until she saw medical tests that proved otherwise,she’d deal with Tooms as a human. A very dangerous human.
　　She went back into the bathroom just in time to shut off the water. The tubwas nearly full. She reached over to one of the shelves and chose a bottle ofblue bath oil, and then she poured it into the steaming tub. The smell ofrosemary filled the room.
　　She started to undress, but she stopped as she realised she’d forgotten tobring in her robe from the bedroom. The case definitely had her distracted,she told herself. She returned to the bedroom.
　　That was when she felt it. Something damp on her wrist . She held it upto the light and saw two drops of clear greenish-yellow liquid.
　　It doesn’t make sense, she thought. The bath oil was blue. Andfurthermore, she hadn’t spilled any. She thought for a second. The buildingwas an old one. Maybe there was a leak in the ceiling from the apartmentabove her.
　　She looked up at the ceiling and felt the muscles in her chest tightenwith fear. Right above her was a heating grate. A thick greenish-yellowliquid was pooling in the corner of the grate.
　　No, Scully thought. She fought down a surge of panic. She lifted herhand and smelt the fluid on her wrist. Her body froze with terror as sherecognised the smell.
　　She was suddenly horribly aware of how alone she was. and of how manyhiding places there were in her apartment.
　　Especially for someone who could squeeze himself inside a pipe. Orunder a counter. Or into the air vent above her.
　　She touched the greenish-yellow substance. She had to be sure. And shewas. There was no mistaking it. It could only be bile from a human liver.
　　”Oh, my god ,”she said quietly.
Chapter 8 The Hunt
Mulder was already sitting in his car, driving speedily to Scully’sapartment.
　　All he could think about was what he’d found in the basement of Sixty-sixExeter Street. Tooms has Scully’s necklace. That could mean only one thing:
　　Scully was going to be the fifth victim.
　　Mulder reached for his cellular phone and dialed Scully’s number.
　　Scully’s phone rang and rang and rang. “Come on, Scully,” he muttered .

“Why–why–yer–yer’ve come!”
Chapter 25 Mciver’s Opportunity
When the politician stopped at the cigar stand late that afternoon for a box of the kind he gave his admirers, the philosopher, scratching the revenue label, remarked, “I see by the papers that McIver is still a-stayin’.”
“Humph!” grunted the politician with careful diplomacy.
The bank clerk who was particular about his pipe tobacco chimed in, “McIver is a stayer all right when it comes to that.”
“Natural born fighter, sir,” offered the politician tentatively.
“Game sport, McIver is,” agreed the undertaker, taking the place at the show case vacated by the departing bank clerk.
The philosopher, handing out the newcomer’s favorite smoke, echoed his customer’s admiration. “You bet he’s a game sport.” He punched the cash register with vigor. “Don’t give a hang what it costs the other fellow.”
The undertaker laughed.
“I remember one time,” said the philosopher, “McIver and a bunch was goin’ fishin’ up the river. They stopped here early in the morning and while they was gettin’ their smokes the judge–who’s always handin’ out some sort of poetry stuff, you know–he says: ‘Well, Jim, we’re goin’ to have a fine day anyway. No matter whether we catch anything or not it will be worth the trip just to get out into the country.’ Mac, he looked at the judge a minute as if he wanted to bite him–you know what I mean–then he says in that growlin’ voice of his, ‘That may do for you all right, judge, but I’m here to tell you that when _I_ go fishin’ _I go for fish_.’”
The cigar-store philosopher’s story accurately described the dominant trait in the factory man’s character. To him business was a sport, a game, a contest of absorbing interest. He entered into it with all the zest and strength of his virile manhood. Mind and body, it absorbed him. And yet, he knew nothing of that true sportsman’s passion which plays the game for the joy of the game itself. McIver played to win; not for the sake of winning, but for the value of the winnings. Methods were good or bad only as they won or lost. He was incapable of experiencing those larger triumphs which come only in defeat. The Interpreter’s philosophy of the “oneness of all” was to McIver the fanciful theory of an impracticable dreamer, who, too feeble to take a man’s part in life, contented himself by formulating creeds of weakness that befitted his state. Men were the pieces with which he played his game–they were of varied values, certainly, as are the pieces on a chess table, but they were pieces on the chess table and nothing more. All of which does not mean that Jim McIver was cruel or unkind. Indeed, he was genuinely and generously interested in many worthy charities, and many a man had appealed to him, and not in vain, for help. But to have permitted these humanitarian instincts to influence his play in the game of business would have been, to his mind, evidence of a weakness that was contemptible. The human element, he held, must, of necessity, be sternly disregarded if one would win.

“Now sit down.”
Crossing the room, he seated himself in the chair indicated, which placed him in the full glare of the light. Dick took the other chair facing him, with the long table between them. Placing his weapon beside the other, within easy reach of his hand, he rested his elbows on the table and looked long and steadily at the man before him.
Whitley was uneasy. “Well,” he said at last, when he could bear the silence no longer. “I hope you like my looks.”
“Your figure is somewhat heavier, but shaving off your beard has made you look some years younger,” replied Dick, dryly.
The other started to his feet.
“Don’t be uneasy,” said Dick, softly resting his hand on one of the revolvers; “keep your seat please.”
“I never wore a beard,” said the other, as he dropped back on his chair. “You are mistaken.”
“Then how did you know the meaning of my note, and why did you answer it in person. You should have sent the right man.”
Whitley saw that he had betrayed himself but made one more effort.
“I came out of curiosity,” he muttered.
Dick laughed–a laugh that was not good to hear. “I can easily satisfy you,” he said; “permit me to tell you a little story.”
“The story begins in a little manufacturing town a few miles from Liverpool, England, just three years ago today.” Beneath the unwavering eyes of the man leaning on the table Whitley’s face grew ghastly and he writhed in his chair.
“An old man and his wife, with their two orphaned grand-sons, lived in a little cottage on the outskirts of the town. The older of the boys was a strong man of twenty; the other a sickly lad of eight. The old people earned a slender income by cultivating small fruits. This was helped out by the wages of the older brother, who was a machinist in one of the big factories. They were a quiet and unpretentious little family, devout Christians, and very much attached to each other.
“One afternoon a wealthy American, who was stopping at a large resort a few miles from the village, went for a drive along the road leading past their home. As his carriage was passing, the little boy, who was playing just outside the yard, unintentionally frightened the horses and they shied quickly. At the same moment, the American’s silk hat fell in the dust. The driver stopped the team and the lad, frightened, picked up the hat and ran with it toward the carriage, stammering an apology for what he had done.
“Instead of accepting the boy’s excuse, the man, beside himself with anger, and slightly under the influence of wine, sprang from the carriage, and seizing the lad, kicked him brutally.
“The grandfather, who was working in his garden, saw the incident, and hurried as fast as he could to the rescue. At the same time, the driver jumped from his seat to protect the child, but before they could reach the spot, the boy was lying bruised and senseless in the dust.
“The old man rushed at the American in impotent rage, and the driver, fearing for his safety, caught him by the arm and tried to separate them, saying, ‘You look after the boy. Let me settle with him.’ But the old man was deaf and could not understand, and thought that the driver, also an American, was assisting his employer. In the struggle, the American suddenly drew a knife, and in spite of the driver’s efforts, struck twice at his feeble opponent, who fell back in the arms of his would-be protector, just as the older brother rushed upon the scene. The American leaped into the carriage and snatched up the lines. The mechanic sprang after him, and as he caught hold of the seat in his attempt to climb in, the knife flashed again, cutting a long gash in his arm and hand, severing the little finger. With the other hand, he caught the wrist of the American, but a heavy blow in the face knocked him beneath the wheels, and the horses dashed away down the road.

“I promise,” returned the old lady, quickly. “I really wouldn’t dare to refuse under the circumstances, would I? What do you want me to do, Mr. Ross?”
“If this man Brian Kent should happen to appear in this vicinity, will you get a message as quickly as possible, at any cost, to Sheriff Knox?”
“Why, of course,” agreed Auntie Sue. “But you have not yet told me what the man looks like, Mr. Ross.”
“He is really a fine looking chap,” the detective answered. “Thirty years old–fully six feet tall–rather slender, but well built–weighs about one hundred fifty–a splendid head–smooth shaven–reddish hair–dark blue eyes–and a high, broad forehead. He is of Irish extraction–is cultured–very courteous in his manner and speech–dresses well–and knows a lot about books and authors and such things.”
“I would surely know him from that description,” said Auntie Sue, thinking of the wretched creature who had fallen, sobbing, at her feet so short a time before. “But, you do not make him seem like a criminal at all. It is strange that a man such as you describe should be a fugitive from the law, is it not?”
“We come in contact with many strange things in our business, Miss Wakefield,” the Burns operative answered–a little sadly, Auntie Sue thought. “Life itself is so strange and complex, though you in your quiet retreat, here, can scarcely find it so.”
“Indeed, I find life very wonderful, Mr. Ross, even here in my little house by the river,” she answered, slowly.
Sheriff Knox held out a newspaper to Auntie Sue: “Just happened to remember that I had it in my pocket,” he said. “It gives a pretty full account of this fellow Kent’s case. You will notice there is a big reward offered for his capture. If you can catch him for us, you’ll make enough money to keep you mighty nigh all the rest of your life.” And the officer’s great laugh boomed out at the thought of the old school-teacher as a thief-catcher.
“By the way, Sheriff,” said Auntie Sue, as they were finally saying good-bye at the door, “you didn’t happen to ask at Thompsonville for my mail, did you, as you came through?” Her voice was trembling, now, with eagerness and anxiety.
“I’m plumb sorry, Auntie Sue, but I didn’t. You see, we were so busy on this job, I clean forgot about stopping here; and, besides, we might have caught our man before we got this far, you see.”
“Of course,” returned Auntie Sue, “I should have thought of that; but I have been rather anxious about an important letter that seems to have been delayed. Some of the neighbors will probably be going to the office to-day, though. Good-bye! You know you are always welcome, Sheriff; and you, too, Mr. Ross, if you should ever happen to be in this part of the country again.”
“A wonderful old woman, Ross,” commented Sheriff Knox as they were riding away. And the quiet, business-looking detective, whose life had been spent in combating crime and deception, answered, as he waved farewell to Auntie Sue, who watched them from the door of the little log house by the river, “A very wonderful woman, indeed,–the loveliest old lady I have ever met,–and the most remarkable.”

“Or enemies,” said Brian.
“Or enemies,” agreed Auntie Sue.
Brian went to the window, and stood for some time, looking out into the night. Then turning, with a nervous gesture, he paced uneasily up and down the room; while Auntie Sue watched him in silence with an expression of loving concern on her dear old face.
At last, she spoke: “Why, Brian, what is the matter? What have I said? I did not mean to upset you like this. Come, sit down here, and tell me about it. What is it troubles you so?”
With a short laugh, Brian came and stood before her. “I suppose it had to come sooner or later, Auntie Sue. I have been trying for days to muster up courage enough to tell you about it. You have touched the one biggest thing in my life.”
“Why, what do you mean, Brian?”
“I mean just what we have been talking about,–writing,” answered Brian.
“Oh!” she cried, with quick and delighted triumph. “Then I AM right. You have been thinking about it, too.”
“Thinking about it!” he echoed, and in his voice she felt the nervous intensity of his mood. “I have thought of nothing else. All day long when I am at work, I am writing, writing, writing. It is the last thing on my mind when I go to sleep. I dream about it all night. And, it is the first thing I think about in the morning.”
Auntie Sue clasped her hands to her heart with an exclamation of joyous interest.
Brian, with a quiet smile at her enthusiasm, went on: “I know exactly what I want to say, and why I want to say it. There is a world of people, Auntie Sue, whose lives have been broken and spoiled by one thing or another, and who have more or less cut themselves loose from everything, and are just drifting, they don’t care a hang where, because they think they have failed so completely that there is nothing more in life for them. People like me,–I don’t mean thieves and criminals necessarily,–who have had that which they know to be the best and biggest and truest part of themselves tortured and warped and twisted and denied and smashed and beaten and betrayed and killed; and who, because they feel that their real selves are dead within them, don’t care what happens to that part which is left.”
He was walking the floor again now, and speaking with a depth of feeling which he had never before revealed to his gentle companion.
“It is not so much the love of wrong-doing that makes people turn bad,”–he continued,–”it is having their real selves misunderstood and doubted and smothered and their realest loves and dreams and aspirations never recognized, or else distorted and twisted and made to appear as something they hate. I want to make the people–and there are many thousands of them–who are suffering in the living hell that tormented me, feel that I know and understand. And then, Auntie Sue, then I want to tell them about you and your river.
“I would teach them the things you have taught me. I would say to every one that I could persuade to listen: ‘It doesn’t in the least matter what your experience is, the old river is still going on to the sea. No matter if every woman you ever knew has proved untrue, virtuous womanhood still IS. No matter if every man you ever knew has proved false, true manhood still IS. If every friend you ever had has betrayed your friendship, loyal friendship still IS. If you have found nothing in your experience but dishonesty and falsehood and infidelity and hypocrisy, it is only because you have been unfortunate in your experience; because honesty and fidelity and sincerity are existing FACTS. They are the very foundation facts of life, and can no more fail life than the river can fail to reach the sea.

But she, enjoying her triumph, began to mount still higher. She crawled along to the extreme end of a branch, grasping its leaves in her hands to maintain her hold.

‘The branch will break!’ cried Serge, thoroughly frightened.

‘Let it break,’ she answered, with a laugh; ‘it will save me the trouble of getting down.’

And the branch did break, but only slowly, with such deliberation that, as it gradually settled towards the ground, it let Albine slip down in very gentle fashion. She did not appear in the least degree frightened; but gave herself a shake, and said: ‘That was really nice. It was quite like being in a carriage.’

Serge had jumped down from the tree to catch her in his arms. As he stood there, quite pale from fright, she laughed at him. ‘One tumbles down from trees every day,’ she exclaimed, ‘but there is never any harm done. Look more cheerful, you great stupid! Stay, just wet your finger and rub it upon my neck. I have scratched it.’

Serge wetted his finger and touched her neck with it.

‘There, I am all right again now,’ she cried, as she bounded off. ‘Let us play at hide and seek, shall we?’

She was the first to hide. She disappeared, and presently from the depths of the greenery, which she alone knew, and where Serge could not possibly find her, she called, ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo.’ But this game of hide and seek did not put a stop to the onslaught upon the fruit trees. Breakfasting went on in all the nooks and corners where the two big children sought each other. Albine, while gliding beneath the branches, would stretch out her hand to pluck a green pear or fill her skirt with apricots. Then in some of her lurking-places she would come upon such rich discoveries as would make her careless of the game, content to sit upon the ground and remain eating. Once, however, she lost sound of Serge’s movements. So, in her turn, she set about seeking him; and she was surprised, almost vexed, when she discovered him under a plum-tree, of whose existence she herself had been ignorant, and whose ripe fruit had a delicious musky perfume. She soundly rated him. Did he want to eat everything himself, that he hadn’t called to her to come? He pretended to know nothing about the trees, but he evidently had a very keen scent to be able to find all the good things. She was especially indignant with the poor tree itself–a stupid tree which no one had known of, and which must have sprung up in the night on purpose to put people out. As she stood there pouting, refusing to pluck a single plum, it occurred to Serge to shake the tree violently. And then a shower, a regular hail, of plums came down. Albine, standing in the midst of the downfall, received plums on her arms, plums on her neck, plums on the very tip of her nose. At this she could no longer restrain her laughter; she stood in the midst of the deluge, crying ‘More! more!’ amused as she was by the round bullet-like fruit which fell around her as she squatted there, with hands and mouth open, and eyes closed.

He tried to laugh and when he spoke, his voice was not his voice at all.
The daughter of the church turned to watch her minister as he passed through the gate, out of the yard and down the street. Then she went slowly down the path to the arbor, where she found a young woman crouched on the wooden bench weeping bitter tears;–a book on the floor at her feet.
Quickly Charity drew back. Very quietly she went down the walk again. And as she went, she seemed all at once to have grown whiter and thin and old.
Chapter 13 Dr. Harry’s Case
“‘Whatever or whoever is responsible for the existence of such people and such conditions is a problem for the age to solve. The fact is, they are here.’”

The meeting of the Ladies’ Aid adjourned and its members, with sighs and exclamations of satisfaction over work well done, separated to go to their homes–where there were suppers to prepare for hungry husbands, and children of the flesh.
Thus always in the scheme of things as they are, the duties of life conflict with the duties of religion. The faithful members of Memorial Church were always being interrupted in their work for the Lord by the demands of the world. And as they saw it, there was nothing for them to do but to bear their crosses bravely. What a blessed thought it is that God understands many things that are beyond our ken!
The whistles blew for quitting time. The six o’clock train from the West pulled into the yards, stopped–puffing a few moments at the water tank–and thundered on its way again. On the street, business men and those who labored with their hands hurried from the scenes of their daily toil, while the country folk untied their teams and saddle-horses from the hitch-racks to return to their waiting families and stock on the distant farms.
A few miles out on the main road leading northward the home-going farmers passed a tired horse hitched to a dusty, mud-stained top-buggy, plodding steadily toward the village. Without exception they hailed the driver of the single rig heartily. It was Dr. Harry returning from a case in the backwoods country beyond Hebron.
The deep-chested, long-limbed bay, known to every child for miles around, was picking her own way over the country roads, for the lines hung slack. Without a hint from her driver the good horse slowed to a walk on the rough places and quickened her pace again when the road was good, and of her own accord, turned out for the passing teams. The man in the buggy returned the greetings of his friends mechanically, scarcely noticing who they were.
It was Jo Mason’s wife this time. Jo was a good fellow but wholly incapable of grasping, single-handed, the problem of daily life for himself and brood. There were ten children in almost as many years. Understanding so little of life’s responsibilities the man’s dependence upon his wife was pitiful, if not criminal. With tears streaming down his lean, hungry face he had begged, “Do somethin’, Doc! My God Almighty, you jest got to do some-thin’!”
For hours Dr. Harry had been trying to do something. Out there in the woods, in that wretched, poverty-stricken home, with only a neighbor woman of the same class to help he had been fighting a losing fight.

Chapter 2 A Contrast
Oowikapun was bewildered at the marvellous contrast between what he had been accustomed to witness in the wretched wigwams and lives of his own people and what he here saw in this bright little tent of Memotas. It was all so new and strange to him. Everybody seemed so happy. There were no rude words said by the boy to his mother and no tyrannising over his sister. With equal affection Memotas treated Meyookesik and Sagastao, and great indeed was his kindness and attention to his wife. At first Oowikapun’s old prejudices and defective education as regards women almost made him believe that Memotas was lacking in brave, manly qualities to allow his wife and daughter to be on such loving terms of equality with himself and his son. But when he became better acquainted with him, he found that this was not the case.

Oowikapun could not then solve this question, neither did he until in after years he became a Christian.

There was one custom observed in the wigwam of Memotas that gave Oowikapun more surprise than any of these to which we have referred, for it was something which he had never heard of nor seen before. It was that in the morning and evening Memotas would take out of a bag a little book printed in strange characters, and read from it while his wife and children reverently and quietly sat around him and listened to the strange words. Then they would sing in a manner so different from the wild, droning, monotonous songs of the conjurers, that Oowikapun was filled with a strange feeling of awe, which was much increased when they all knelt down reverently on the ground and Memotas seemed to talk with the Great Spirit and call him his Father. Then he thanked him for all their blessings, and asked his forgiveness for everything they had done that was wrong, and he asked his blessing upon his family and everybody else, even upon his enemies, if he had any. Then he besought the Great Spirit to bless Oowikapun, and not only heal his wounds, but take the darkness from his mind and make him his child. He always ended his prayers by asking the Great Spirit to do all these things for the sake of his Son Jesus.

All this was very strange and even startling to Oowikapun. He had lived all his life in a land dark with superstition and paganism. The Gospel had as yet never been proclaimed there. The name of Jesus had never been heard in that wild north-land, and so as none of the blessedness of religion had entered into the hearts of the people, so none of its sweet, losing, elevating influences had begun to ennoble and bless their lives and improve their habits. So he pondered over what he witnessed and heard, and was thankful when the day’s hunting was over, and Memotas would talk to him as they sat there on their robes around the fire, often for hours at a time. From him he learned how it was that they had so changed in many of their ways. Memotas told him of the coming to Norway House of the first missionary, the Reverend James Evans, with the book of heaven, the words of the Good Spirit to his children. He told him many of the wonderful things it speaks about, and that it showed how man was to love and worship God, and thus secure his blessing and favour. The little book which Memotas had was composed of the four gospels only. These Mr Evans had had printed at the village in Indian letters, which he had invented and called “syllabic characters.” They are so easily learned by the Indians, that in a few weeks those who were diligent in their studies were able to read fluently those portions of the word of God already translated for them, as well as a number of beautiful hymns. Oowikapun had never heard of such things, and was so amazed and confounded that he could hardly believe that he was in his right mind, especially when Memotas, to try and give him some idea of the syllabic characters in which his little book was printed, made little sentences with a piece of coal on birch bark, and then handed them to his wife and children, who easily read out what had been written. That birch bark could talk, as he expressed it, was a mystery indeed.