Ralph Connor ...........................................................................................................................................1

PREFACE ................................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I. THE CITY ON THE PLAIN .............................................................................................2

CHAPTER II. WHERE EAST MEETS WEST......................................................................................5

CHAPTER III. THE MARRIAGE OF ANKA ........................................................................................7

CHAPTER IV. THE UNBIDDEN GUEST ...........................................................................................10

CHAPTER V. THE PATRIOT'S HEART............................................................................................22

CHAPTER VI. THE GRIP OF BRITISH LAW...................................................................................31

CHAPTER VII. CONDEMNED...........................................................................................................42

CHAPTER VIII. THE PRICE OF VENGEANCE ................................................................................54

CHAPTER IX. BROTHER AND SISTER...........................................................................................64

CHAPTER X. JACK FRENCH OF THE NIGHT HAWK RANCH ....................................................77

CHAPTER XI. THE EDMONTON TRAIL ..........................................................................................81

CHAPTER XII. THE MAKING OF A MAN.......................................................................................90

CHAPTER XIII. BROWN ...................................................................................................................100

CHAPTER XIV. THE BREAK ...........................................................................................................109

CHAPTER XV. THE MAIDEN OF THE BROWN HAIR................................................................118

CHAPTER XVI. HOW KALMAN FOUND HIS MINE ....................................................................126

CHAPTER XVII. THE FIGHT FOR THE MINE ...............................................................................136

CHAPTER XVIII. FOR FREEDOM AND FOR LOVE .....................................................................145

CHAPTER XIX. MY FOREIGNER...................................................................................................154

In Western Canada there is to be seen today that most fascinating of all human phenomena, the making of a

nation. Out of breeds diverse in traditions, in ideals, in speech, and in manner of life, Saxon and Slav, Teuton,

Celt and Gaul, one people is being made. The blood strains of great races will mingle in the blood of a race

It would be our wisdom to grip these peoples to us with living hooks of justice and charity till all lines of

national cleavage disappear, and in the Entity of our Canadian national life, and in the Unity of our

worldwide Empire, we fuse into a people whose strength will endure the slow shock of time for the honour

Not far from the centre of the American Continent, midway between the oceans east and west, midway

between the Gulf and the Arctic Sea, on the rim of a plain, snow swept in winter, flower decked in summer,

but, whether in winter or in summer, beautiful in its sunlit glory, stands Winnipeg, the cosmopolitan capital

of the last of the Anglo Saxon Empires,Winnipeg, City of the Plain, which from the eyes of the world

cannot be hid. Miles away, secure in her seagirt isle, is old London, port of all seas; miles away, breasting

the beat of the Atlantic, sits New York, capital of the New World, and mart of the world, Old and New; far

away to the west lie the mighty cities of the Orient, Peking and Hong Kong, Tokio and Yokohama; and fair

across the highway of the world's commerce sits Winnipeg, Empress of the Prairies. Her TransContinental

railways thrust themselves in every direction,south into the American Republic, east to the ports of the

To her gates and to her deepsoiled tributary prairies she draws from all lands peoples of all tribes and

tongues, smitten with two great race passions, the lust for liberty, and the lust for land.

By hundreds and tens of hundreds they stream in and through this hospitable city, Saxon and Celt and Slav,

each eager on his own quest, each paying his toll to the new land as he comes and goes, for good or for ill,

A hundred years ago, where now stands the thronging city, stood the lonely tradingpost of The Honourable,

The Hudson's Bay Company. To this post in their birch bark canoes came the halfbreed trapper and the

Indian hunter, with their priceless bales of furs to be bartered for blankets and beads, for pemmican and

bacon, for powder and ball, and for the thousand and one articles of commerce that piled the store shelves

Fifty years ago, about the lonely post a little settlement had gathereda band of sturdy Scots. Those dour

and doughty pioneers of peoples had planted on the Red River their homes upon their little "strip" farmsa

rampart of civilization against the wide, wild prairie, the home of the buffalo, and camp ground of the hunters

Twentyfive years ago, in the early eighties, a little city had fairly dug its roots into the black soil, refusing to

be swept away by that cyclone of financial frenzy known over the Continent as the "boom of '81," and

holding on with abundant courage and invincible hope, had gathered to itself what of strength it could, until

by 1884 it had come to assume an appearance of enduring solidity. hitherto accessible from the world by the

river and the railroad from the south, in this year the city began to cast eager eyes eastward, and to listen for

the rumble of the first trans continental train, which was to bind the Provinces of Canada into a Dominion,

and make Winnipeg into one of the cities of the world. Trade by the river died, but meantime the railway

from the south kept pouring in a steady stream of immigration, which distributed itself according to its

character and in obedience to the laws of affinity, the French Canadian finding a congenial home across the

Red River in old St. Boniface, while his Englishspeaking fellow citizen, careless of the limits of

nationality, ranged whither his fancy called him. With these, at first in small and then in larger groups, from

Central and South Eastern Europe, came people strange in costume and in speech; and holding close by one

another as if in terror of the perils and the loneliness of the unknown land, they segregated into colonies tight

Already, close to the railway tracks and in the more unfashionable northern section of the little city, a

huddling cluster of little black shacks gave such a colony shelter. With a sprinkling of Germans, Italians and

Swiss, it was almost solidly Slav. Slavs of all varieties from all provinces and speaking all dialects were there

to be found: Slavs from Little Russia and from Great Russia, the alert Polak, the heavy Croatian, the haughty

Magyar, and occasionally the stalwart Dalmatian from the Adriatic, in speech mostly Ruthenian, in religion

orthodox Greek Catholic or Uniat and Roman Catholic. By their nondiscriminating AngloSaxon fellow

citizens they are called Galicians, or by the unlearned, with an echo of Paul's Epistle in their minds,

"Galatians." There they pack together in their little shacks of boards and tarpaper, with pent roofs of old

tobacco tins or of slabs or of that same useful but unsightly tarpaper, crowding each other in close irregular

groups as if the whole wide prairie were not there inviting them. From the number of their huts they seem a

colony of no great size, but the census taker, counting ten or twenty to a hut, is surprised to find them run up

into hundreds. During the summer months they are found far away in the colonies of their kinsfolk, here and

there planted upon the prairie, or out in gangs where new lines of railway are in construction, the joy of the

contractor's heart, glad to exchange their steady, uncomplaining toil for the uncertain, spasmodic labour of

their Englishspeaking rivals. But winter finds them once more crowding back into the little black shacks in

the foreign quarter of the city, drawn thither by their traditionary social instincts, or driven by economic

necessities. All they ask is bed space on the floor or, for a higher price, on the homemade bunks that line the

walls, and a woman to cook the food they bring to her; or, failing such a happy arrangement, a stove on

which they may boil their varied stews of beans or barley, beets or rice or cabbage, with such scraps of pork

or beef from the neck or flank as they can beg or buy at low price from the slaughter houses, but ever with the

inevitable seasoning of garlic, lacking which no Galician dish is palatable. Fortunate indeed is the owner of a

shack, who, devoid of hygienic scruples and disdainful of city sanitary laws, reaps a rich harvest from his

fellowcountrymen, who herd together under his pent roof. Here and there a house surrendered by its former

AngloSaxon owner to the "Polak" invasion, falls into the hands of an enterprising foreigner, and becomes to

Such a house had come into the possession of Paulina Koval. Three years ago, with two children she had

come to the city, and to the surprise of her neighbours who had travelled with her from Hungary, had

purchased this house, which the owner was only too glad to sell. How the slowwitted Paulina had managed

so clever a transaction no one quite understood, but every one knew that in the deal Rosenblatt, financial

agent to the foreign colony, had lent his shrewd assistance. Rosenblatt had known Paulina in the home land,

and on her arrival in the new country had hastened to proffer his good offices, arranging the purchase of her

house and guiding her, not only in financial matters, but in things domestic as well. It was due to Rosenblatt

that the little cottage became the most populous dwelling in the colony. It was his genius that had turned the

cellar, with its mud floor, into a dormitory capable of giving bed space to twenty or twentyfive Galicians,

and still left room for the tin stove on which to cook their stews. Upon his advice, too, the partitions by which

the cottage had been divided into kitchen, parlour, and bed rooms, were with one exception removed as

unnecessary and interfering unduly with the most economic use of valuable floor space. Upon the floor of the

main room, some sixteen feet by twelve, under Rosenblatt's manipulation, twenty boarders regularly spread

their blankets, and were it not for the space demanded by the stove and the door, whose presence he deeply

regretted, this ingenious manipulator could have provided for some fifteen additional beds. Beyond the

partition, which as a concession to Rosenblatt's finer sensibilities was allowed to remain, was Paulina's

boudoir, eight feet by twelve, where she and her two children occupied a roomy bed in one corner. In the

original plan of the cottage four feet had been taken from this boudoir for closet purposes, which closet now

served as a store room for Paulina's superfluous and altogether wonderful wardrobe.

After a few weeks' experiment, Rosenblatt, under pressure of an exuberant hospitality, sought to persuade

Paulina that, at the sacrifice of some comfort and at the expense of a certain degree of privacy, the

unoccupied floor space of her boudoir might be placed at the disposal of a selected number of her

countrymen, who for the additional comfort thus secured, this room being less exposed to the biting wind

from the door, would not object to pay a higher price. Against this arrangement poor Paulina made feeble

"Children!" cried Rosenblatt. "What are they to you? They are not your children."

"No, they are not my children, but they are my man's, and I must keep them for him. He would not like men

"What can harm them here? I will come myself and be their protector," cried the chivalrous Rosenblatt. "And

see, here is the very thing! We will make for them a bed in this snug little closet. It is most fortunate, and they

Still in Paulina's slowmoving mind lingered some doubt as to the propriety of the suggested arrangement.

"But why should men come in here? I do not need the money. My man will send money every month."

"Ah!" cried the alert and startled Rosenblatt, "every month! Ah! very good! But this house, you will

remember, is not all paid for, and those English people are terrible with their laws. Oh, truly terrible!"

continued the solicitous agent. "They would turn you and your children out into the snow. Ah, what a

The mere memory of that experience sent a shudder of horror through Rosenblatt's substantial frame, so that

Paulina hastened to surrender, and soon Rosenblatt with three of his patrons, selected for their more gentle

manners and for their ability to pay, were installed as night lodgers in the inner room at the rate of five dollars

per month. This rate he considered as extremely reasonable, considering that those of the outer room paid

three dollars, while for the luxury of the cellar accommodation two dollars was the rate.

The considerate thoughtfulness of Rosenblatt relieved Paulina of the necessity of collecting these monthly

dues, to her great joy, for it was far beyond her mental capacity to compute, first in Galician and then in

Canadian money, the amount that each should pay; and besides, as Rosenblatt was careful to point out, how

could she deal with defaulters, who, after accumulating a serious indebtedness, might roll up their blankets

and without a word of warning fade away into the winter night? Indeed, with all her agent's care, it not

unfrequently happened that a lodger, securing a job in one of the cordwood camps, would disappear, leaving

behind him only his empty space upon the floor and his debt upon the books, which Rosenblatt kept with

scrupulous care. Occasionally it happened, however, that, as in all bookkeeping, a mistake would creep in.

This was unfortunately the case with young Jacob Wassyl's account, of whose perfidy Paulina made loud

complaints to his friends, who straightway remonstrated with Jacob upon his return from the camp. It was

then that Jacob's indignant protestations caused an examination of Rosenblatt's books, whereupon that

gentleman laboured with great diligence to make abundantly clear to all how the obliteration of a single letter

had led to the mistake. It was a striking testimony to his fine sense of honour that Rosenblatt insisted that

Jacob, Paulina, and indeed the whole company, should make the fullest investigation of his books and satisfy

themselves of his unimpeachable integrity. In a private interview with Paulina, however, his rage passed all

bounds, and it was only Paulina's tearful entreaties that induced him to continue to act as her agent, and not

even her tears had moved him had not Paulina solemnly sworn that never again would she allow her

blundering crudity to insert itself into the delicate finesse of Rosenblatt's financial operations. Thenceforward

all went harmoniously enough, Paulina toiling with unremitting diligence at her daily tasks, so that she might

make the monthly payments upon her house, and meet the rapacious demands of those terrible English

people, with their taxes and interest and legal exactions, which Rosenblatt, with meritorious meekness,

sought to satisfy. So engrossed, indeed, was that excellent gentleman in this service that he could hardly find

time to give suitable over sight to his own building operations, in which, by the erection of shack after

Before a year had gone it caused Rosenblatt no small annoyance that while he was thus struggling to keep

pace with the demands upon his time and energy, Paulina, with lamentable lack of consideration, should find

it necessary to pause in her scrubbing, washing, and baking, long enough to give birth to a fine healthy boy.

Paulina's need brought her help and a friend in the person of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who lived a few doors away in

the only house that had been able to resist the Galician invasion. It had not escaped Mrs. Fitzpatrick's eye nor

her kindly heart, as Paulina moved in and out about her duties, that she would ere long pass into that

mysterious valley of life and death where a woman needs a woman's help; and so when the hour came, Mrs.

Fitzpatrick, with fine contempt of "haythen" skill and efficiency, came upon the scene and took command. It

took her only a few moments to clear from the house the men who with stolid indifference to the sacred rights

of privacy due to the event were lounging about. Swinging the broom which she had brought with her, she

almost literally swept them forth, flinging their belongings out into the snow. Not even Rosenblatt, who

"Y're wife will not be nadin' ye, I'm thinkin', for a while. Ye can just wait till I can bring ye wurrd av y're

Rosenblatt, whose knowledge of English was sufficient to enable him to catch her meaning, began a vigorous

"Eat, is it!" replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick, taking him up sharply. "Indade ye can eat where ye can get it. Faith, it's a

man ye are, sure enough, that can niver forget y're stomach! An' y're wife comin' till her sorrow!"

"Out wid ye," cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick, impatiently waving her big red hands before his face. "Howly Mother!

And leaving him in sputtering rage, she turned to her duty, aiding, with gentle touch and tender though

In three days Paulina was again in her place and at her work, and within a week her household was

reestablished in its normal condition. The baby, rolled up in an old quilt and laid upon her bed, received

little attention except when the pangs of hunger wrung lusty protests from his vigorous lungs, and had it not

been for Mrs. Fitzpatrick's frequent visits, the unwelcome little human atom would have fared badly enough.

For the first two weeks of its life the motherlyhearted Irish woman gave an hour every day to the bathing

and dressing of the babe, while Irma, the little girl of Paulina's household, watched in wideeyed wonder and

delight; watched to such purpose, indeed, that before the two weeks had gone Mrs. Fitzpatrick felt that to the

"It's the ouldfashioned little thing she is," she confided to her husband, Timothy. "Tin years, an' she has

more sinse in the hair outside av her head than that woman has in the brains inside av hers. It's aisy seen she's

no mother of hersye can niver get canary burrds from owls' eggs. And the strength of her," she continued,

to the admiring and sympathetic Timothy, "wid her white face and her burnin' brown eyes!"

And so it came that every day, no matter to what depths the thermometer might fall, the little whitefaced,

whitehaired Russian girl with the "burnin'" brown eyes brought Paulina's baby to be inspected by Mrs.

Fitzpatrick's critical eye. Before a year had passed Irma had won an assured place in the admiration and

But of Paulina the same could not be said, for with the passing months she steadily descended in the scale of

Mrs. Fitzpatrick's regard. Paulina was undoubtedly slovenly. Her attempts at housekeepingif housekeeping

it could be calledwere utterly contemptible in the eyes of Mrs. Fitzpatrick. These defects, however, might

have been pardoned, and with patience and perseverance might have been removed, but there were conditions

in Paulina's domestic relations that Mrs. Fitzpatrick could not forgive. The economic arrangements which

turned Paulina's room into a public dormitory were abhorrent to the Irish woman's sense of decency. Often

had she turned the full tide of her voluble invective upon Paulina, who, though conscious that all was not

wellfor no one could mistake the flash of Mrs. Fitzpatrick's eye nor the stridency of her voicereceived

Mrs. Fitzpatrick's indignant criticism with a patient smile. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, despairing of success in her

efforts with Paulina, called in the aid of Anka Kusmuk, who, as domestic in the New West Hotel where Mrs.

Fitzpatrick served as charwoman two days in the week, had become more or less expert in the colloquial

English of her environment. Together they laboured with Paulina, but with little effect. She was quite

unmoved, because quite unconscious, of moral shock. It disturbed Mrs. Fitzpatrick not a little to discover

during the progress of her missionary labours that even Anka, of whose goodness she was thoroughly

assured, did not appear to share her horror of Paulina's moral condition. It was the East meeting the West, the

Slav facing the AngloSaxon. Between their points of view stretched generations of moral development. It

was not a question of absolute moral character so much as a question of moral standards. The vastness of this

distinction in standards was beginning to dawn upon Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and she was prepared to view Paulina's

insensibility to moral distinctions in a more lenient light, when a new idea suddenly struck her:

The two Galician women gazed at each other in silence. At length Anka replied with manifest reluctance:

"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick in a terrible voice. "An' do ye mane to say! An' that Rosenblattis he

not her husband? Howly Mother of God," she continued in an awed tone of voice, "an' is this the woman I've

The wrath, the scorn, the repulsion in her eyes, her face, her whole attitude, revealed to the unhappy Paulina

what no words could have conveyed. Under her sallow skin the red blood of shame slowly mounted. At that

moment she saw herself and her life as never before. The wrathful scorn of this indignant woman pierced like

a lightning bolt to the depths of her sluggish moral sense and awakened it to new vitality. For a few moments

she stood silent and with face aflame, and then, turning slowly, passed into her house. It was the beginning of

The withdrawing of Mrs. Fitzpatrick from Paulina's life meant a serious diminution in interest for the

unhappy Paulina, but with the characteristic uncomplaining patience of her race she plodded on with the daily

routine at washing, baking, cleaning, mending, that filled up her days. There was no break in the unvarying

monotony of her existence. She gave what care she could to the two children that had been entrusted to her

keeping, and to her baby. It was well for her that Irma, whose devotion to the infant became an absorbing

passion, developed a rare skill in the care of the child, and it was well for them all that the ban placed by Mrs.

Fitzpatrick upon Paulina's house was withdrawn as far as Irma and the baby were concerned, for every day

the little maid presented her charge to the wise and watchful scrutiny of Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

The last days of 1884, however, brought an event that cast a glow of colour over the life of Paulina and the

whole foreign colony. This event was none other than the marriage of Anka Kusmuk and Jacob Wassyl,

Paulina's most popular lodger. A wedding is a great human event. To the principals the event becomes the

pivot of existence; to the relatives and friends it is at once the consummation of a series of happenings that

have absorbed their anxious and amused attention, and the point of departure for a new phase of existence

offering infinite possibilities in the way of speculation. But even for the casual onlooker a wedding furnishes

a pleasant arrest of the ordinary course of life, and lets in upon the dull grey of the commonplace certain

gleams of glory from the golden days of glowing youth, or from beyond the mysterious planes of experience

All this and more Anka's wedding was to Paulina and her people. It added greatly to Paulina's joy and to her

sense of importance that her house was selected to be the scene of the momentous event. For long weeks

Paulina's house became the life centre of the colony, and as the day drew nigh every boarder was conscious

of a certain reflected glory. It is no wonder that the selecting of Paulina's house for the wedding feast gave

offence to Anka's tried friend and patron, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. To that lady it seemed that in selecting Paulina's

house for her wedding Anka was accepting Paulina's standard of morals and condoning her offences, and it

"I'm just affronted at ye, Anka," she complained, "that ye can step inside the woman's dure."

"Ah, cut it out!" cried Anka, rejoicing in her command of the vernacular. "Sure, Paulina is no good, you bet;

but see, look at her housedere is no Rutenian house like dat, so beeg. Ah!" she continued rapturously, "you

come an' see me and Jacob dance de 'czardas,' wit Arnud on de cymbal. Dat Arnud he's come from de old

To Anka it seemed an unnecessary and foolish sacrifice to the demands of decency that she should forego the

"Ye can have it," sniffed Mrs. Fitzpatrick with emphatic disdain; all the more emphatic that she was

conscious, distinctly conscious, of a strong desire to witness this special feature of the festivities. "I've

nothing agin you, Anka, for it's a good gurrl ye are, but me and me family is respectable, an' that father

Mulligan can tell ye, for his own mother's cousin was married till the brother of me father's uncle, an' niver a

fut of me will go beyant the dure of that scut, Paulina." And Mrs. Fitzpatrick, resting her hands upon her hips,

But while determined to maintain at all costs this attitude toward Paulina and her doings, her warmhearted

interest in Anka's wedding made her very ready with offers of assistance in preparing for the feast.

"It's not much I know about y're Polak atin'," she said, "but I can make a batch of pork pies that wud tempt

the heart of the lowly Moses himsilf, an' I can give ye a bilin' of pitaties that Timothy can fetch to the house

This generous offer Anka gladly accepted, for Mrs. Fitzpatrick's pork pies, she knew from experience, were

such as might indeed have tempted so respectable a patriarch as Moses himself to mortal sin. The "bilin' of

pitaties," which Anka knew would be prepared in no ordinary pot, but in Mrs. Fitzpatrick's ample wash

boiler, was none the less acceptable, for Anka could easily imagine how effective such a contribution would

be in the early stages of the feast in dulling the keen edge of the Galician appetite.

The preparation for the wedding feast, which might be prolonged for the greater part of three days, was in

itself an undertaking requiring careful planning and no small degree of executive ability; for the popularity of

both bride and groom would be sufficient to insure the presence of the whole colony, but especially the

reputed wealth of the bride, who, it was well known, had been saving with careful economy her wages at the

New West Hotel for the past three years, would most certainly create a demand for a feast upon a scale of

more than ordinary magnificence, and Anka was determined that in providing for the feast this demand

For a long time she was torn between two conflicting desires: on the one hand she longed to appear garbed in

all the glory of the Western girl's most modern bridal attire; on the other she coveted the honour of providing

a feast that would live for years in the memory of all who might be privileged to be present. Both she could

not accomplish, and she wisely chose the latter; for she shrewdly reasoned that, while the Western bridal garb

would certainly set forth her charms in a new and ravishing style, the glory of that triumph would be

shortlived at best, and it would excite the envy of the younger members of her own sex and the criticism of

She was further moved to this decision by the thought that inasmuch as Jacob and she had it in mind to open

a restaurant and hotel as soon as sufficient money was in hand, it was important that they should stand well

with the community, and nothing would so insure popularity as abundant and good eating and drinking. So to

the preparation of a feast that would at once bring her immediate glory and future profit, Anka set her shrewd

wits. The providing of the raw materials for the feast was to her an easy matter, for her experience in the New

West Hotel had taught her how to expend to the best advantage her carefully hoarded wages. The difficulty

was with the cooking. Clearly Paulina could not be expected to attend to this, for although her skill with

certain soups and stews was undoubted, for the finer achievements of the culinary art Paulina was totally

unfitted. To overcome this difficulty, Anka hit upon the simple but very effective expedient of entrusting to

her neighbours, who would later be her guests, the preparing of certain dishes according to their various

abilities and inclinations, keeping close account in her own shrewd mind of what each one might be supposed

to produce from the materials furnished, and stimulating in her assistants the laudable ambition to achieve the

very best results. Hence, in generous quantities she distributed flour for bread and cakes in many varieties,

rice and beans and barley, which were to form the staple portion of the stews, cabbage and beets and onions

in smaller measurefor at this season of the year the price was highsides of pork, ropes of sausages, and

roasts of beef from neck and flank. Through the good offices of the butcher boy that supplied the New West

Hotel, purchased with Anka's shyest smile and glance, were secured a considerable accumulation of shank

bones and ham bones, pork ribs and ribs of beef, and other scraps too often despised by the AngloSaxon

housekeeper, all of which would prove of the greatest value in the enrichment of the soups. For puddings

there were apples and prunes, raisins and cranberries. The cook of the New West Hotel, catching something

of Anka's generous enthusiasms offered pies by the dozen, and even the proprietor himself, learning of the

preparations and progress, could think of nothing so appropriate to the occasion as a case of Irish whiskey.

This, however, Anka, after some deliberation, declined, suggesting beer instead, and giving as a reason her

experience, namely, that "whiskey make too quick fight, you bet." A fight was inevitable, but it would be a

sad misfortune if this necessary part of the festivities should occur too early in the programme.

Gradually, during the days of the week immediately preceding the ceremony, there began to accumulate in

the shacks about, viands of great diversity, which were stored in shelves, in cupboards,where there were

any,under beds, and indeed in any and every available receptacle. The puddings, soups and stews, which,

after all, were to form the main portion of the eating, were deposited in empty beer kegs, of which every

shack could readily furnish a few, and set out to freeze, in which condition they would preserve their perfect

flavour. Such diligence and such prudence did Anka show in the supervision of all these arrangements, that

when the day before the feast arrived, on making her final round of inspection, everything was discovered to

be in readiness for the morrow, with the single exception that the beer had not arrived. But this was no

oversight on the part of Jacob, to whom this portion of the feast had been entrusted. It was rather due to a

prudence born of experience that the beer should be ordered to be delivered at the latest possible hour. A

single beer keg is an object of consuming interest to the Galician and subjects his sense of honour to a very

considerable strain; the known presence of a dray load of beer kegs in the neighbourhood would almost

certainly intensify the strain beyond the breaking point. But as the shadows of evening began to gather, the

great brewery dray with its splendid horses and its load of kegs piled high, drew up to Paulina's door. Without

loss of time, and under the supervision of Rosenblatt and Jacob himself, the beer kegs were carried by the

willing hands of Paulina's boarders down to the cellar, piled high against the walls, and carefully counted.

There they were safe enough, for every man, not only among the boarders but in the whole colony, who

expected to be present at the feast, having contributed his dollar toward the purchase of the beer, constituted

himself a guardian against the possible depredations of his neighbours. Not a beer keg from this common

store was to be touched until after the ceremony, when every man should have a fair start. For the preliminary

celebrations during the evening and night preceding the wedding day the beer furnished by the proprietor of

It was considered a most fortunate circumstance both by the bride and groomelect, that there should have

appeared in the city, the week before, a priest of the Greek Catholic faith, for though in case of need they

could have secured the offices of a Roman priest from St. Boniface, across the river, the ceremonial would

thereby have been shorn of much of its picturesqueness and efficacy. Anka and her people had little regard

The wedding day dawned clear, bright, and not too cold to forbid a great gathering of the people outside

Paulina's house, who stood reverently joining with those who had been fortunate enough to secure a place in

Paulina's main room, which had been cleared of all beds and furniture, and transformed for the time being

into a chapel. The Slav is a religious man, intensely, and if need be, fiercely, religious; hence these people,

having been deprived for long months of the services of their Church, joined with eager and devout reverence

in the responses to the prayers of the priest, kneeling in the snow unmoved by and apparently unconscious of

the somewhat scornful levity of the curious crowd of onlookers that speedily gathered about them. For more

than two hours the religious part of the ceremony continued, but there was no sign of abating interest or of

waning devotion; rather did the religious feeling appear to deepen as the service advanced. At length there

floated through the open window the weirdly beautiful and stately marriage chant, in which the people joined

in deeptoned guttural fervour, then the benediction, and the ceremony was over. Immediately there was a

movement toward the cellar, where Rosenblatt, assisted by a score of helpers, began to knock in the heads of

the beer kegs and to hand about tin cups of beer for the first drinking of the bride's health. Beautiful indeed,

in her husband's eyes and the eyes of all who beheld her, appeared Anka as she stood with Jacob in the

This first formal healthdrinking ceremony over, from within Paulina's house and from shacks roundabout,

women appeared with pots and pails, from which, without undue haste, but without undue delay, men filled

tin cups and tin pans with stews rich, luscious, and garlic flavoured. The feast was on; the Slav's hour of

rapture had come. From pot to keg and from keg to pot the happy crowd would continue to pass in alternating

moods of joy, until the acme of bliss would be attained when Jacob, leading forth and up and down his

lacedecked bride, would fling the proud challenge to one and all that his bride was the fairest and dearest of

Thus with full ceremonial, with abundance of good eating, and with multitudinous libations, Anka was wed.

The northbound train on the Northern Pacific Line was running away behind her time. A Dakota blizzard had

held her up for five hours, and there was little chance of making time against a heavy wind and a drifted rail.

The train was crowded with passengers, all impatient at the delay, as is usual with passengers. The most

restless, if not the most impatient, of those in the firstclass car was a foreignlooking gentleman, tall, dark,

and with military carriage. A grizzled moustache with ends waxed to a needle point and an imperial

accentuated his foreign military appearance. At every pause the train made at the little wayside stations, this

gentleman became visibly more impatient, pulling out his watch, consulting his time table, and cursing the

Occasionally he glanced out through the window across the white plain that stretched level to the horizon,

specked here and there by infrequent little black shacks and by huge stacks of straw half buried in snow.

Suddenly his attention was arrested by a trim line of small buildings cosily ensconced behind a plantation of

"What are those structures?" he enquired of his neighbour in careful book English, and with slightly foreign

"Yes, Russian," answered the stranger quickly. "That is Russian, surely," he continued, pointing eagerly to

"You bet! They make money where other folks would starve. They know what they're doing. They picked out

this land that everybody else was passing overthe very best in the countryand they are making money

hand over fist. Mighty poor spenders, though. They won't buy nothing; eat what they can't sell off the farm."

"Yes, they sell everything, grain, hogs, eggs, butter, and live on cabbages, cheese, bread."

"They are honest, though," continued his neighbour judicially; "we sell them implements."

"Ah, so, implements," said the stranger, evidently making a mental note of the word. "And they pay you?"

"No, what do we want soldiers for in this country? We want farmers and lots of them."

The stranger was apparently much struck with this remark. He pursued the subject with keen interest. If there

were no soldiers, how was order preserved? What happened in the case of riots? What about the collecting of

"Riots? There ain't no riots in this country. What would we riot for? We're too busy. And taxes? There ain't

"No, every man supports his own church or no church at all if he likes it better."

The foreigner was deeply impressed. What a country it was, to be sure! No soldiers, no riots, no taxes, and

churches only for those who wanted them! He made diligent enquiry as to the Mennonite settlements, where

they were placed, their size, the character of the people and all things pertaining to them. But when

questioned in regard to himself or his own affairs, he at once became reticent. He was a citizen of many

countries. He was travelling for pleasure and to gather knowledge. Yes, he might one day settle in the

country, but not now. He relapsed into silence, sitting with his head fallen forward upon his breast, and so sat

till the brakeman passing through shouted, "Winnipeg! All change!" Then he rose, thanked with stiff and

formal politeness his seatmate for his courtesy, put on his long overcoat lined with lambskin and adorned

with braid, placed his lambskin cap upon his head, and so stood looking more than ever like a military man.

The station platform at Winnipeg was the scene of uproar and confusion. Railway baggagemen and porters,

with warning cries, pushed their trucks through the crowd. Hotel runners shouted the rates and names of their

hotels. Express men and cab drivers vociferously solicited custom. Citizens, heedless of every one, pushed

their eager way through the crowd to welcome friends and relatives. It was a busy, bustling, confusing scene.

But the stranger stood unembarrassed, as if quite accustomed to move amid jostling crowds, casting quick,

Gradually the platform cleared. The hotel runners marched off in triumph with their victims, and express

drivers and cab men drove off with their fares, and only a scattering few were left behind. At one end of the

platform stood two men in sheepskin coats and caps. The stranger slowly moved toward them. As he drew

near, the men glanced at first carelessly, then more earnestly at him. For a few moments he stood gazing

down the street, then said, as if to himself, in the Russian tongue, "The wind blows from the north tonight."

"Fool!" said the stranger, drawing away his hand, and sweeping his sharp glance round the platform. "The

"Ha, ha," laughed the other man loudly, "in this country there is no hunting, brother."

"Fool!" said the stranger again in a low, stern voice. "Where game is, there is always hunting."

"There is no place for our brother in Paulina Koval's house," said the one who had spoken first. "Paulina has

"Well," replied the other, counting upon his fingers, "there is Paulina and her three children, and"

"No, three children. Yes, three." He paused in his enumeration as if struck by a belated thought. "It is three

Joseph confirmed his memory. "Yes, Simon, three; the girl, the boy and the baby."

"Rosenblatt!" The word shot from the stranger's lips with the vehemence of a bullet from a rifle. "Rosenblatt

in her house! Sssooo!" He thrust his face forward into the speaker's with a long hissing sound, so

fiercely venomous that the man fell back a pace. Quickly the stranger recovered himself. "Look you, brothers,

"My house," said the man named Joseph, "is yours, but there are six men with me."

Quickly the other took it up. "My poor house is small, two children, but if the Elder brother would accept?"

"I will accept, my friend," said the stranger. "You shall lose nothing by it." He took up the bag that he had

Northward across the railway tracks and up the street for two blocks, then westward they turned, toward the

open prairie. After walking some minutes, Simon pointed to a huddling group of shacks startlingly black

The stranger stood still, gazing at the little shacks, and letting his eye wander across the dazzling plain, tinted

now with crimson and with gold from the setting sun, to the horizon. Then pointing to the shacks he said,

"That is Canada. Yonder," sweeping his hand toward the plain, "is Siberia. But," turning suddenly upon the

"We are Canadians," answered Simon more slowly. "But here," laying his hand over his heart, "here is

The stranger turned a keen glance upon him. "I believe you," he said. "No Russian can forget his fatherland.

No Russian can forget his brother." His eyes were lit with a dreamy light, as he gazed far beyond the plain

As he opened the door a cloud of steaming odours rushed forth to meet them. The stranger drew back and

turned his face again to the horizon, drawing deep breaths of the crisp air, purified by its sweep of a thousand

"Ah," he said, "wonderful! wonderful! Yes, that is Russia, that air, that sky, that plain."

"Enter," he said, bowing low. "This is your house, brother; we are your slaves."

"No," said the stranger, quickly stretching out his hand. "No slaves in this land, thank God! but brothers all."

"Your brothers truly," said Simon, dropping on his knee and kissing the outstretched hand. "Lena," he called

to his wife, who stood modestly at the other side of the room, "this is the Elder of our Brotherhood."

"Come, Margaret," she cried, drawing her little girl of six toward the stranger, "come and salute the master."

Little Margaret came forward and offered her hand, looking up with brave shyness into the stranger's face.

"She does not understand how to salute," said her father with an apologetic smile.

"Aha, so," cried the stranger, looking curiously at the little girl. "Where did you learn to shake hands?"

"In school?" replied the stranger in the same language. "You go to school. What school?"

"Aha!" cried the stranger delighted. "You learn many things. And what do you pay for all this?" he said in

The father and mother stood struggling with their pride in their little girl. A sound of shouting and of singing

"A wedding," replied Simon. "There is a great wedding at Paulina's. Every one is there."

"Aha! He is master, and you are no friends of his," returned the stranger. "Tell me why this is so?"

"We are Russian, he is Bukowinian; he hires men to the railroad, we hire ourselves; he has a store, we buy in

"Yes," cried Joseph eagerly. "Such a feast! Such a load of beer! And such a dance!"

"It is a pity," said the stranger, "to miss it all. You fear this Rosenblatt," he continued, with a hardly

"Aha, but think of it," said the stranger, "the feasting and the dancing, and the beer! I would go to this

"We will take our brother," cried Joseph eagerly. "Our friends will welcome him."

"Not he," replied Simon. "He never gets drunk where there is a chance to gather a dollar."

"Yes, the feast is free, but there is always money going. There is betting and there is the music for the

dancing, which is Rosenblatt's. He has hired Arnud and his cymbal and the violins, and the dancers must

"Aha, very clever," replied the stranger. "This Rosenblatt is a shrewd man. He will be a great man in this city.

The eyes of both men gleamed at his jibes. "Aha," the stranger continued, "he will make you serve him by his

money. Canada is, indeed, a free country, but there will be master and slaves here, too."

It was a sore spot to the men, for the mastery of Rosenblatt was no imagination, but a grim reality. It was

with difficulty that any man could get a good job unless by Rosenblatt's agency. It was Rosenblatt who

contracted for the Galician labour. One might hate Rosenblatt, or despise him, but it was impossible to ignore

The men were eager to go. Why should Rosenblatt stand in their way? Were they not good friends of Jacob

and Anka? Was not every home in the colony open to a stranger, and especially a stranger of rank? Simon

There was no need of a guide to the house where the feasting was in progress. The shouting and singing of

the revellers hailed them from afar, and as they drew near, the crowd about the door indicated the house of

mirth. Joseph and Simon were welcomed with overflowing hospitality and mugs of beer. But when they

turned to introduce the stranger, they found that he had disappeared, nor could they discover him anywhere in

the crowd. In their search for him, they came upon Rosenblatt, who at once assailed them.

"Of course," cried a number of friendly voices. "And why not? That is quite right"

"Who speaks for Jacob Wassyl?" cried a voice. It was Jacob himself, standing in the door, wet with sweat,

flushed with dancing and exhilarated with the beer and with all the ardours of his wedding day. For that day

at least, Jacob owned the world. "What?" he cried, "is it my friend Simon Ketzel and my friend Joseph

"We were not invited to come to your wedding, Jacob Wassyl," replied Simon, "but we desired to honour

"Aye, and so you shall. You are welcome, Simon Ketzel. You are welcome, Joseph Pinkas. Who says you are

Rosenblatt hesitated, and then grunted out something that sounded like "Slovak swine!"

"Slovak!" cried Jacob with generous enthusiasm. "We are all Slovak. We are all Polak. We are all Galician.

"Come, brothers," shouted Jacob to Simon and Joseph, "come in. There is abundant eating. Make way for my

friends!" He crowded back through the door, taking especial delight in honouring the men despised of

The room was packed with steaming, swaying, roaring dancers, both men and women, all reeking with sweat

and garlic. Upon a platform in a corner between two violins, sat Arnud before his cymbal, resplendent in

frilled shirt and embroidered vest, thundering on his instrument the favourite songs of the dancers, shouting

now and then in unison with the melody that pattered out in metallic rain from the instrument before him. For

four hours and more, with intervals sufficient only to quench their thirst, the players had kept up their

interminable accompaniment to dance and song. It was clearly no place for hungry men. Jacob pushed his

"Have not eaten!" The startling statement quickened Paulina's slow movements almost to a run. "Here, here,"

Another struggle and Jacob with his guests were receiving through the window two basins filled with

As they turned away with their generous host, a man with a heavy black beard appeared at the window.

"Holy Virgin! Where have these hungry men been?" cried Paulina, hurrying with another basin to the

"I have been far away," he said, speaking now in the Russian tongue, in a low and tense voice.

"You know it is Michael Kalmar, your husband. Come forth. I wait behind yon hut. No word to any man."

He disappeared at once behind the neighbouring shack. Paulina, trembling so that her fingers could hardly pin

the shawl she put over her head, made her way through the crowd. A few moments she stood before her door,

as if uncertain which way to turn, her limbs trembling, her breath coming like sobs. In this plight Rosenblatt

One swift swoop she made at his face, bringing skin and hair on her nails. Rosenblatt turned, and crying,

"She is mad! She is mad!" made for the shelter of the cellar, followed by the shouts and jeers of the men

Raging, at the door Paulina sought entrance, crying, "I was a good woman. He made me bad." Then turning

away, she walked slowly to the back of her house and passed behind the neighbouring shack where the man

With dragging steps she approached, till within touch of him, when, falling down upon her knees in the snow,

She pointed towards the house of her neighbour, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "With a neighbour woman," she said, and

"Speak," he said in a voice low, calm and terrible. "Do you wish me to kill you where you stand?"

"Yes," she said, throwing her shawl over her face, "kill me! Kill me now! It will be good to die!"

With a curse, his hand went to his side. He stood looking at her quietly for a few moments as if deliberating.

"No," he said at length, "it is not worth while. You are no wife of mine. Do you hear?"

"Bah!" He spat on the snow. "Die, when I have done with you, perhaps. Take me where we can be alone.

He followed her to a shack which stood on the outskirts of the colony. She pushed open the door and stood

He struck a match. Paulina found a candle which he lit and placed on a box that stood in the corner.

She took a quilt from the bed and pinned it up. For a long time he stood motionless in the centre of the room,

"It is possible I shall kill you tonight, so speak truly to me in the name of God and of the Holy Virgin. I ask

you of my children. My girl is eleven years old. Have you protected her? Or is she like you?"

She pulled a little iron cross from her breast and kissed it, then looked up at him with dog's eyes of entreaty.

"Oh, my lord!" she began. "I could not save myself. I was a stranger. He took my money. We had no home."

"Liar again!" he hissed; "I sent you money every month. I have your receipts for it."

"I had no money from you," she said humbly. "He forced me to have men sleep in my house and in my room,

or lose my home. And the children, what could I do? They could not go out into the snow."

He was silent, looking down upon her. He began to realize the helplessness of her plight. In a strange land,

she found herself without friends, and charged with the support of two children. The money he had given her

she had invested in a house, through Rosenblatt, who insisted that payments were still due. No wonder he had

While his contempt remained, her husband's rage grew less. After a long silence he said, "Listen. This feast

"In two days my work here will be done. Then I go back. I must go back. My children! my children! what of

my children? My dead Olga's children!" He began to pace the room. He forgot the woman on the floor. "Oh,

fatherland! My fatherland!" he cried in a voice broken with passionate grief, "must I sacrifice these too for

thee? God in heaven! Father, mother, brother, home, wife, all I have given. Must I give my children, too?"

His strong dark face was working fiercely. His voice came harsh and broken. "No, no! By all the saints, no! I

will keep my children for Olga's sake. I will let my wretched country go. What matter to me? I will make a

new home in this free land and forget. Ah, God! Forget? I can never forget! These plains!" He tore aside the

quilt from the window and stooping looked out upon the prairie. "These plains say Russia! This gleaming

snow, Russia! Ah! Ah! Ah! I cannot forget, while I live, my people, my fatherland. I have suffered too much

to forget. God forget me, if I forget!" He fell on his knees before the window, dry sobs shaking his powerful

frame. He rose and began again to stride up and down, his hands locked before him. Suddenly he stood quite

still, making mighty efforts to regain command of himself. For some moments he stood thus rigid.

"Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands upon her breast and swaying backwards and forwards upon her knees, "I

"Rosenblatt!" cried the man with a fierce laugh. "After two days Rosenblatt will not be here."

"Oh, my lord! Let me kill him! It would be easy for me at night when he sleeps. But you they will take and

Breathlessly she pleaded, holding him by the feet. He spurned her with contempt.

"Peace, fool! He is for none other than me. It is an old score. Ah, yes," he continued between his teeth, "it is

an old score. It will be sweet to feel him slowly die with my fingers in his throat."

"Bah! They could not hold me in Siberia, and think you they can in this land? But the children," he mused.

"Rosenblatt away." With a sudden resolve he turned to the woman. "Woman," he said, in a voice stern and

She threw herself once more at his feet in a passion of entreaty. "Oh, my lord! Let me live for them, for

"For me?" he said coldly. "No. You have dishonoured my name. You are wife of mine no longer. Do you

"Yes, yes," she panted, "I hear. I know. I ask nothing for myself. But the children, your children. I would live

He turned from her and gazed through the window, pondering. That she would be faithful to the children he

well knew. That she would gladly die for him, he was equally certain. With Rosenblatt removed, the house

would be rid of the cause of her fall and her shame. There was no one else in this strange land to whom he

could trust his children. Should death or exile take him in his work and these were always his

companionshis children would be quite alone. Once more he turned and looked down upon the kneeling

woman. He had no love for her. He had never loved her. Simply as a matter of convenience he had married

her, that she might care for the children of his dead wife whom he had loved with undying and passionate

"Paulina," he said solemnly, but the contempt was gone from his voice, "you are henceforth no wife of mine;

Hitherto, during the whole interview, she had shed no tear, but at these words of his she flung her arms about

"Oh, my lord! My dear lord! Oh, my lord! my lord!" she sobbed, wildly kissing his very boots.

"Listen," he said. "I will send you money. You will require to take no man into your house for your support.

"There is one," she said, "but she does not love me. She will come no longer into my house. She thinks me a

"Aha," said the man, "I would see that woman. Tomorrow you will bring me to her. At dusk tomorrow I

"Oh, my lord!" she sobbed, "I have done wrong. Will you not beat me? Beat me till the blood runs down. He

was too strong for me. I was afraid for the children. I had no place to go. I did a great wrong. If my lord

It was the cry of justice making itself heard through her dull soul. It was the instinctive demand for

atonement. It was the unconscious appeal for reinstatement to the privileges of wifehood.

"Woman," he said sternly, "a man may beat his wife. He will not strike a woman that is nothing to him. Go."

Once more she clutched his feet, kissing them. Then she rose and without a word went out into the dusky

night. She had entered upon the rugged path of penitence, the only path to peace for the sinner.

After she had gone, the man stepped to the door and looked after her as if meditating her recall.

He put out the light, closed the door and passing through the crowd of revellers, went off to Simon's house.

The inside of Paulina's house was a wreck. The remains of benches and chairs and tables mingled with

fragments of vessels of different sorts strewn upon the filthlittered floor, the windows broken, the door

between the outer and inner rooms torn from its hinges, all this debris, together with the battered, bruised and

bloody human shapes lying amidst their filth, gave eloquent testimony to the tempestuous character of the

The scene that greeted Paulina's eyes in the early grey of the morning might well have struck a stouter heart

than hers with dismay; for her house had the look of having been swept by a tornado, and Paulina's heart was

anything but stout that morning. The sudden appearance of her husband had at first stricken her with horrible

fear, the fear of death; but this fear had passed into a more dreadful horror, that of repudiation.

Seven years ago, when Michael Kalmar had condescended to make her his wife, her whole soul had gone

forth to him in a passion of adoring love that had invested him in a halo of glory. He became her god

thenceforth to worship and to serve. Her infidelity meant no diminution of this passion. Withdrawn from her

husband's influence, left without any sign of his existence for two years or more, subjected to the

machinations of the subtle and unscrupulous Rosenblatt, the soul in her had died, the animal had lived and

triumphed. The sound of her husband's voice last night had summoned into vivid life her dead soul. Her god

had moved into the range of her vision, and immediately she was his again, soul and body. Hence her sudden

fury at Rosenblatt; hence, too, the utter selfabandonment in her appeal to her husband. But now he had cast

her off. The gates of Heaven, swinging open before her ravished eyes for a few brief moments, had closed to

her forever. Small wonder that she brought a heavy heart to the righting of her disordered home, and well for

Together they set themselves to clear away the filth and the wreckage, human and otherwise. Of the human

wreckage Anka made short work. Stepping out into the frosty air, she returned with a pail of snow.

"Here, you sluggards," she cried, bestowing generous handfuls upon their sodden faces, "up with you, and

Grunting, growling, cursing, the men rose, stretched themselves with prodigious yawning, and bundled out

"Get yourselves ready for dinner," cried Anka after them. "The best is yet to come, and then the dance."

Down into the cellar they went, stiff and sore and still growling, dipped their hands and heads into icy water,

and after a perfunctory toilet and a mug of beer or two all round, they were ready for a renewal of the

festivities. There was no breakfast, but as the day wore on, from the shacks about came women with

provisions for the renewal of the feast. For Anka, wise woman, had kept some of the more special dishes for

the second day. But as for the beer, though there were still some kegs left, they were few enough to give

Jacob Wassyl concern. It would be both a misfortune and a disgrace if the beer should fail before the

marriage feast was over. The case was serious enough. Jacob Wassyl's own money was spent, the guests had

all contributed their share, Rosenblatt would sooner surrender blood than money, and Jacob was not yet

It was through Simon Ketzel that deliverance came, or rather through Simon's guest, who, learning that the

beer was like to fail, passed Simon a bill, saying, "It would be sad if disgrace should come to your friends.

Let there be plenty of beer. Buy what is necessary and keep the rest in payment for my lodging. And of my

As a result, in the late afternoon a dray load of beer kegs appeared at Paulina's back door, to the unspeakable

relief of Jacob and of his guests as well, who had begun to share his anxiety and to look forward to an

As for Simon Ketzel, he found himself at once upon the very crest of a wave of popularity, for through the

driver of the dray it became known that it was Simon that had come so splendidly to the rescue.

Relieved of anxiety, the revellers gave themselves with fresh and reckless zest to the duty of assuring beyond

all shadow of doubt, the good health of the bride and the groom, and of every one in general in flowing mugs

of beer. Throughout the afternoon, men and women, and even boys and girls, ate and drank, danced and sang

As the evening darkened, and while this carouse was at its height, Paulina, with a shawl over her head,

slipped out of the house and through the crowd, and so on to the outskirts of the colony, where she found her

"Kalman! My boy! And where would he be?" exclaimed her husband with a shade of anxiety in his voice.

"He was with me in the house. I could not keep him from the men, and they will give him beer."

"Yes, they make him sing and dance, and they give him beer. He is wonderful," said Paulina.

Even as she spoke, a boy's voice rose clear and full in a Hungarian love song, to the wild accompaniment of

At the first sound of that high, clear voice, the bacchanalian shoutings and roarings fell silent, and the wild

weird song, throbbing with passion, rose and fell upon the still evening air. After each verse, the whole

chorus of deep, harsh voices swelled high over the wailing violins and Arnud's clanging cymbal.

"I shall bring him to yonder house," said Paulina, pointing to the dwelling of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, whither in a

few minutes she was seen half dragging, half carrying a boy of eight, who kept kicking and scratching

"Hush, Kalman," said Paulina in Galician, vainly trying to quiet the child. "The gentleman will be ashamed of

"I do not care for any gentleman," screamed Kalman. "He is a black devil," glancing at the black bearded man

"Hush, hush, you bad boy!" exclaimed Paulina, horrified, laying her hand over the boy's mouth.

The man turned his back upon them, pulled off his black beard, thrust it into his pocket, gave his mustaches a

quick turn and faced about upon them. This transformation froze the boy's fury into silence. He shrank back

"Kalman," said the man quietly, in the Russian language, "come to me. I am your father."

"Kalman," repeated his father, using the Galician speech, "come to me. I am your father."

The boy hesitated, looking fixedly at his father. But three years had wiped out the memory of that face.

"Come, you little Cossack," said his father, smiling at him. "Come, have you forgotten all your rides?"

The boy suddenly started, as if waking from sleep. The words evidently set the grey matter moving along old

brain tracks. He walked toward his father, took the hand outstretched to him, and kissed it again and again.

The man lifted the boy in his strong arms, kissed him again and again, then setting him down said to Paulina,

Paulina stepped forward and knocked at the door. Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered the knock and, seeing Paulina,

"Look," she cried, pointing to the man, who stood back in the shadow, "Irma fadder."

"Yer daughter, is it?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking sharply into the foreigner's face. "An' if she's yer

daughter it's yersilf that should ashamed av it fer the way ye've desarted the lot o' thim."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick scanned his face suspiciously, then called, "Irma darlin', come here an' tell me who this is.

A girl of between eleven and twelve, tall for her age, with pale face, two thick braids of yellow hair, and

wonderful eyes "burnin' brown," as Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, came to the door and looked out upon the man. For

"Irma! Child of my soul!" cried the man, in the Russian tongue, "do you not remember your father?" He

stepped from the shadow to where the light from the open door could fall upon his face and stood with arms

At once the girl's face changed, and with a cry, "It is my fadder!" she threw herself at him.

Her father caught her and held her fast, saying not a word, but covering her face with kisses.

"Come in, come in to the warm," cried the kindhearted Irish woman, wiping her eyes. "Come in out o' the

cold." And with eager hospitality she hurried the father and children into the house.

As they passed in, Paulina turned away. Before Mrs. Fitzpatrick shut the door, Irma caught her arm and

"It's Paulina," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her voice carrying the full measure of her contempt for the unhappy

"Thin she's not your wife at all?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her wrath rising at this discovery of further deception

He shrugged his shoulders. "She was once. I married her. She is wife no longer. Let her go."

"An' it's yersilf that ought to take shame to yersilf fer the way ye've treated her, an' so ye should!"

"Let her come in," whispered Irma, laying her hand again on Mrs. Fitzpatrick's arm.

"Sure she will," cried the Irish woman; "come in here, you poor, spiritless craythur."

Irma sprang down the steps, spoke a few hurried words in Galician. Poor Paulina hesitated, her eyes upon her

husband's face. He made a contemptuous motion with his hand as if calling a dog to heel. Immediately, like a

"Ye'll pardon me," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick to Kalmar, "fer not axin' ye in at the first; but indade, an' it's more

"They do not resemble me, you mean?" said the father. "No, they are the likeness of their mother." As he

spoke he pulled out a leather case, opened it and passed it to Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"Aw, will ye look at that now!" she cried, gazing at the beautiful miniature. "An' the purty face av her. Sure,

it's a rale queen she was, an' that's no lie. An' the girl is goin' to be the very spit av her. An' the bye, he's got

her blue eyes an' her bright hair. It's aisy seen where they git their looks," she added, glancing at him.

"Mind yer manners, now thin," growled Tim, who was very considerably impressed by the military carriage

"Yes, the children have the likeness of their mother," said the father in a voice soft and reminiscent. "It is in

"Me name, is it?" cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Mishtress Timothy Fitzpatrick, Monaghan that was, the Monaghans

o' Ballinghalereen, an owld family, poor as Job's turkey, but proud as the divil, an' wance the glory o' Mayo.

An' this," she added, indicating her spouse with a jerk of her thumb, "is Timothy Fitzpatrick, me husband, a

dacent man in his way. Timothy, where's yer manners? Shtand up an' do yer duty."

Tim struggled to his feet, embarrassed with the burden of Paulina's baby, and pulled his forelock.

"And my name," said the Russian, answering Timothy's salutation with a profound bow, "is Michael Kalmar,

"An' proud I am to see ye in me house," she said, answering his bow with a curtsey. "Tim, ye owl ye! Why

don't ye hand his honour a chair? Did ye niver git the air o' a gintleman before?"

It took some minutes to get the company settled, owing to the reluctance of the Russian to seat himself while

the lady was standing, and the equal reluctance of Mrs. Fitzpatrick to take her seat until she had comfortably

In courteous and carefully studied English, Kalmar told his need. His affairs called him to Europe. He might

be gone a year, perhaps more. He needed some one to care for his children. Paulina, though nothing to him

now, would be faithful in caring for them, as far as food, clothing and shelter were concerned. She would

dismiss her boarders. There had never been need of her taking boarders, but for the fraud of a wicked man. It

was at this point that he needed help. Would Mrs. Fitzpatrick permit him to send her money from time to time

which should be applied to the support of Paulina and the children. He would also pay her for her trouble.

At this Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had been listening impatiently for some moments, broke forth upon him.

"Ye can kape yer money," she cried wrathfully. "What sort av a man are ye, at all, at all, that ye sind yer

"An' what for," she continued wrathfully, "are ye lavin' thim now among a pack o' haythen? Look at that girl

now, what'll come to her in that bloody pack o' thieves an' blackguards, d'ye think? Howly Joseph! It's mesilf

that kapes wakin' benights to listen fer the screams av her. Why don't ye shtay like a man by yer childer an'

"An' what affairs have ye needin' ye more than yer childer? Tell me that, will ye?"

And truth to tell, Mrs. Fitzpatrick's indignation blazed forth not only on behalf of the children, but on behalf

"A heart!" cried the Russian, rising from his chair. "Madam, my heart is for my country. But you would not

"Yer counthry!" repeated Mrs. Fitzpatrick with scorn. "An' what counthry is that?"

"Yes, Russia," he cried, "my bloody country! You are correct. Red with the blood of my countrymen, the

blood of my kindred this hundred years and more." His voice was low but vibrant with passion. "You cannot

"Sit ye down, dear man, sit ye down! Shut yer clapper, Nora! Sure it's mesilf that knows a paythriot whin I

sees 'im. Tearanages! Give me yer hand, me boy. Sit ye down an' tell us about it. We're all the same kind

here. Niver fear for the woman, she's the worst o' the lot. Tell us, dear man. Be the light that shines! it's mesilf

The Russian gazed at the shining eyes of the little Irishman as if he had gone mad. Then, as if the light had

broken upon him, he cried, "Aha, you are of Ireland. You, too, are fighting the tyrant."

"Hooray, me boy!" shouted Tim, "an' it's the thrue word ye've shpoke, an' niver a lie in the skin av it.

Oireland foriver! Be the howly St. Patrick an' all the saints, I am wid ye an' agin ivery government that's iver

Timothy was undoubtedly excited. The traditions of a hundred years of fierce rebellion against the oppression

of the "bloody tyrant" were beating at his brain and in his heart. The Russian caught fire from him and

launched forth upon his tale. For a full hour, now sitting in his chair, now raging up and down the room, now

in a voice deep, calm and terrible, now broken and hoarse with sobs, he recounted deeds of blood and fire that

Timothy listened to the terrible story in an ecstasy of alternating joy and fury, according to the nature of the

episode related. It was like living again the glorious days of the moonlighters and the rackrenters in dear old

"Siberia! The Hivins be about us!" said Tim in an awed voice. "But ye got away?"

"Wud he!" said Nora, with ineffable scorn. "Wud a herrin' swim? By coorse he'll go back. An' what's more,

ye can sind the money to me an' I'll see that the childer gets the good av it, if I've to wring the neck av that

He stretched out his hand impulsively. She placed hers in it. He raised it to his lips, bending low as if it had

been the lily white hand of the fairest lady in the land, instead of the fat, rough, red hand of an old Irish

"Sure, it's mighty bad taste ye have," said Tim with a sly laugh. "It's not her hand I'd be kissin'."

"Bad luck to ye! Have ye no manners?" said Nora, jerking away her hand in confusion.

"I thank you with all my heart," said Kalmar, gravely bowing with his hand upon his heart. "And will you

"Listen to me now," cried Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Can she clear out thim men from her room?" nodding her head

She came forward and, taking his hand, kissed it, Mrs. Fitzpatrick looking on in disgust.

"Aye, but can she?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to whom her answer had been translated.

"I can kill them in the night," said Paulina, in a voice of quiet but concentrated passion.

"The saints in Hivin be above us! I belave her," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, with a new respect for Paulina. "But fer

the love o' Hivin, tell her there is no killin' in this counthry, an' more's the pity when ye see some men that's

"She will keep the children safe with her life," said Kalmar. "She had no money before, and she was told I

was dead. But it matters not. She is nothing to me. But she will keep my children with her life."

His trust in her, his contempt for her, awakened in Mrs. Fitzpatrick a kind of hostility toward him, and of pity

"Come an' take an air o' the fire, Paulina," she said not unkindly. "It's cold forninst the door."

Pauhina, while she understood not the words, caught the meaning of the gesture, but especially of the tone.

"I must now depart. I have still a little work to accomplish. Tomorrow I leave the city. Permit me now to bid

He turned to the girl, who held Paulina's baby asleep in her arms. "Irma," he said in Russian, "I am going to

The girl rose, placed the sleeping baby on the bed, and coming to her father's side, stood looking up into his

"I am going to leave you," he repeated in Russian. "In one year, if all is well, at most in two, I shall return.

You know I cannot stay with you, and you know why." He took the miniature from his pocket and opening it,

held it before her face. "Your mother gave her life for her country." For some moments he gazed upon the

beautiful face in the miniature. "She was a lady, and feared not death. Ah! ah! such a death!" He struggled

fiercely with his emotions. "She was willing to die. Should not I? You do not grudge that I should leave you,

that I should die, if need be?" An anxious, almost wistful tone crept into his voice.

"Aha!" cried her father, catching her to his breast, "I judged you rightly. You are her daughter, and you will

live worthy of her. Kalman, come hither. Irma, you will care for your brother. He is young. He is a boy. He

"Ha," cried the man, turning sharply upon her as if he had forgotten her existence. "Kalman, my son," he

"Good," replied the father in Galician. "Listen then. Never forget you are a Russian. This," putting the

miniature before him, "was your mother. She was a lady. For her country she gave up rank, wealth, home and

at last life. For her country, too, I go back again. When my work is done I shall return."

"You are not of these cattle," he said, pointing through the window. "Your mother was a lady. Be worthy of

The boy stood without word, without motion, without tear, his light blue eyes fixed upon his father's face, his

"Obey your sister, Kalman, and defend her. And listen, boy." His voice deepened into a harsh snarl, his

fingers sank into the boy's shoulder, but the boy winced not. "If any man does her wrong, you will kill him.

"Kill him," said the boy with fierce promptitude, speaking in the English tongue.

"Ha! yes," replied his father in English, "you bear your mother's face, her golden hair, her eyes of bluethey

are not so beautiful but you have your father's spirit. You would soon learn to kill in Russia, but in this

His mood swiftly changed. He paused, looking sadly at his children; then turning to Mrs. Fitzpatrick he said,

"They should go to the public school like Simon Ketzel's little girl. They speak not such good English as she.

He shook hands with Timothy, then with Mrs. Fitzpatrick, kissing her hand as well. He motioned his children

"Heart of my heart," he murmured in a broken voice, straining his daughter to his breast. "God, if God there

be, and all the saints, if saints there be, have you in their keeping. Kalman, my son," throwing one arm about

him, "Farewell! farewell!" He was fast losing control of himself. The stormy Slavic passions were threatening

to burst all restraint. "I give you to each other. But you will remember that it was not for my sake, but for

Russia's sake, I leave you. My heart, my heart belongs to you, but my heart's heart is not for me, nor for you,

By this time tears were streaming down his cheek. Sobs shook his powerful frame. Irma was clinging to him

in an abandonment of weeping. Kalman stood holding tight to his father, rigid, tearless, white. At length the

father tore away their hands and once more crying "Farewell!" made toward the door.

At this the boy broke forth in a loud cry, "Father! My father! Take me with you! I would not fear! I would not

fear to die. Take me to Russia!" The boy ran after his father and clutched him hard.

"Ah, my lad, you are your mother's son and mine. Some day you may go back. Who knows? Butno, no.

Canada is your country. Go back." The lad still clutched him. "Boy," said his father, steadying his voice with

great effort and speaking quietly, "with us, in our country, we learn first obedience."

"Good!" said the father. "You are my own son. You will yet be a man. And now farewell."

He kissed them again. The boy broke into passionate sobbing. Paulina came forward and, kneeling at the

But with never a look at her, the father strode to the door and passed out into the night.

"Be the howly prophet!" cried Tim, wiping his eyes, "it's harrd, it's harrd! An' it's the heart av a paythriot the

It was night in Winnipeg, a night of such radiant moonlight as is seen only in northern climates and in winter

time. During the early evening a light snow had fallen, not driving fiercely after the Manitoba manner, but

Under this fleecy mantle, shimmering with myriad gems, lay Winnipeg asleep. Up from five thousand

chimneys rose straight into the still frosty air five thousand columns of smoke, in token that, though frost was

king outside, the good folk of Winnipeg lay snug and warm in their virtuous beds. Everywhere the white

streets lay in silence except for the passing of a belated cab with creaking runners and jingling bells, and of a

sleighing party returning from Silver Heights, their fourhorse team smoking, their sleigh bells ringing out,

carrying with them hoarse laughter and hoarser songs, for the frosty air works mischief with the vocal chords,

All through Fort Rouge, lying among its snowladen trees, across the frostbound Assiniboine, all through

the Hudson's Bay Reserve, there was no sign of life, for it was long past midnight. Even Main Street, that

most splendid of all Canadian thoroughfares, lay white and spotless and, for the most part, in silence. Here

and there men in furs or in frieze coats with collars turned up high, their eyes peering through frostrimmed

eyelashes and over frost rimmed coat collars, paced comfortably along if in furs, or walked hurriedly if only

Near the northern limits of the city the signs of life were more in evidence. At the Canadian Pacific Railway

station an engine, hoary with frozen steam, puffed contentedly as if conscious of sufficient strength for the

duty that lay before it, waiting to hook on to Number Two, nine hours late, and whirl it eastward in full

Inside the station a railway porter or two drowsed on the benches. Behind the wicket where the telegraph

instruments kept up an incessant clicking, the agent and his assistant sat alert, coming forward now and then

to answer, with the unwearying courtesy which is part of their equipment and of their training, the oft

repeated question from impatient and sleepy travellers, "How is she now?" "An hour," "half an hour," finally

"fifteen minutes," then "any time now." At which cheering report the uninitiated brightened up and passed out

to listen for the rumble of the approaching train. The more experienced, however, settled down for another

It was a wearisome business, and to none more wearisome than to Interpreter Elex Murchuk, part of whose

duty it is to be in attendance on the arrival of all incoming trains in case that some pilgrim from Central and

Southern Europe might be in need of direction. For Murchuk, a little borderland Russian, boasts the gift of

tongues to an extraordinary degree. Russian, in which he was born, and French, and German, and Italian, of

course, he knows, but Polish, Ruthenian, and all varieties of Ukranian speech are alike known to him.

"I spik all European language good, jus' same Angleesh," was his testimony in regard to himself.

As the whistle of the approaching train was heard, Sergeant Cameron strolled into the station house, carrying

his six feet two and his two hundred pounds of bone and muscle with the light and easy movements of the

winner of many a Caledonian Society medal. Cameron, at one time a full private in the 78th Highlanders, is

now Sergeant in the Winnipeg City Police, and not ashamed of his job. Big, calm, goodtempered, devoted to

his duty, keen for the honour of the force as he had been for the honour of his regiment in other days,

Sergeant Cameron was known to all good citizens as an officer to be trusted and to all others as a man to be

Just at present he was finishing up his round of inspection. After the train had pulled in he would go on duty

as patrolman, in the place of Officer Donnelly, who was down with pneumonia. The Winnipeg Police Force

was woefully inadequate in point of strength, there being no spare men for emergencies, and hence Sergeant

Cameron found it necessary to do double duty that night, and he was prepared to do it without grumbling,

too. Long watches and weary marches were nothing new to him, and furthermore, tonight there was especial

reason why he was not unwilling to take a walk through the north end. Headquarters had been kept fully

informed of the progress of a wedding feast of more than ordinary hilarity in the foreign colony. This was the

second night, and on second nights the general joyousness of the festivities was more than likely to become

unduly exuberant. Indeed, the reports of the early evening had been somewhat disquieting, and hence,

Sergeant Cameron was rather pleased than not that Officer Donnelly's beat lay in the direction of the foreign

At length Number Two rolled in, a double header, one engine alive and one dead, but both swathed in snow

and frozen steam from cowcatcher to tender, the first puffing its proud triumph over the opposing elements,

the second silent, cold and lifeless like a warrior borne from the field of battle.

Thc passengers, weary and full of the mild excitement of their long struggle with storm and drift across half a

continent, emerged from their snowclad but very comfortable coaches and were eagerly taken in charge by

Sergeant Cameron waited till the crowd had gone, and then turning to Murchuk, he said, "You will be coming

"My frients!" repeated Murchuk with some indignation. "Not motch!" Murchuk was proud of his official

position as Dominion Government Interpreter. "But I will go wit' you. It is my way."

Away from the noise of the puffing engines and the creaking car wheels, the ears of Sergeant Cameron and

"Will you listen to that now?" said the Sergeant to his polyglot companion. "What do you think of that for a

civilised city? The Indians are not in it with that bunch," continued the Sergeant, who was diligently

endeavouring to shed his Highland accent and to take on the colloquialisms of the country.

From a house a block and a half away, a confused clamour rose up into the still night air.

"Oh, dat noting," cheerfully said the little Russian, shrugging his shoulders, "dey mak like dat when dey

"They do, eh? And how do you think their neighbours will be liking that sort of thing?"

The Sergeant stood still to analyse this confused clamour. Above the thumping and the singing of the dancers

"Suppose," agreed the Interpreter, "when Galician man get married, he want much joy. He get much beer,

"I will just be taking a walk round there," said the Sergeant. "These people have got to learn to get married

with less fuss about it. I am not going to stand this much longer. What do they want to fight for anyway?"

"Oh," replied Murchuk lightly, "Polak not like Slovak, Slovak not like Galician. Dey drink plenty beer, tink

"Come along with me," replied the Sergeant, and he squared his big shoulders and set off down the street

with the quick, light stride that suggested the springing step of his Highland ancestors on the heather hills of

Just as they arrived at the house of feasting, a cry, wild, weird and horrible, pierced through the uproar. The

"My God!" he cried in an undertone, clutching the Sergeant by the arm, "My God! Dat terrible!"

"You know not dat cry? No?" He was all trembling. "Dat cry I hear long ago in Russland. Russian man mak

"Go back and get Dr. Wright. He will be needed, sure. You know where he lives, second corner down on

Meantime, while respectable Winnipeg lay snugly asleep under snow covered roofs and smoking chimneys,

while belated revellers and travellers were making their way through white, silent streets and under avenues

of snowladen trees to homes where reigned love and peace and virtue, in the north end and in the foreign

colony the festivities in connection with Anka's wedding were drawing to a close in sordid drunken dance

In the main room dance and song reeled on in uproarious hilarity. In the basement below, foul and fetid, men

stood packed close, drinking while they could. It was for the foreigner an hour of rare opportunity. The beer

kegs stood open and there were plenty of tin mugs about. In the dim light of a smoky lantern, the swaying

crowd, here singing in maudlin chorus, there fighting savagely to pay off old scores or to avenge new insults,

In the farthest corner of the room, unmoved by all this din, about a table consisting of a plank laid across two

beer kegs, one empty, the other for the convenience of the players half full, sat four men deep in a game of

cards. Rosenblatt with a big Dalmatian sailor as partner, against a little Polak and a darkbearded man. This

man was apparently very drunk, as was evident by his reckless playing and his jibing, jeering manner. He was

losing money, but with perfect good cheer. Not so his partner, the Polak. Every loss made him more savage

and quarrelsome. With great difficulty Rosenblatt was able to keep the game going and preserve peace. The

singing, swaying, yelling, cursing crowd beside them also gave him concern, and over and again he would

shout, "Keep quiet, you fools. The police will be on us, and that will be the end of your beer, for they will put

"Yes," jeered the blackbearded man, who seemed to be set on making a row, "all fools, Russian fools, Polak

"Keep quiet!" cried Rosenblatt, rising to his feet, "the police will surely be here!"

"That is true," cried the blackbearded man, "keep them quiet or the police will herd them in like sheep, like

"Be quiet!" besought Rosenblatt again. He was at his wits' end. the police might at any time appear and that

would end what was for him a very profitable game, and besides might involve him in serious trouble. "Here

Between them they hoisted up a keg of beer on an empty cask, knocked in the head, and set them drinking

But the very devil of strife seemed to be in the blackbearded man. He gibed at the goodnatured Dalmatian,

setting the Polak at him, suggested crooked dealing, playing recklessly and losing his own and his partner's

money. At length the inevitable clash came. As the Dalmatian reached for a trick, the Polak cried out, "Hold!

"Liar! It is mine," said the Dalmatian, with perfect good temper, and held on to his cards.

"Liar yourself!" hissed the little Polak, thrusting his face toward the Dalmatian.

"Go away," said the Dalmatian. His huge open hand appeared to rest a moment on the Polak's grinning face,

With a face like a demon's, the Polak sprang at his big antagonist, an open knife in his hand, and jabbed him

in the arm. For a moment the big man sat looking at his assailant as if amazed at his audacity. Then as he saw

the blood running down his fingers he went mad, seized the Polak by the hair, lifted him clear out of his seat,

carrying the plank table with him, and thereupon taking him by the back of the neck, proceeded to shake him

At almost the same instant the blackbearded man leaped across the fallen table like a tiger, at Rosenblatt's

throat, and bore him down to the earthen floor in the dark corner. Sitting astride his chest, his knees on

Rosenblatt's arms, and gripping him by the throat, he held him voiceless and helpless. Soon his victim lay

still, looking up into his assailant's face in surprise, fear and rage unspeakable.

"Look," said the man. With his free hand he swept off the black beard which he stuffed into his pocket.

"No, no," said Kalmar, shutting his fingers upon his windpipe. "No noise. We are to have a quiet moment

here. They are all too busy to notice us. Listen." He leaned far down over the ghastly face of the wretched

man beneath him. "Shall I tell you why I am here? Shall I remind you of your crimes? No, I need not. You

remember them well, and in a few minutes you will be in hell for them. Five years I froze and burned in

Siberia, through you." As he said the word "you" he leaned a little closer. His voice remained low and soft,

but his eyes were blazing with a light as of madness. "For this moment," he continued gently, "I have

hungered, thirsted, panted. Now it has come. I regret I must hurry a little. I should like to drink this sweet cup

slowly, oh so slowly, drop by drop. Butah, do not struggle, nor cry. It will only add to your pain. Do you

see this?" He drew from his pocket what seemed a knife handle, pressed a spring, and from this handle there

shot out a blade, long, thin, murderous looking. "It has a sharp point, oh, a very sharp point." He pricked

Rosenblatt in the cheek, and as Rosenblatt squirmed, laughed a laugh of singular sweetness. "With this

beautiful instrument I mean to pick out your eyes, and then I shall drive it down through your heart, and you

will be dead. It will not hurt so very much," he continued in a tone of regret. "No no, not so very much; not so

much as when you put out the light of my life, when you murdered my wife; not so much as when you

pierced my heart in betraying my cause. See, it will not hurt so very much." He put the sharp blade against

Rosenblatt's breast high up above the heart, and drove it slowly down through the soft flesh till he came to

bone. Like a mad thing, his unhappy victim threw himself wildly about in a furious struggle. But he was like

a babe in the hands that gripped him. Kalmar laughed gleefully. "Aha! Aha! Good! Good! You give me much

joy. Alas! it is so short lived, and I must hurry. Now for your right eye. Or would you prefer the left first?"

As he released the pressure upon Rosenblatt's throat, the wretched man gurgled forth, "Mercy! Mercy! God's

Piteous abject terror showed in his staring eyes. His voice was to Kalmar like blood to a tiger.

"Mercy!" he hissed, thrusting his face still nearer, his smile now all gone. "Mercy? God's name! Hear him! I,

too, cried for mercy for father, brother, wife, but found none. Now though God Himself should plead, you

will have only such mercy from me." He seemed to lose hold of himself. His breath came in thick sharp sobs,

foam fell from his lips. "Ha," he gasped. "I cannot wait even to pick your eyes. There is some one at the door.

I must drink your heart's blood now! Now! Ahhh!" His voice rose in a wild cry, weird and terrible. He

raised his knife high, but as it fell the Dalmatian, who had been amusing himself battering the Polak about

during these moments, suddenly heaved the little man at Kalmar, and knocked him into the corner. The knife

There was no time to strike again. There was a loud battering, then a crash as the door was kicked open.

It was Sergeant Cameron, pushing his big body through the crowd as a man bursts through a thicket. An awed

silence had fallen upon all, arrested, sobered by that weird cry. Some of them knew that cry of old. They had

heard it in the Old Land in circumstances of heartchilling terror, but never in this land till this moment.

"What is all this?" cried the Sergeant again. His glance swept the room and rested upon the huddled heap of

men in the furthest corner. He seized the topmost and hauled him roughly from the heap.

From a wound in the neck the blood was still spouting. Quickly the Sergeant was on his knees beside the

wounded man, his thumb pressed hard upon the gaping wound. But still the blood continued to bubble up and

squirt from under his thumb. All around, the earthen floor was muddy with blood.

"Run, some of you," commanded the Sergeant, "and hurry up that Dr. Wright, Main Street, two corners

Jacob Wassyl, who had come in from the room above, understood, and sent a man off with all speed.

"Good Lord! What a pig sticking!" said the Sergeant. "There is a barrel of blood around here. And here is

another man! Here you!" addressing Jacob, "put your thumb here and press so. It is not much good, but we

cannot do anything else just now." The Sergeant straightened himself up. Evidently this was no ordinary

"scrap." "Let no man leave this room," he cried aloud. "Tell them," he said, addressing Jacob, "you speak

English; and two of you, you and you, stand by the door and let no man out except as I give the word."

"Now then, let us see what else there is here. Do you know these men?" he enquired of Jacob.

"Him Polak. Kravicz his name. He no bad man. He fight quick, but not a bad man."

A second man lay on his back in a pool of blood, insensible. His face showed ghastly beneath its horrible

"Looks like it," said the Sergeant, opening his coat. "He's got a bad hole in him here," he continued, pointing

"Let him in," cried the Sergeant, "it is the doctor. Hello, Doctor! Here is something for you all right."

The doctor, a tall, athletic young fellow with a keen, intellectual face, pushed his way through the crowd to

"Why, the man is dead!" said the doctor, putting his hand over the Polak's heart.

Even as he spoke, a shudder passed through the man's frame, and he lay still. The doctor examined the hole in

"Well, here is another, Doctor, who will be dead in a few minutes, if I am not mistaken," said the Sergeant.

"Let me see," said the doctor, turning to Rosenblatt. "Heavens above!" he cried, as his knees sank in the

He passed round the other side of the unconscious man, got out his syringe and gave him a hypodermic. In a

few minutes Rosenblatt showed signs of life. He began to breathe heavily, then to cough and spit mouthfuls

"Ha, lung, I guess," said the doctor, examining a small clean wound high up in the left breast. "Better send for

an ambulance, Sergeant, and hurry them up. The sooner we get him to the hospital, the better. And here is

Beyond Rosenblatt lay a blackbearded man upon his face, breathing heavily. The doctor turned him over.

"He's alive anyway, and," after examination, "I can't find any wound. Heart all right, nothing wrong with him,

A cursory examination of the crowd revealed wounds in plenty, but nothing serious enough to demand the

"Now then," said the Sergeant briskly, "I want to get your names and addresses. You can let me have them?"

"It would be difficult, I am thinking, for any one to tell where he lives now," said the Sergeant grimly, "and it

"What?" said the Sergeant, glancing at him, "well, it is too bad, that is true. But they are a bad lot, these

"Poor chap," continued the doctor, looking down upon him, "perhaps he has got a wife and children."

"Thank goodness for that!" said the doctor. "These fellows are a bit rough," he continued, "but they have

never had a chance, nor even half a chance. A beastly tyrannical government at home has put the fear of

death on them for this world, and an ignorant and superstitious Church has kept them in fear of purgatory and

hell fire for the next. They have never had a chance in their own land, and so far, they have got no better

chance here, except that they do not live in the fear of Siberia." The doctor had his own views upon the

"That is all right, Doctor," said the Sergeant, despite the Calvinism of generations beating in his heart, "it is

hard on them, but there is nobody compelling them here to drink and fight like a lot of brutes."

"Come on," said the Sergeant, "who is this?" pointing to the dark bearded man lying in the corner.

"No one know him. He drink much beer. He very drunk. He play cards wit' Rosenblatt," said Jacob.

"Playing cards, eh? I think we will be finding something now. Who else was in the card game?"

Half a dozen voices rose in explanation, and half a dozen hands eagerly pointed out the big Dalmatian, who

Instead of responding, with one bound the Dalmatian was at the door, and hurled the two men aside as if they

were wooden pegs. But before he could tear open the door, the Sergeant was on him. At once the Dalmatian

grappled with him in a fierce struggle. There was a quick angry growl from the crowd. They all felt

themselves to be in an awkward position. Once out of the room, it would be difficult for any police officer to

associate them in any way with the crime. The odds were forty to one. Why not make a break for liberty? A

"Get back there!" roared the Sergeant, swinging his baton and holding off his man with the other hand.

At the same instant the doctor, springing up from his patient, and taking in the situation, put down his head

and bored through the crowd in the manner which at one time had been the admiration and envy of his

fellowstudents in Manitoba College, till he found himself side by side with the Sergeant.

"Well done!" cried the Sergeant, in cheerful approval, "you are the lad! We will just be teaching these chaps a

fery good lesson, whateffer," continued the Sergeant, lapsing in his excitement into his native dialect. "Here

you," he cried to the big Dalmatian who was struggling and kicking in a frenzy of fear and rage, "will you not

keep quiet? Take that then." And he laid no gentle tap with his baton across the head of his captive.

The Dalmatian staggered to the wall and collapsed. There was a flash of steel and a click, and he lay

"I hate to do that," said the Sergeant apologetically, "but on this occasion it cannot be helped. That was a

good one, Doctor," he continued, as the doctor planted his left upon an opposing Galician chin, thereby

causing a sudden subsidence of its owner. "These men have not got used to us yet, and we will just have to be

patient with them," said the Sergeant, laying about with his baton as opportunity offered, not in any slashing

wholesale manner, but making selection, and delivering his blows with the eye and hand of an artist. He was

handling the situation gently and with discretion. Still the crowd kept pressing hard upon the two men at the

"We must put a stop to this," said the Sergeant seriously. "Here you!" he called to Jacob above the uproar.

"Tell these fellows that I am not wanting to hurt any of them, but if they do not get quiet soon, I will attack

them and will not spare them, and that if they quit their fighting, none of them will be hurt except the guilty

At once Jacob sprang upon a beer keg and waving his arms wildly, he secured a partial silence, and translated

"And tell them, too," said the doctor in a high, clear voice, "there is a man dying over there that I have got to

As he spoke, he once more bored his way through the crowd to the side of Rosenblatt, who was continuing to

gasp painfully and spit blood. The moment of danger was past. The excited crowd settled down again into an

"Now then," said the Sergeant, turning to the Dalmatian who had recovered consciousness and was standing

sullen and passive. He had made his attempt for liberty, he had failed, and now he was ready to accept his

"Dis man say he no hurt no man. Dis man," pointing to the dead Polak, "play cards, fight, stab knife into his

arm," said Jacob, pulling up the Dalmatian's coat sleeve to show an ugly gash in the forearm. "Jarema bit him

"Well, we shall see about that," said the Sergeant. "Now where is that other man?" He turned toward the

corner. The corner was empty. "Where has he gone?" said the Sergeant, peering through the crowd for a

The man was nowhere to be seen. The Sergeant was puzzled and angered. He lined the men up around the

walls, but the man was not to be found. As each man uttered his name, there were always some to recognize

and to corroborate the information. One man alone seemed a stranger to all in the company. He was clean

shaven, but for a moustache with ends turned up in military manner, and with an appearance of higher

"His name, Rudolph Polkoff, Polak man. Stranger, come to dis town soon. Know no man here. Some man

"Well, he looks like a smart one. Come here," he said, beckoning the stranger forward into the better light.

The man stared blankly. Jacob interpreted. He hesitated a moment, then held up his hands above his head.

"You will not be having any weepons on you?" said the Sergeant, searching his pockets. "Hello! What's

The same instant there was a gasping cry from Rosenblatt. All turned in his direction. Into his dim eyes and

pallid face suddenly sprang life; fear and hate struggling to find expression in the look he fixed upon the

stranger. With a tremendous effort he raised his hand, and pointing to the stranger with a long, dirty finger, he

Even as he spoke there was a quick movement. The lantern was dashed to the ground, the room plunged into

darkness and before the Sergeant knew what had happened, the stranger had shaken himself free from his

With a mighty oath, the Sergeant was after him, but the darkness and the crowd interfered with his progress,

and by the time he had reached the door, the man had completely vanished. At the door stood Murchuk with

"Stop him!" replied the astonished Murchuk, "would you stop a mad crazy bull? No, no, not me."

"Get that man inside to the hospital then. He won't hurt you," exclaimed the Sergeant in wrathful contempt.

It was an unspeakable humiliation to the Sergeant, but with such vigour did he act, that before the morning

dawned, he had every exit from the city by rail and by trail under surveillance, and before a week was past,

by adopting the very simple policy of arresting every foreigner who attempted to leave the town, he had

It was a notable arrest. From all the evidence, it seemed that the prisoner was a most dangerous criminal. The

principal source of evidence, however, was Rosenblatt, whose deposition was taken down by the Sergeant

The man, it appeared, was known by many names, Koval, Kolowski, Polkoff and others, but his real name

was Michael Kalmar. He was a determined and desperate Nihilist, was wanted for many crimes by the

Russian police, and had spent some years as a convict in Siberia where, if justice had its due, he would be at

the present time. He had cast off his wife and children, whom he had shipped to Canada. Incidentally it came

out that it was only Rosenblatt's generosity that had intervened between them and starvation. Balked in one of

his desperate Nihilist schemes by Rosenblatt, who held a position of trust under the Russian Government, he

had sworn vengeance, and escaping from Siberia, he had come to Canada to make good his oath. And but for

Meantime, Sergeant Cameron was receiving congratulations on all hands for his cleverness in making the

arrest of a man who had escaped the vigilance of the Russian Police and Secret Service, said to be the finest

in all Europe. In his cell, the man, as good as condemned, waited his trial, a stranger far from help and

kindred, an object of terror and of horror to many, of compassion to a few. But however men thought of him,

he had sinned against British civilisation, and would now have to taste of British justice.

The two months preceding the trial were months of restless agony to the prisoner, Kalmar. Day and night he

paced his cell like a tiger in a cage, taking little food and sleeping only when overcome with exhaustion. It

was not the confinement that fretted him. The Winnipeg jail, with all its defects and limitations, was a palace

to some that he had known. It was not the fear of the issue to his trial that drove sleep and hunger from him.

Death, exile, imprisonment, had been too long at his heels to be strangers to him or to cause him fear. In his

heart a fire burned. Rosenblatt still lived, and vengeance had halted in its pursuit.

But deep as was the passion in his heart for vengeance, that for his country and his cause burned deeper. He

had been able to establish lines of communication between his fatherland and the new world by means of

which the oppressed, the hunted, might reach freedom and safety. The final touches to his plans were still to

be given. Furthermore, it was necessary that he should make his report in person, else much of his labour

Every day Paulina called at the jail and waited long hours with uncomplaining patience in the winter cold, till

she could be admitted. Her husband showed no sign of interest, much less of gratitude. One question alone,

"They may not see me here," he would reply, after which she would turn away, her dull face full of patient

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "He is my son indeed. But," he added gloomily," of what use now?"

Others sought admission,visitors from the Jail Mission, philanthropic ladies, a priest from St. Boniface, a

Methodist minister,but all were alike denied. Simon Ketzel he sent for, and with him held long converse,

with the result that he was able to secure for his defence the services of O'Hara, the leading criminal lawyer

of Western Canada. There appeared to be no lack of money, and all that money could do was done.

The case began to excite considerable interest, not only in the city, but throughout the whole country. Public

opinion was strongly against the prisoner. Never in the history of the new country had a crime been

committed of such horrible and bloodthirsty deliberation. It is true that this opinion was based largely upon

Rosenblatt's deposition, taken by Sergeant Cameron and Dr. Wright when he was supposed to be in extremis,

and upon various newspaper interviews with him that appeared from time to time. The Morning News in a

trenchant leader pointed out the danger to which Western Canada was exposed from the presence of these

semibarbarous peoples from Central and Southern Europe, and expressed the hope that the authorities would

deal with the present case in such a manner as would give a severe but necessary lesson to the lawless among

There was, indeed, from the first, no hope of acquittal. Staunton, who was acting for the Crown, was

convinced that the prisoner would receive the maximum sentence allowed by law. And even O'Hara

acknowledged privately to his solicitor that the best he could hope for was a life sentence. "And, by gad! he

ought to get it! It is the most damnable case of bloody murder that I have come across in all my practice!" But

In his hunt for evidence Mr. O'Hara had come upon his fellow countrywoman in the foreign colony. At first

from sheer delight in her rich brogue and her shrewd native wit, and afterward from the conviction that her

testimony might be turned to good account on behalf of his client, Mr. O'Hara diligently cultivated Mrs.

Fitzpatrick's acquaintance. It helped their mutual admiration and their friendship not a little to discover their

common devotion to "the cause o' the paythriot in dear owld Ireland," and their mutual interest in the prisoner

Immediately upon his discovery of the rich possibilities in Mrs. Fitzpatrick Mr. O'Hara got himself invited to

drink a "cup o' tay," which, being made in the little black teapot brought all the way from Ireland, he

pronounced to be the finest he had had since coming to Canada fifteen years ago. Indeed, he declared that he

had serious doubts as to the possibilities of producing on this side of the water and by people of this country

just such tea as he had been accustomed to drink in the dear old land. It was over this cup of tea, and as he

drew from Mrs. Fitzpatrick the description of the scene between the Nihilist and his children, that Mr. O'Hara

came to realise the vast productivity of the mine he had uncovered. He determined that Mrs. Fitzpatrick

"We'll bate that divil yet!" he exclaimed to his newfound friend, his brogue taking a richer flavour from his

environment. "They would be having the life of the poor man for letting a little of the black blood out of the

black heart of that traitor and blackguard, and may the divil fly away with him! But we'll bate them yet, and

it's yersilf is the one to do it!" he exclaimed in growing excitement and admiration.

"Sure, what would I do or say in the face av His 'Anner an' the joorymin, with niver a word on the tongue av

"And would you let the poor man go to his death?" cried O'Hara, proceeding to draw a lurid picture of the

deadly machinations of the lawyer for the Crown, Rosenblatt and their associates against this unfortunate

patriot who, for love of his country and for the honour of his name, had sought to wreak a wellmerited

Under his vehement eloquence Mrs. Fitzpatrick's Celtic nature kindled into flame. She would go to the court,

and in the face of Judge and jury and all the rest of them, she would tell them the kind of man they were

about to do to death. Over and over again O'Hara had her repeat her story, emphasising with adjurations,

oaths and even tears, those passages that his experience told him would be most effective for his purpose, till

During the trial the court room was crowded, not only with the ordinary morbid sensation seekers, but with

some of Winnipeg's most respectable citizens. In one corner of the court room there was grouped day after

day a small company of foreigners. Every man of Russian blood in the city who could attend, was there. It

was against the prisoner's will and desire, but in accordance with O'Hara's plan of defence that Paulina and

the children should be present at every session of the court. The proceedings were conducted through an

interpreter where it was necessary, Kalmar pleading ignorance of the niceties of the English language.

The prisoner was arraigned on the double charge of attempted murder in the case of Rosenblatt, and of

manslaughter in that of the dead Polak. The evidence of Dr. Wright and of Sergeant Cameron, corroborated

by that of many eyewitnesses, established beyond a doubt that the wound in Rosenblatt's breast and in the

dead Polak's neck was done by the same instrument, and that instrument the spring knife discovered in the

Kalmar, arrayed in his false black beard, was identified by the Dalmatian and by others as the Polak's partner

in the fatal game of cards. Staunton had little difficulty in establishing the identity of the blackbearded man

who had appeared here and there during the wedding festivities with Kalmar himself. From the stupid Paulina

he skilfully drew evidence substantiating this fact, and though this evidence was ruled out on the ground that

The most damaging testimony was, of course, that offered by Rosenblatt himself, and this evidence Staunton

was clever enough to use with dramatic effect. Pale, wasted, and still weak, Rosenblatt told his story to the

court in a manner that held the crowd breathless with horror. Never had such a tale been told to Canadian

ears. The only man unmoved was the prisoner. Throughout the narrative he maintained an attitude of bored

It was not in vain, however, that O'Hara sought to weaken the effect of Rosenblatt's testimony by turning the

light upon some shady spots in his career. In his ruthless "sweating" of the witness, the lawyer forced the

admission that he had once been the friend of the prisoner; that he had been the unsuccessful suitor of the

prisoner's first wife; that he had been a member of the same Secret Society in Russia; that he had joined the

Secret Service of the Russian Government and had given evidence leading to the breaking up of that Society;

that he had furnished the information that led to the prisoner's transportation to Siberia. At this point O'Hara

"You think!" shouted the lawyer. "You know, don't you? You bought it for her. You made the first payment

"And since that time you have cashed money orders for her that have come month by month?"

"Tell the truth!" shouted O'Hara again; "a lie here can be easily traced. I have the evidence. Did you not cash

"Be careful. Let me remind you that there is a law against perjury. I give you another chance. Did you not

receive certain money to make payments on this house?" O'Hara spoke with terrible and deliberate emphasis.

"Would you be surprised to know, as I now tell the court, that since the first payment, made soon after the

"Tell me the truth. Who lets the rooms in this house, and who is responsible for the domestic arrangements of

"Then you are responsible for the conditions under which Paulina Koval has been forced to live during these

He could easily have made more out of his sweating process had not the prisoner resolutely forbidden any

reference to Rosenblatt's treatment of and relation to the unfortunate Paulina or the domestic arrangements

that he had introduced into that unfortunate woman's household. Kalmar was rigid in his determination that

With the testimony of each succeeding witness the cloud overhanging the prisoner grew steadily blacker. The

first ray of light came from an unexpected quarter. It was during the examination of Mrs. Fitzpatrick that

O'Hara got his first opening. It was a master stroke of strategy on his part that Mrs. Fitzpatrick was made to

appear as a witness for the Crown, for the purpose of establishing the deplorable and culpable indifference to

Day after day Mrs. Fitzpatrick had appeared in the court, following the evidence with rising wrath against the

Crown, its witnesses, and all the machinery of prosecution. All unwitting of this surging tide of indignation in

the heart of his witness the Crown Counsel summoned her to the stand. Mr. Staunton's manner was

"Me name is it?" replied the witness. "An' don't ye know me name as well as I do mesilf?"

Mr. Staunton smiled pleasantly. "But the court desires to share that privilege with me, so perhaps you will be

"If the court wants me name let the court ask it. An' if you want to tell the court me name ye can plaze yersilf,

fer it's little I think av a man that'll sit in me house by the hour forninst mesilf an' me husband there, and then

"Why, my dear Madam," said the lawyer soothingly, "it is a mere matter of form that you should tell the court

"A matter o' form, is it? Indade, an' it's mighty poor form it is, if ye ask my opinion, which ye don't, an' it's

"Come, come," he said, "what is your name? I suppose you are not ashamed of it?"

"Ashamed av it, Yer 'Anner!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, with an elaborate bow to the judge, "ashamed av it!

"It is, Yer 'Anner. Mistress Timothy Fitzpatrick, Monaghan that was, the Monaghans o' Ballinghalereen,

"Mrs. Timothy Fitzpatrick," said the judge, with the suspicion of a smile, writing the name down. "And your

"Me Christian name is it? Ah, thin, Judge dear, wud ye be wantin' that too?" smiling at him in quite a

coquettish manner. "Sure, if ye had had the good taste an' good fortune to be born in the County Mayo ye

"Well, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," said the counsel for the Crown, "will you kindly look at the prisoner?"

Mrs. Fitzpatrick turned square about and let her eyes rest upon the prisoner's pale face.

"I will that," said she, "an' there's many another I'd like to see in his place."

"I do that. An' a finer gintleman I niver saw, savin' Yer 'Anner's prisence," bowing to the judge.

"Ah," said the lawyer with a most courteous bow, "that is a most excellent test. And what do you know of

"An' don't I know how he trates mesilf? He's not wan to fergit a lady's name, you may lay to that."

"I do," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with great emphasis. "A gintleman, a rale gintleman, is the same to a lady

"Mrs. Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Staunton, "you have evidently a most excellent taste in gentlemen."

"I have that same," she replied. "An' I know thim that are no gintlemen," she continued with meaning

"Now, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," proceeded Mr. Staunton, taking a firmer tone, "you say the prisoner is a gentleman."

"But, my good woman, I don't say so. Do you know his wife, or do you not know his wife?"

"What do you mean?" said Mr. Staunton impatiently. "Do you mean that you have no acquaintance with the

"Aw now," remonstrated Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "sure, ye wouldn't be askin' a poor woman like me the manin' av a

"Now, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, let us get done with this fooling. Tell me whether you know the prisoner's wife or

"Well, then, tell me. You either know the prisoner's wife or you don't know her?"

"Then tell me," thundered Staunton, losing all patience, "do you know this woman or not?" pointing to

"That woman is it?" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "An' why didn't ye save yer breath an' His 'Anner's time, not to

shpake av me own that has to work fer me daily bread, by askin' me long ago if I know this woman?"

"Then why did you not say so before when I asked you?" said the exasperated lawyer.

By this time the whole audience, including the judge, were indulging themselves in a wide open smile.

"Well, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," at length said the lawyer, "I must be decidedly stupid, for I fail to understand you."

"Indade, I'll not be contradictin' ye, fer it's yersilf ought to know best about that," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick

"Silence in the court! We must have order," said the judge, recovering his gravity with such celerity as he

"Oh, come now, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, we are not splitting hairs. You know perfectly well that this woman is the

"Indade, an' it's the cliver man ye are to know what I know better than I know mesilf."

"Well, well," said Mr. Staunton impatiently, "will you say that you do not consider this woman the prisoner's

"I will not," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick emphatically, "any more than I won't say she's yer own."

"Well, well, let us get on. Let us suppose that this woman is his wife. How did the prisoner treat this

"Well now, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, surely you will say that it was a case of cruel neglect on the part of the prisoner

that he should leave her to care for herself and her children, a stranger in a strange land."

"Indade, it's not fer me to be runnin' down the counthry," exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Sure, it's a good land,

an' a foine counthry it is to make a livin' in," she continued with a glow of enthusiasm, "an' it's mesilf that

"Oh, the country is all right," said Mr. Staunton impatiently; "but did not this man abandon his wife?"

"Well, well, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, we will leave the wife alone. But what of his treatment of the children?"

"The childer?" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "the childer, is it? Man dear, but he's the thrue gintleman an' the

"Oh, indeed, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I am sure we shall all be delighted to hear this. But you certainly have strange

views of a father's duty toward his children. Now will you tell the court upon what ground you would extol

"Faix, it's niver a word I've said about his parental virtues, or any other kind o' virtues. I was talkin' about his

"Well, then, perhaps you would be kind enough to tell the court what reason you have for approving his

Mrs. Fitzpatrick's opportunity had arrived. She heaved a great sigh, and with some deliberation began.

"Och! thin, an' it's just terrible heartrendin' an' so it is. An' it's mesilf that can shpake, havin' tin av me own,

forby three that's dead an' gone, God rest their sowls! an' four that's married, an' the rest all doin' well fer

thimsilves. Indade, it's mesilf that has the harrt fer the childer. You will be havin' childer av yer own," she

A shout of laughter filled the court room, for Staunton was a confirmed and notorious old bachelor.

"I have the bad fortune, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, to be a bachelor," he replied, red to the ears.

The laughter that followed could with difficulty be suppressed by the court crier.

"Go on, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, go on with your tale," said Staunton, who had frankly joined in the laugh against

"I will that," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with emphasis. "Where was I? The man an' his childer. Sure, I'll tell Yer

'Anner." Here she turned to the judge. "Fer he," with a jerk of her thumb towards the lawyer, "knows nothin'

about the business at all, at all. It was wan night he came to me house askin' to see his childer. The night o'

the dance, Yer 'Anner. As I was sayin', he came to me house where the childer was, askin' to see thim, an' him

without a look o' thim fer years. An' did they know him?" Mrs. Fitzpatrick's voice took a tragic tone. "Not a

hair av thim. Not at the first. Ah, but it was the harrtrendin' scene, with not a house nor a home fer him to

come till, an' him sendin' the money ivery month to pay fer it. But where it's gone, it's not fer me to say.

There's some in this room" (here she regarded Rosenblatt with a steady eye), "might know more about that

money an' what happened till it, than they know about Hivin. Ah, but as I was sayin', it wud melt the harrt av

a Kerry steer, that's first cousin to the goats on the hills fer wildness, to see the way he tuk thim an' held thim,

an' wailed over thim, the tinder harrt av him! Fer only wan small hour or two could he shtay wid thim, an'

then aff to that haythen counthry agin that gave him birth. An' the way he suffered fer that same, poor dear!

An' the beautiful wife he lost! Hivin be kind to her! Not her," following the judge's glance toward Paulina,

"but an angel that need niver feel shame to shtand befure the blissid Payther himsilf, wid the blue eyes an' the

golden hair in the picter he carries nixt his harrt, the saints have pity on him! An' how he suffered fer the

good cause! Och hone! it breaks me harrt!" Here Mrs. Fitzpatrick paused to wipe away her tears.

"But, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," interrupted Mr. Staunton, "this is all very fine, but what has this to do"

"Tut! man, isn't it that same I'm tellin' ye?" And on she went, going back to the scene she had witnessed in

her own room between Kalmar and his children, and describing the various dramatis personae and the

torrential emotions that had swept their hearts in that scene of final parting between father and children.

Again and again Staunton sought to stay her eloquence, but with a majestic wave of her hand she swept him

aside, and with a wealth of metaphor and an unbroken flow of passionate, tearbedewed rhetoric that

Staunton himself might well envy, she held the court under her sway. Many of the women present were

overcome with emotion. O'Hara openly wiped away his tears, keeping an anxious eye the while upon the

The moment came when Mrs. Fitzpatrick's emotions rendered her speechless. With a great show of

sympathy, Mr. O'Hara approached the witness, and offering her a glass of water, found opportunity to

"Surely," he said, appealing to the judge in a voice trembling with indignant feeling, "my learned friend will

"Let her go, in Heaven's name," said Staunton testily; "we want no more of her."

With Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the case for the Crown was closed. To the surprise of all, and especially of the Counsel

for the Crown, O'Hara called no witnesses and offered no evidence in rebuttal of that before the court. This

made it necessary for Staunton to go on at once with his final address to the jury.

Seldom in all his experience had he appeared to such poor advantage as on that day. The court was still

breathing the atmosphere of Mrs. Fitzpatrick's rude and impassioned appeal. The lawyer was still feeling the

sting of his humiliating failure with his star witness, and O'Hara's unexpected move surprised and flustered

him, old hand as he was. With halting words and without his usual assurance, he reviewed the evidence and

With O'Hara it was quite otherwise. It was in just such a desperate situation that he was at his best. The plight

of the prisoner, lonely, beaten and defenceless, appealed to his chivalry. Then, too, O'Hara, by blood and

tradition, was a revolutionist. In every "rising" during the last two hundred years of Ireland's struggles, some

of his ancestors had carried a pike or trailed a musket, and the rebel blood in him cried sympathy with the

Nihilist in his devotion to a hopeless cause. And hence the passion and the almost tearful vehemence that he

With great skill he took his cue from the evidence of the last witness. He drew a picture of the Russian

Nihilist hunted like "a partridge on the mountains," seeking for himself and his compatriots a home and

safety in this land of liberty. With vehement scorn he told the story of the base treachery of Rosenblatt, "a

Government spy, a thief, a debaucher of women, and were I permitted, gentlemen, I could unfold a tale in this

connection such as would wring your hearts with grief and indignation. But my client will not permit that the

veil be drawn from scenes that would bring shame to the honoured name he wears."

With consummate art the lawyer turned the minds of the jury from the element of personal vengeance in the

crime committed to that of retribution for political infidelity, till under his manipulation the prisoner was

made to appear in the role of patriot and martyr doomed to suffer for his devotion to his cause.

"But, gentlemen, though I might appeal to your passions, I scorn to do so. I urge you to weigh calmly,

deliberately, as cool, level headed Canadians, the evidence produced by the prosecution. A crime has been

committed, a most revolting crime,one man killed, another seriously wounded. But what is the nature of

this crime? Has it been shown either to be murder or attempted murder? You must have noticed, gentlemen,

how utterly the prosecution has failed to establish any such charge. The suggestion of murder comes solely

from the man who has so deeply wronged and has pursued with such deadly venom the unfortunate prisoner

at the bar. This man, after betraying the cause of freedom, after wrecking the prisoner's home and family,

after proving traitor to every trust imposed in him, now seeks to fasten upon his victim this horrid crime of

murder. His is the sole evidence. What sort of man is this upon whose unsupported testimony you are asked

to send a fellow human being to the scaffold? Think calmly, gentlemen, is he such a man as you can readily

believe? Is his highly coloured story credible? Are you so gullible as to be taken in with this melodrama?

Gentlemen, I know you, I know my fellow citizens too well to think that you will be so deceived.

"Now what are the facts, the bare facts, the cold facts, gentlemen? And we are here to deal with facts. Here

they are. There is a wedding. My learned friend is not interested in weddings, not perhaps as much interested

This sally turned all eyes towards Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and a broad smile spread over the court.

"There is a wedding, as I was saying. Unhappily the wedding feast, as is too often the case with our foreign

citizens, degenerates into a drunken brawl. It is a convenient occasion for paying off old scores. There is

general melee, a scrap, in short. Suddenly these two men come face to face, their passions inflamed. On the

one hand there is a burning sense of wrong, on the other an unquenchable hate. For, gentlemen, remember,

the man that hates you most venomously is the man who has wronged you most deeply. These two meet.

There is a fight. When all is over, one man is found dead, another with a wound in his breast. But who struck

the first blow? None can tell. We are absolutely without evidence upon this point. In regard to the Polak, all

that can be said is this, that it was a most unfortunate occurrence. The attempt to connect the prisoner with

this man's death has utterly failed. In regard to the man Rosenblatt, dismissing his absurdly tragic story, what

evidence has been brought before this court that there was any deliberate attempt at murder? A blow was

struck, but by whom? No one knows. What was the motive? Was it in selfdefence warding off some

murderous attack? No one can say. I have as much right to believe that this was the case, as any man to

believe the contrary. Indeed, from what we know of the character of this wretched traitor and thief, it is not

And so O'Hara proceeded with his most extraordinary defence. Theory after theory he advanced, quoting

instance after instance of extraordinary killings that were discovered to be accidental or in selfdefense, till

with the bewildered jury no theory explanatory of the crime committed in the basement of Paulina's house

In his closing appeal O'Hara carried the jury back to the point from which he had set out. With tears in his

voice he recounted the scene of the parting between the prisoner and his children. He drew a harrowing

picture of the unhappy fate of wife and children left defenceless and in poverty to become the prey of such

men as Rosenblatt. He drew a vivid picture of that agelong struggle for freedom carried on by the

downtrodden peasantry of Russia, and closed with a tremendous appeal to them as fathers, as lovers of

liberty, as fairminded, reasonable men to allow the prisoner the full benefit of the many doubts gathering

It was a magnificent effort. Never in all his career as a criminal lawyer had O'Hara made so brilliant an

attempt to lift a desperate case from the region of despair into that of hope. The effect of his address was

plainly visible upon the jury and, indeed, upon the whole audience in the court room.

The judge's charge did much to clear the atmosphere, and to bring the jury back to the cold, calm air of

Canadian life and feeling; but in the jury room the emotions and passions aroused by O'Hara's address were

The verdict acquitted the prisoner of the charge of manslaughter, but found him guilty on the count of

attempted murder. The verdict, however, was tempered with a strong recommendation to mercy.

Kalmar, who had been deeply impressed by the judge's manner during his charge to the jury, searched his

face a moment and then, as if abandoning all hope of mercy, drew himself erect and in his stilted English

said: "Your Excellency, I make no petition for mercy. Let the criminal make such a plea. I stand convicted of

crime, but I am no criminal. The traitor, the thief, the liar, the murderer, the criminal, sits there." As he spoke

the word, he swung sharply about and stood with outstretched arm and finger pointing to Rosenblatt. "I stand

here the officer of vengeance. I have failed. Vengeance will not fail. The day is coming when it will strike."

Then turning his face toward the group of foreigners at the back of the room he raised his voice and in a high

The effect was tremendous. Every Russian could be picked out by his staring eyes and pallid face. There was

a moment's silence, then a hissing sound as of the breath drawn sharply inward, followed by a murmur hoarse

and inhuman, not good to hear. Rosenblatt trembled, started to his feet, vainly tried to speak. His lips refused

"What the deuce was he saying?" enquired O'Hara of the Interpreter after the judge had pronounced his

"He was putting to them," said the Interpreter in an awed whisper, "the Nihilist oath of death."

"By Jove! Good thing the judge didn't understand. The bloody fool would have spoiled all my fine work. He

would have got a life term instead of fourteen years. He's got enough, though, poor chap. I wish to Heaven

As the prisoner turned with the officer to leave the dock, a wild sobbing fell upon his ear. It was Paulina.

"Certainly," said the judge quickly. "Your wife and children and your friends may visit you at a convenient

Quickly the boy's voice rang out, shrill with grief and terror, "Father! father! Come back!"

The prisoner, who was just disappearing through the door, stopped, turned about, his pale face convulsed

with a sudden agony. He took a step toward his son, who had run toward the bar after him.

"My son, be brave," he said in a voice audible throughout the room. "Be brave. I shall see you tomorrow."

Through the staring crowd came a little lady with white hair and a face pale and chastened into sweetness.

"Let me come with you," she said to Paulina, while the tears coursed down her cheeks.

The Galician woman understood not a word, but the touch upon her arm, the tone in the voice, the flowing

tears were a language she could understand. Paulina raised her dull, teardimmed eyes, and for a brief

moment gazed into the pale face above her, then without further word rose and, followed by her children,

accompanied the little lady from the room, the crowd making respectful way before the pathetic group.

"Say, O'Hara, there are still angels going about," said young Dr. Wright, following the group with his eyes.

"Be Hivin!" replied the tenderhearted Irishman, his eyes suddenly dim, "there's wan annyway, and Margaret

Dr. Wright's telephone rang early next morning. The doctor was prompt to respond. His practice had not yet

reached the stage that rendered the telephone a burden. His young wife stood beside him, listening with eager

"Yes," said the doctor. "Oh, it's you. Delighted to hear your ring." "No, not so terribly. The rush doesn't begin

till later in the day." "Not at all. What can I do for you?" "Certainly, delighted." "What? Right away?" "Well,

"No such luck," replied the doctor. "This has been a frightfully healthy season. But the spring promises a very

"Your friend Mrs. French, inviting me to an expedition into the foreign colony."

"Oh!" She could not keep the disappointment out of her tone. "I think Mrs. French might call some of the

"Well," said the little woman at his side, "I think you are going too much among those awful people."

"Awful people?" exclaimed the doctor. "It's awfully good practice, I know. That is, in certain lines. I can't say

there is very much variety. When a really good thing occurs, it is whisked off to the hospital and the big guns

"Well, I don't like your going so much," persisted his wife. "Some day you will get hurt."

"Oh, I know you think nothing can hurt you. But a bullet or a knife can do for you as well as for any one else.

Supposing that terrible manwhat's his name?Kalmarhad struck you instead of the Polak, where would

"The question is, where would he be?" said the doctor with a smile. "As for Kalmar, he's not too bad a sort; at

least there are others a little worse. I shouldn't be surprised if that fellow Rosenblatt got only a little less than

"No, you don't," said the doctor. "You know quite well that you would root me out of bed any hour of the

night to see any of their kiddies that happened to have a pain in their little tumtums. Between you and Mrs.

"What does she want now?" It must be confessed that her tone was slightly impatient.

"Mrs. French has succeeded in getting the excellent Mrs. Blazowski to promise for the tenth time, I believe,

to allow some one, preferably myself, to take her eczematic children to the hospital."

"That is correct. But today I shall adopt new tactics. Mrs. French's flank movements have broken down. I

shall carry the position with a straight frontal attack. And I shall succeed. If not, my dear, that little fur tippet

thing which you have so resolutely refused to let your eyes rest upon as we pass the Hudson's Bay, is yours."

"Don't you worry, little girl," said the doctor cheerfully, "practice is looking up. My name is getting into the

papers. A few more foreign weddings with attendant killings and I shall be famous."

At the Blazowski shack Mrs. French was waiting the doctor, and in despair. A crowd of children appeared to

fill the shack and overflow through the door into the sunny space outside, on the sheltered side of the house.

The doctor made his way through them and passed into the evil smelling, filthy room. For Mrs. Blazowski

found it a task beyond her ability to perform the domestic duties attaching to the care of seven children and a

like number of boarders in her single room. Mrs. French was seated on a stool with a little child of three years

"Doctor, don't you think that these children ought to go to the hospital today?" she said, as the doctor

He tried to take the little child from Mrs. French's knee, but the little one vehemently objected.

"Well, let's look at you, anyway," said the doctor, proceeding to unwind some filthy rags from the little one's

The hair was matted with festering scabs. The ears, the eyes, the fingers were full of running sores.

"No, not itch. It is the industrious and persevering eczema pusculosum, known to the laity as salt rheum of

"Well, this can't go on another day, and I can't treat her here. She must go. Tell your mother," said the doctor

Mrs. Blazowski threw up her hands with voluble protestation. "She says they will not go. She put grease on

"Grease!" exclaimed the doctor. "I should say so, and a good many other things too! Why, the girl's head is

alive with them! Heavens above!" said the doctor, turning to Mrs. French, "she's running over with vermin!

He turned to a girl of five, whose head and face were even more seriously affected with the dread disease.

"Why, bless my soul! This girl will lose her eyesight! Now look here, these children must go to the hospital,

"Perhaps we better wait, Doctor," interposed Mrs. French. "I'll talk to her and we'll try another day."

"No," said the doctor, catching up a shawl and wrapping around the little girl, "she's going with me now.

"I say yes," said the doctor; "I'll get a policeman and put you all in prison. Tell her."

The threat made no impression upon the mother. On the contrary, as the doctor moved toward the door she

seized a large carvingknife and threw herself before him. For a moment or two they stood facing each other,

the doctor uncertain what his next move should be, but determined that his plan should not fail this time. It

was Mrs. French who interposed. With a smile she laid her hand upon the mother's arm.

"Tell her," she said to the little girl, "that I will go with the children, and I promise that no hurt shall come to

them. And I will bring them back again safe. Your mother can come and see them tomorrowtoday. The

hospital is a lovely place. They will have nice toys, dolls, and nice things to eat, and we'll make them better."

Rapidly, almost breathlessly, and with an eager smile on her sweet face, Mrs. French went on to describe the

advantages and attractions of the hospital, pausing only to allow the little girl to translate.

At length the mother relented, her face softened. She stepped from the door, laying down her knife upon the

table, moved not by the glowing picture of Mrs. French's words, but by the touch upon her arm and the face

This brought the mother's final surrender. She seized Mrs. French's hand, and bursting into loud weeping,

kissed it again and again. Mrs. French put her arms around the weeping woman, and unshrinking, kissed the

"You are a dead sport," he said. "I can't play up to that; but you excite my ambition. Get a shawl around the

Once more he started toward the door, but the mother was before him, talking and gesticulating.

With great energy Mrs. Blazowski proceeded to prepare her children for their momentous venture into the

world. The washing process was simple enough. From the dishpan which stood upon the hearth half full of

dirty water and some of the breakfast dishes, she took a greasy dishcloth, wrung it out carefully, and with it

proceeded to wash, not untenderly, the festering heads, faces and fingers of her children, resorting from time

to time to the dishpan for a fresh supply of water. This done, she carefully dried the parts thus diligently

washed with the handkerchief which she usually wore about her head. Then pinning shawls about their heads,

she had her children ready for their departure, and gave them into Mrs. French's charge, sobbing aloud as if

"Well," said the doctor, as he drove rapidly away, "we're well out of that. I was just figuring what sort of hold

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. French. "They're very fond of their children, these Galicians, and they're so

"She want you now," replied Irma, with such a look of anxiety upon her face that Mrs. French was

constrained to say, "Wait one moment, Doctor. I'll see what it is. I shall not keep you."

She ran into the house, followed by the little girl. The room was full of men who stood about in stolid but not

unsympathetic silence, gazing upon Paulina, who appeared to be prostrated with grief. Beside her stood the

Irma told the story. Early that morning they had gone to the jail, but after waiting for hours they were refused

"A very cross man send us away," said the girl. "He say he put us in jail too. We can see our fadder no more."

Her words were followed by a new outburst of grief on the part of Paulina and the two children.

"But the Judge said you were to see him," said Mrs. French in surprise. "Wait for me," she added.

She ran out and told the doctor in indignant words what had taken place, a red spot glowing in each white

"Oh, it's something about prison rules and regulations, I guess," said the doctor.

"Prison rules!" exclaimed Mrs. French with wrath rare in her. "I'll go straight to the Judge myself."

"Where are you going? We can't leave these poor things in this way," the tears gathering in her eyes and her

"Not much," said the doctor briskly; "we are evidently in for another scrap. I don't know where you will land

Mrs. French considered a moment. "Let us first take these children to the hospital and then we shall meet

"You are awfully good, Doctor," said the little lady, her sweet smile once more finding its way to her pale

"Ain't I, though?" said the doctor. "If the spring were a little further advanced you'd see my wings sprouting. I

enjoy this. I haven't had such fun since my last football match. I see the finish of that jail guard. Come on."

Within an hour the doctor and Mrs. French drove up to the jail. There, at the bleak north door, swept by the

chill March wind, and away from the genial light of the shining sun, they found Paulina and her children, a

shivering, timid, shrinking group, looking pathetically strange and forlorn in their quaint Galician garb.

The pathos of the picture appeared to strike both the doctor and his friend at the same time.

"Brute!" said the doctor, "it's some beast of an understrapper. He might have let them in, anyway. I'll see the

The guard glanced past the doctor, saw the shrinking group behind him and gruffly announced, "This, is not

"I want to see Mr. Cowan," repeated the doctor slowly, looking the guard steadily in the eye. "Is he in?"

"Come in," said the guard sullenly, allowing the doctor and his friend to enter, and shutting the door in the

In a few moments Mr. Cowan appeared, a tall athletic man, kindly of face and of manner. He greeted Mrs.

"Mr. Cowan," said Mrs. French, "there is a poor Galician woman and her children outside the door, the wife

and children of the man who was condemned yesterday. The Judge told them they could see the prisoner

"Could you not let her in now? She has already waited for hours at the door this morning, and on being

refused went home broken hearted. She does not understand our ways and is very timid. I wish you could let

Mr. Cowan hesitated. "I should greatly like to oblige you, Mrs. French. You know that. Sit down, and I will

Mrs. French hurried past him, took Paulina by the arm, and saying, "Come in and sit down," led her to a

bench and sat beside her. "It's all right," she whispered. "I am sure you can see your husband. Tell her," she

"They may see him," he said. "It is against all discipline, but it is pretty hard to resist Mrs. French," he

"It is quite useless trying!" said the doctor; "I have long ago discovered that."

The guard turned the lock, shot back the bolts, opened the door and motioning with his hand, said gruffly to

"Go on," said Mrs. French in an encouraging voice, patting her on the shoulder, "I will wait here."

Clinging to one another, the woman and children passed in through the door which the guard closed behind

them with a reverberating clang. Mrs. French sat on the bench outside, her face cast down, her eyes closed.

Now and then through the grating of the door rose and fell a sound of voices mingled with that of sobs and

weeping, hearing which, Mrs. French covered her face with her hands, while the tears trickled down through

As she sat there, the doorbell rang and two Galician men appeared, seeking admission.

Mrs. French came eagerly forward. "Oh, let them come in, please. They are friends of the prisoner. I know

Without a word the guard turned from her, strode to the office where Mr. Cowan sat in conversation with the

"Sit down there," he said, pointing to a bench on the opposite side of the door from that on which Mrs.

Before many minutes had elapsed, the prisoner appeared at the door of his cell with Paulina and his children.

"Would you kindly open the door?" he said in a courteous tone to the guard. "They wish to depart."

The guard went toward the door, followed by Mrs. French, who stood waiting with hands outstretched toward

the weeping Paulina. As the door swung open, the children came forth, but upon the threshold Paulina

paused, glanced into the cell, ran back and throwing herself at the prisoner's feet, seized his hand and kissed it

For a single instant the man yielded her his hand, and then in a voice stern but not unkind, he said, "Go. My

At once the woman rose and came back to the door where Mrs. French stood waiting for her.

As they were about to enter the cell, the boy suddenly left Paulina's side, ran to Simon Ketzel and clutching

"Oh, let him go," said Mrs. French. "He will do no harm." And the guard gave grudging permission.

With a respectful, almost reverential mien, the men entered the cell, knelt before the prisoner and kissed his

hand. The moments were precious and there was much to say and do, so Kalmar lost no time.

"I have sent for you," he said, "first to give you my report which you will send back to headquarters."

Over and over again he repeated the words of his report, till he was certain that they had it in sure possession.

"In a few weeks or months," continued the prisoner in a low voice, "I expect to be free. Siberia could not hold

me, and do you think that any prison in this country can? But this report must go immediately."

"Now," said Kalmar solemnly, "there is one thing more. Our cause fails chiefly because of traitors. In this

city is a traitor. My oath demands his death or mine. If I fail, I must pass the work on to another. It is for this I

"Master," said Joseph Pinkas sullenly, "this is a new country. All that we left behind. That is all well for

From his outstretched hand Joseph fell back in sudden fear. Kalmar strode to the door and rattled it in its

"Permit them to remain for a few moments," said Kalmar, recovering the even tone of his voice with a

"Now, Simon Ketzel," he said, turning back to the man who stood waiting him in fear, "what is your

Simon took his hand and kissed it. "I will serve you with my money, with my life. I am all Russian here,"

smiting on his breast, "I cannot forget my countrymen in bondage. I will help them to freedom."

"Ah," said Kalmar, "good. Now listen. This Rosenblatt betrayed us, brought death and exile to many of our

"The oath is laid upon me. I sought the privilege of executing vengeance; it was granted me. I expect to fulfil

my oath, but I may fail. If I fail," here he bent his face toward that of Simon Ketzel, his bloodshot eyes

glowing in his white face like red coals, "if I fail," he repeated, "is he still to live?"

"Do you ask me to kill him?" said Simon in a low voice. "I have a wife and three children. If I kill this man I

must leave them. There is no place for me in this country. There is no escape. I must lay upon my children

that burden forever. Do you ask me to do this? Surely God will bring His sure vengeance upon him. Let him

"Let him go?" said Kalmar, his breath hissing through his shut teeth. "Listen, and tell me if I should let him

go. Many years ago, when a student in the University, I fell under suspicion, and without trial was sent to

prison by a tyrannical Government. Released, I found it difficult to make a living. I was under the curse of

Government suspicion. In spite of that I succeeded. I married a noble lady and for a time prospered. I joined a

Secret Society. I had a friend. He was the rejected suitor of my wife. He, too, was an enthusiast for the cause

of freedom. He became a member of my Society and served so well that he was trusted with their most secret

plans. He sold them to the Government, seeking my ruin. The Society was broken up and scattered, the

members, my friend included, arrested and sent to prison, exile and death. Soon he was liberated. I escaped.

In a distant border town I took up my residence, determined, when opportunity offered, to flee the country

with my wife and two infant children, one a babe in his mother's arms. At this time my friend discovered me.

I had no suspicion of him. I told him my plans. He offered to aid me. I gave him the money where with to

bribe the patrol. Once more he betrayed me. Our road lay through a thick forest. As we drove along, a soldier

hailed us. I killed him and we dashed forward, only to find another soldier waiting. We abandoned our sleigh

and took to a woodcutter's track through the forest. We had only a mile to go. There were many tracks. The

soldier pursued us through the deep snow, firing at random. A bullet found a place in my wife's heart. Ah!

My God! She fell to the snow, her babe in her arms. I threw myself at her side. She looked up into my face

and smiled. 'I am free at last,' she said. 'Farewell, dear heart. The childrenleave mecarry them to

freedom.' I closed her eyes, covered her with snow and fled on through the forest, and half frozen made my

way across the border and was safe. My children I left with friends and went back to bring my wife. I found

blood tracks on the snow, and bones." He put his hands over his face as if to shut out the horrid picture, then

flinging them down, he turned fiercely upon Simon. "What do you say? Shall I let him go?"

"No," said Simon, reaching out both his hands. "By the Lord God Almighty! No! He shall die!"

"Will you swear by God and all the saints that if I fail you will take my place?"

Simon hesitated. The boy sprang forward, snatched the crucifix from his father's hand, pressed his lips

The father started back, and for a few moments silently contemplated his boy. "What, boy? You? You know

"I do know, father. It was my mother you left there in the snow. Some day I will kill him."

"No, no, my boy," said the father, clasping him in his arms. "You are your father's son, your mother's son," he

cried. "You have the heart, the spirit, but this oath I shall not lay upon you. No, by my hand he shall die, or let

him go." He stood for some moments silent, his head leaning forward upon his breast. "No," he said again,

"Simon is right. This is a new land, a new life. Let the past die with me. With this quarrel you have nothing to

"I will kill him," said the boy stubbornly, "I have sworn the oath. It was my mother you left in the snow.

"Aha! boy," said the father, drawing him close to his side, "my quarrel is yours. Good! But first he is mine.

When my hand lies still in death, you may take up the cause, but not till then. You hear me?"

"Now farewell, my son. A bitter fate is ours. A bitter heritage I leave you!" He sank down upon the bench,

drew his boy toward him and said brokenly, "Nay, nay, it shall not be yours. I shall free you from it. In this

new land, let life be new with you. Let not the shadow of the old rest upon you." He gathered the boy up in

his strong arms and strained him to his breast. "Now farewell, my son. Ah! God in Heaven!" he cried, his

tears raining down upon the boy's face, "must I give up this too! Ah, those eyes are her eyes, that face her

face! Is this the last? Is this all? How bitter is life!" He rocked back and forward on the bench, his boy's arms

tight about his neck. "My boy, my boy! the last of life I give up here! Keep faith. This," pulling out the

miniature, "I would give you now, but it is all I have left. When I die I will send it to you. Your sister I give

"Time is up," cried the father, "and all time henceforth is useless to me. Farewell, my son!" kissing him. "You

must go from me. Don�t be ashamed of your father, though he may die a prisoner or wander an exile."

"Boy, boy," said the father, mingling his sobs with those of his son, "help me to bear it!"

It was a piteous appeal, and it reached the boy�s heart. At once he loosened one hand from its hold, put it up

and stroked his father�s face as his sobs grew quiet. At the touch upon his face, the father straightened himself

"My son," he said quietly," we must be men. The men of our blood meet not death so."

Immediately the boy slipped from his father's arms and stood erect and quiet, looking up into the dark face

above him watchful for the next word or sign. The father waved his hand toward the door.

"We now say farewell," he said quietly. He stooped down, kissed his son gravely and tenderly first upon the

"Simon Ketzel," said Kalmar, as he bade him farewell, "you will befriend my boy?"

"Master, brother," said Simon, "I will serve your children with my life." He knelt, kissed the prisoner's hand,

That afternoon, the name of Michael Kalmar was entered upon the roll of the Provincial Penitentiary, and he

took up his burden of life, no longer a man, but a mere human animal driven at the will of some petty tyrant,

doomed to toil without reward, to isolation from all that makes life dear, to deprivation of the freedom of

God's sweet light and air, to degradation without hope of recovery. Before him stretched fourteen long years

of slow agony, with cruel abundance of leisure to feed his soul with maddening memories of defeated

vengeance, with fearful anxieties for the future of those dear as life, with feelings of despair over a cause for

Before summer had gone, Winnipeg was reminded of the existence of the foreign colony by the escape from

the Provincial Penitentiary of the Russian prisoner Kalmar. The man who could not be held by Siberian bars

and guards found escape from a Canadian prison easy. That he had accomplices was evident, but who they

were could not be discovered. Suspicion naturally fell upon Simon Ketzel and Joseph Pinkas, but after the

most searching investigation they were released and Winnipeg went back to its ways and forgot. The big

business men rebuilding fortunes shattered by the boom, the little business men laying foundations for

fortunes to be, the women within the charmed circle of Society bound to the whirling wheel of social

functions, other women outside and striving to beg, or buy, or break their way into the circle, and still other

women who cared not a pin's head whether they were within or without, being sufficient for themselves, the

busy people of the churches with their philanthropies, their religious activities, striving to gather into their

several folds the waifs and strays that came stumbling into their city from all landsall alike, unaware of the

growing danger area in their young city, forgot the foreign colony, its problems and its needs.

Meantime, summer followed winter, and winter summer, the months and years went on while the foreign

colony grew in numbers and more slowly in wealth. More slowly in wealth, because as an individual member

grew in wealth he departed from the colony and went out to make an independent home for himself in one of

the farming colonies which the Government was establishing in some of the more barren and forbidding

sections of the country; or it may be, loving the city and its ways of business, he rapidly sloughed off with his

foreign clothes his foreign speech and manner of life, and his foreign ideals as well, and became a Canadian

citizen, distinguished from his cosmopolitan fellow citizen only by the slight difficulty he displayed with

Such a man was Simon Ketzel. Simon was by trade a carpenter, but he had received in the old land a good

educational foundation; he had, moreover, a shrewd head for affairs, and so he turned his energies to

business, and with conspicuous success. For in addition to all his excellent qualities, Simon possessed as the

most valuable part of his equipment a tidy, thrifty wife, who saved what her husband earned and kept guard

over him on feast days, saved and kept guard so faithfully that before long Simon came to see the wisdom of

her policy and became himself a shrewd and sober and welldoing Canadian, able to hold his own with the

His sobriety and steadiness Simon owed mostly to his thrifty wife, but his rapid transformation into Canadian

citizenship he owed chiefly to his little daughter Margaret. It was Margaret that taught him his English, as she

conned over her lessons with him in the evenings. It was Margaret who carried home from the little

Methodist mission near by, the illustrated paper and the library book, and thus set him areading. It was

Margaret that brought both Simon and Lena, his wife, to the social gathering of the Sunday School and of the

church. It was thus to little Margaret that the Ketzels owed their introduction to Canadian life and manners,

and to the finer sides of Canadian religion. And through little Margaret it was that those greatest of all

Canadianising influences, the school and the mission, made their impact upon the hearts and the home of the

Ketzel family. And as time went on it came to pass that from the Ketzel home, clean, orderly, and Canadian,

there went out into the foul wastes about, streams of healing and cleansing that did their beneficent work

One of these streams reached the home of Paulina, to the great good of herself and her family. Here, again, it

was chiefly little Margaret who became the channel of the new life, for with Paulina both Simon and Lena

had utterly failed. She was too dull, too apathetic, too hopeless and too suspicious even of her own kind to

allow the Ketzels an entrance to her heart. But even had she not been all this, she was too sorely oppressed

with the burden of her daily toil to yield to such influence as they had to offer. For Rosenblatt was again in

charge of her household. In a manner best known to himself, he had secured the mortgage on her home, and

thus became her landlord, renting her the room in which she and her family dwelt, and for which they all paid

in daily labour, and dearly enough. Rosenblatt, thus being her master, would not let her go. She was too

valuable for that. Strong, patient, diligent, from early dawn till late at night she toiled and moiled with her

baking and scrubbing, fighting out that ancient and primitive and endless fight against dirt and hunger, beaten

by the one, but triumphing over the other. She carried in her heart a dull sense of injustice, a feeling that

somehow wrong was being done her; but when Rosenblatt flourished before her a formidable legal document,

and had the same interpreted to her by his smart young clerk, Samuel Sprink, she, with true Slavic and

fatalistic passivity, accepted her lot and bent her strong back to her burden without complaint. What was the

use of complaint? Who in all the city was there to care for a poor, stupid, Galician woman with none too

savoury a reputation? Many and generous were the philanthropies of Winnipeg, but as yet there was none that

had to do with the dirt, disease and degradation that were too often found in the environment of the foreign

people. There were many churches in the city rich in good work, with many committees that met to confer

and report, but there was not yet one whose special duty it was to confer and to report upon the unhappy and

Yes, there was one. The little Methodist mission hard by the foreign colony had such a committee, a

remarkable committee in a way, a committee with no finespun theories of wholesale reform, a committee

with no delicate nostril to be buried in a perfumed handkerchief when pursuing an investigation (as a matter

of fact, that committee had no sense of smell at all), a committee of one, namely, John James Parsons, the

Methodist missionary, and he worked chiefly with committees of one, of which not the least important was

It was through Margaret Ketzel that Parsons got his first hold of Paulina, by getting hold of her little girl

Irma. For Margaret, though so much her junior in years and experience, was to Irma a continual source of

wonder and admiration. Her facility with the English speech, her ability to read books, her fine manners, her

clean and orderly home, her pretty Canadian dress, her beloved school, her cheery mission, all these were to

Irma new, wonderful and fascinating. Gradually Irma was drawn to that new world of Margaret's, and away

After much secret conference with all the Ketzels, and much patient and skilful labour on the part of the

motherly Lena, a great day at length arrived for Irma. It was the day on which she discarded the head shawl

with the rest of the quaint Galician attire, and appeared dressed as a Canadian girl, discovering to her

delighted friends and to all who knew her, though not yet to herself, a rare beauty hitherto unnoticed by any.

Indeed, when Mr. Samuel Sprink, coming in from Rosenblatt's store to spend a few hurried minutes in

gorging himself after his manner at the evening meal, allowed himself time to turn his eyes from his plate and

to let them rest upon the little maid waiting upon his table, the transformation from the girl, slatternly, ragged

and none too clean, that was wont to bring him his food, to this new being that flitted about from place to

place, smote him as with a sudden blow. He laid down the instruments of his gluttony and for a full half

minute forgot the steaming stew before him, whose garlicladen odours had been assailing his nostrils some

minutes previously with pungent delight. Others, too, of that hungry gorging company found themselves

disturbed in their ordinary occupation by this vision of sweet and tender beauty that flitted about them,

To none more than to Rosenblatt himself was the transformation of Irma a surprise and a mystery. It made

him uneasy. He had an instinctive feeling that this was the beginning of an emancipation that would leave

him one day without his slaves. Paulina, too, would learn the new ways; then she and the girl, who now spent

long hours of hard labour in his service, would demand money for their toil. The thought grieved him sore.

But there was another thought that stabbed him with a keener pain. Paulina and her family would learn that

they need no longer fear him, that they could do without him, and then they would escape from his control.

And this Rosenblatt dreaded above all things else. To lose the power to keep in degradation the wife and

children of the man he hated with a quenchless hatred would be to lose much of the sweetness of life. Those

few terrible moments when he had lain waiting for the uplifted knife of his foe to penetrate his shrinking

eyeballs had taken years from him. He had come back to his life older, weaker, broken in nerve and more

than ever consumed with a thirst for vengeance. Since Kalmar's escape he lived in daily, hourly fear that his

enemy would strike again and this time without missing, and with feverish anxiety he planned to anticipate

So far he had succeeded only partially. Paulina and Irma he held in domestic bondage. From the boy Kalman,

too, he exacted day by day the full tale of his scanty profits made from selling newspapers on the street. But

beyond this he could not go. By no sort of terror could he induce Paulina to return to the old conditions and

rent floor space in her room to his boarders. At her door she stood on guard, refusing admittance. Once,

indeed, when hard pressed by Rosenblatt demanding entrance, she had thrown herself before him with a

butcher knife in her hand, and with a look of such transforming fierceness on her face as drove him from the

house in fear of his life. She was no longer his patient drudge, but a woman defending, not so much her own,

Never again did Rosenblatt attempt to pass through that door, but schooled himself to wait a better time and a

safer path to compass his vengeance. But from that moment, where there had been merely contempt for

Paulina and her family, there sprang up bitter hatred. He hated them allthe woman who was his dupe and

his slave, but who balked him of his revenge; the boy who brought him the cents for which he froze during

the winter evenings at the corner of Portage and Main, but who with the cents gave him fierce and fearless

looks; and this girl suddenly transformed from a timid, stupid, illdressed Galician child, into a being of

grace and loveliness and conscious power. No wonder that as he followed her with his eye, noting all this

new grace and beauty, he felt uneasy. Already she seemed to have soared far beyond his sordid world and far

beyond his grasp. Deep in his heart he swore that he would find means to bring her down to the dirt again.

The higher her flight, the farther her fall and the sweeter would be his revenge.

It was his clerk, Samuel Sprink, whose sharp little eyes had not failed to note the gloomy glances of his

"Pretty gay girl, our Irma has come to be," continued the cheerful Samuel, who prided himself on his fine

selection of colloquial English. "She's a beaut now, ain't she? A regular bird!"

Rosenblatt started. At his words, but more at the admiration in Samuel's eyes, a new idea came to him. He

knew his clerk well, knew his restless ambition, his insatiable greed, his intense selfishness, his indomitable

will. And he had good reason to know. Three times during the past year his clerk had forced from him an

increase of salary. Indeed, Samuel Sprink, young though he was and unlearned in the ways of the world, was

the only man in the city that Rosenblatt feared. If by any means Samuel could obtain a hold over this young

lady, he would soon bring her to the dust. Once in Samuel's power, she would soon sink to the level of the

ordinary Galician wife. True, she was but a girl of fifteen, but in a year or so she would be ready for the altar

As these thoughts swiftly flashed through his mind, Rosenblatt turned to Samuel Sprink and said, "Yes, she is

"Not a bit," said Samuel. "The dress helps out, but it is the girl herself. I have seen it for a long time. Look at

"Better get the cage ready then, Samuel," suggested Rosenblatt. "There are plenty bird fanciers in this town."

The suggestion seemed to anger Samuel, who swore an English oath and lapsed into silence.

Irma heard, but heeded little. Rosenblatt she feared, Samuel Sprink she despised. There had been a time when

both she and Paulina regarded him with admiration mingled with awe. Samuel Sprink had many attractions.

He had always plenty of money to jingle, and had a reputation for growing wealth. He was generous in his

gifts to the little girlgifts, it must be confessed, that cost him little, owing to his position as clerk in

Rosenblatt's store. Then, too, he was so clever with his smart English and his Canadian manners, so

magnificent with his curled and oily locks, his resplendent jewelry, his brilliant neckties. But that was before

Irma had been brought to the little mission, and before she had learned through Margaret Ketzel and through

Margaret's father and mother something of Canadian life, of Canadian people, of Canadian manners and

dress. As her knowledge in this direction extended, her admiration and reverence for Samuel Sprink faded.

The day that Irma discarded her Galician garb and blossomed forth as a Canadian young lady was the day on

which she was fully cured of her admiration for Rosenblatt's clerk. For such subtle influence does dress

exercise over the mind that something of the spirit of the garb seems to pass into the spirit of the wearer.

Selfrespect is often born in the tailor shop or in the costumer's parlour. Be this as it may, it is certain that

Irma's Canadian dress gave the final blow to her admiration of Samuel Sprink, and child though she was, she

became conscious of a new power over not only Sprink, but over all the boarders, and instinctively she

assumed a new attitude toward them. The old coarse and familiar horseplay which she had permitted without

thought at their hands, was now distasteful to her. Indeed, with most of the men it ceased to be any longer

possible. There were a few, however, and Samuel Sprink among them, who were either too dullwitted to

recognise the change that had come to the young girl, or were unwilling to acknowledge it. Samuel was

unwilling also to surrender his patronising and protective attitude, and when patronage became impossible

and protection unnecessary, he assumed an air of bravado to cover the feeling of embarrassment he hated to

This completed the revulsion in Irma's mind, and while outwardly she went about her work in the house with

her usual cheerful and willing industry, she came to regard her admirer and would be patron with fear,

loathing, and contempt. Of this, however, Samuel was quite unaware. The girl had changed in her manner as

in her dress, but that might be because she was older, she was almost a woman, after the Galician standard of

computation. Whatever the cause, to Samuel the change only made her more fascinating than ever, and he set

himself seriously to consider whether on the whole, dowerless though she would be, it would not be wise for

him to devote some of his time and energy to the winning of this fascinating young lady for himself.

The possibility of failure never entered Samuel's mind. He had an overpowering sense of his own attractions.

The question was simply should he earnestly set himself to accomplish this end? Without definitely making

up his mind on this point, much less committing himself to this object, Samuel allowed himself the

pleasurable occupation of trifling with the situation. But alas for Samuel's peace of mind! and alas for his

selfesteem! the daily presence of this fascinating maiden in her new Canadian dress and with her new

Canadian manners, which appeared to go with the dress, quite swept him away from his ordinary moorings,

and he found himself tossed upon a tempestuous sea, the helpless sport of gusts of passion that at once

surprised and humiliated him. It was an intolerably painful experience for the selfcentred and

selfcontrolled Samuel; and after a few months of this acute and humiliating suffering he was prepared to

At this point Rosenblatt, who had been keeping a watchful eye upon the course of events, intervened.

"Samuel, my boy," he said one winter night when the store was closed for the day, "you are acting the fool.

Samuel grunted, unwilling to acknowledge even partial defeat to the man whom he had beaten more than

"Good blood!" said Rosenblatt, showing his teeth like a snarling dog, "good blood! The blood of a murdering

"She is of good Russian blood," said Samuel with an ugly look in his face, "and he is a liar who says she is

"Well, well," said Rosenblatt, turning from the point, "she is a Galician in everything else. Her mother is a

Galician, a lowbred Galician, and you treat the girl as if she were a lady. This is not the Galician manner of

wooing. A bolder course is necessary. You are a young man of good ability, a rising young man. You will be

rich some day. Who is this girl without family, without dower to make you fear or hesitate? What says the

"Yes, that is all right," muttered Samuel, "a stick for my wife, and if she were my wife I would soon bring her

"Ho, ho," said Rosenblatt, "it is all the same, sweetheart and wife. They are both much the better for a stick

now and then. You are not the kind of man to stand beggar before a portionless Slovak girl, a young man

handsome, clever, welltodo. You do not need thus to humble yourself. Go in, my son, with more courage

As a first result of Rosenblatt's encouraging advice, Samuel recovered much of his selfassurance, which had

been rudely shattered, and therefore much of his good humour. As a further result, he determined upon a

more vigorous policy in his wooing. He would humble himself no more. He would find means to bring this

The arrival of a Saint's day brought Samuel an opportunity to inaugurate his new policy. The foreign colony

was rigidly devoted to its religious duties. Nothing could induce a Galician to engage in his ordinary

avocation upon any day set apart as sacred by his Church. In the morning such of the colony as adhered to the

Greek Church, went en masse to the quaint little church which had come to be erected and which had been

consecrated by a travelling Archbishop, and there with reverent devotion joined in worship, using the

elaborate service of the Greek rite. The religious duties over, they proceeded still further to celebrate the day

With the growth of the colony new houses had been erected which far outshone Paulina's in magnificence,

but Paulina's still continued to be a social centre chiefly through Rosenblatt's influence. For no man was more

skilled than he in the art of promoting sociability as an investment. There was still the full complement of

boarders filling the main room and the basement, and these formed a nucleus around which the social life of a

It was a cold evening in February. The mercury had run down till it had almost disappeared in the bulb and

Winnipeg was having a taste of forty below. Through this exhilarating air Kalman was hurrying home as fast

as his sturdy legs could take him. His fingers were numb handling the coins received from the sale of his

papers, but the boy cared nothing for that. He had had a good afternoon and evening; for with the Winnipeg

men the colder the night the warmer their hearts, and these fierce February days were harvest days for the

hardy news boys crying their wares upon the streets. So the sharp cold only made Kalman run the faster.

Above him twinkled the stars, under his feet sparkled the snow, the keen air filled his lungs with ozone that

sent his blood leaping through his veins. A new zest was added to his life tonight, for as he ran he

remembered that it was a feast day and that at his home there would be good eating and dance and song. As

he ran he planned how he would avoid Rosenblatt and get past him into Paulina's room, where he would be

safe, and where, he knew, good things saved from the feast for him by his sister would be waiting him. To her

he would entrust all his cents above what was due to Rosenblatt, and with her they would be safe. For by

neither threatening nor wheedling could Rosenblatt extract from her what was entrusted to her care, as he

Keenly sensitive to the radiant beauty of the sparkling night, filled with the pleasurable anticipation of the

feast before him, vibrating in every nerve with the mere joy of living his vigorous young life, Kalman ran

along at full speed, singing now and then in breathless snatches a wild song of the Hungarian plains. Turning

"Hello! Elizabeth Ketzel, what do you want?" answered the boy, pulling up panting.

"Sure, I will," replied the lad, who had already mastered in the school of the streets the intricacies of the

"It is no place for little girls," said Kalman brusquely; then noting the shadow upon the face of the child, he

"I'll be sure to come," said Elizabeth to herself, for Kalman was off again like the wind.

Paulina's house was overflowing with riotous festivity. Avoiding the front door, Kalman ran to the back of

the house, and making entrance through the window, there waited for his sister. Soon she came in.

"Oh, Kalman!" she cried, throwing her arms about him and kissing him, "such a feast as I have saved for you!

"Not a bit of it, Irma," said the boythey always spoke in Russian, these two, ever since the departure of

Already Irma was flying about the room, drawing from holes and corners the bits she had saved from the

"But first," she cried, "I shall bring to the window the hot stew. Paulina," the children always so spoke of her,

After what seemed to Kalman a very long time indeed, she appeared at the window with a covered dish of

"That nasty, hateful, little Sprink," she said. "Here, help me through." She looked flushed and angry, her

"What is the matter?" said Kalman, when he had a moment's leisure to observe her.

"Not for months, Kalman," protested Irma, "and never again, and especially that little Sprink. Never! Never!"

As Kalman looked at her erect little figure and her flushed face, it dawned on him that a change had come to

"Irma," he said, "what have you done to yourself? Is it your hair that you have been putting up on your head?

No, it is not your hair. You are not the same. You are" he paused to consider, "yes, that's it. You are a

The anger died out of Irma's brown eyes and flushed face. A soft and tender and mysterious light suffused her

"No, I am not a lady," she said, "but you remember what father said. Our mother was a lady, and I am going

Almost never had the children spoken of their mother. The subject was at once too sacred and too terrible for

"I remember," he said after a few moments' silence. A shadow lay upon his face. "She was a lady, and she

"Yes, Kalman dear," said his sister, sitting down beside him and putting her arms about his neck, "but she had

"No," said the boy with a ring in his voice, "she was not afraid; nor was father afraid either." He rose from his

"Why, Kalman," exclaimed his sister, "you are not half done your feast. There are such lots of nice things

"I can't eat, Irma, when I think of thatof that man. I choke here," pointing to his throat.

"Well, well, we won't think of him tonight. Some day very soon, we shall be free from him. Sit down and

"Some day," he muttered, more to himself than to his sister, "I shall kill him."

"Not today, at any rate, Kalman," said his sister, brightening up. "Let us forget it tonight. Look at this pie.

The boy allowed his look to linger upon the dainties. He was a healthy boy and very hungry. As he looked his

"No, indeed," cried Irma. "Come quick and finish your feast. Oh, what eating we have had, and then what

dancing! And they all want to dance with me," she continued,"Jacob and Henry and Nicholas, and they are

"Yes," replied his sister, making a little face, "I danced with him too, but he wants me to dance with no one

"No, not afraid," said Irma quickly. "But never mind, here is the pudding. I am sorry it is cold."

"All right," said the boy, mumbling with a full mouth, "it is fine. Don't you be afraid of that Sprink; I'll knock

"Not yet, Kalman," said Irma, smiling at him. "Wait a year or two before you talk like that."

"And look at you with your dress and your hair up on your head, andand I am a boy. But I am not afraid of

"Oh, I know you were fighting again. You are terrible, Kalman. I hear all the boys talking about you, and the

"I don't know," said her brother doubtfully, "but I don't think he will bother me any more."

"They make me fight," said the boy. "They try to drive me off the corner, and he called me a greasy Dook.

"Tell me," cried his sister, her face aglow"but no, I don't want to hear about it. Did youhow did you beat

him? But you should not fight so, Kalman." In spite of herself she could not avoid showing her interest in the

"Why not?" said her brother; "it is right to fight for your rights, and if they bother me or try to crowd me off, I

"Well, never mind just now," she cried. "Listen to the noise. That is Jacob singing; isn't it awful? Are you

"Yes, I am. Here is my money, Irma, and that is forthat brute. Give it to Paulina for him. I can hardly keep

"No, no, Kalman," implored his sister, "that must not be, not now nor ever. This is not Russia, or Hungary,

"Hurry and wash yourself and come out. They will want you to sing. I shall wait for you."

A shout greeted the girl as she entered the crowded room. There was no one like her in the dances of her

"I cannot dance with you all," cried the girl, laughing, "and so I will dance by myself."

At this there was a shout of applause, and in a moment more she was whirling in the bewildering intricacies

of a pas seul followed in every step by the admiring gaze and the enthusiastic plaudits of the whole company.

As she finished, laughing and breathless, she caught sight of Kalman, who had just entered.

"A song! A song!" they shouted. "Kalman Kalmar will sing! Come, Kalman, 'The Shepherd's Love.'" "No,

"First my own cup," cried the boy, pressing toward the beer keg in the corner and catching up a mug.

"I am too full to sing just now," he cried; "let us dance," and, seizing Irma, he carried her off under the nose

of the disappointed Sprink, joining with the rest in one of the many fascinating dances of the Hungarian

But the song was only postponed. In every social function of the foreign colony, Kalman's singing was a

feature. The boy loved to sing and was ever ready to respond to any request for a song. So when the cry for a

song rose once more, Kalman was ready and eager. He sprang upon a beer keg and cried, "What shall it be?"

"'The Soldier's Bride,'" cried a voice, and Kalman began to sing. He had a beautiful face with regular

cleancut features, and the fair hair and blue grey eyes often seen in South Eastern Russia. As he sang, his

face reflected the passing shades of feeling in his heart as a windless lake the cloud and sunlight of a summer

sky. The song was a kind of Hungarian "Young Lochinvar." The soldier lover, young and handsome, is away

in the wars; the beautiful maiden, forced into a hateful union with a wealthy land owner, old and ugly, stands

before the priest at the altar. But hark! ere the fateful vows are spoken there is a clatter of galloping hoofs, a

manly form rushes in, hurls the groom insensible to the ground, snatches away the bride and before any can

interfere, is off on a coalblack steed, his bride before him. Let him follow who dares!

The boy had a voice of remarkable range and clearness, and he rendered the song with a verve and dramatic

force remarkable in one of his age. The song was received with wild cheers and loud demands for more. The

boy was about to refuse, when through the crowding faces, all aglow with enthusiastic delight, he saw the

"Yes, another song," he cried, and springing to the side of the musicians he hummed the air, and then took his

Before the musicians had finished the introductory bars, Irma came to his side and entreated, "Oh, Kalman,

But it was as though he did not hear her. His face was set and white, his blue eyes glowed black. He stood

with lips parted, waiting for the cue to begin. His audience, to most of whom the song was known, caught by

a mysterious telepathy the tense emotion of the boy, and stood silent and eager, all smiles gone from their

faces. The song was in the Ruthenian tongue, but was the heart cry of a Russian exile, a cry for freedom for

his native land, for death to the tyrant, for vengeance on the traitor. Nowhere in all the Czar's dominions

As the boy's strong, clear voice rang out in the last cry for vengeance, there thrilled in his tones an intensity

of passion that gripped hard the hearts of those who had known all their lives long the bitterness of tyranny

unspeakable. In the last word the lad's voice broke in a sob. Most of that company knew the boy's story, and

When the song was finished, there was silence for a few brief moments; then a man, a Russian, caught the

boy in his arms, lifted him on his shoulder and carried him round the room, the rest of the men madly

cheering. All but one. Trembling with inarticulate rage, Rosenblatt strode to the musicians.

"Listen!" he hissed with an oath. "Do I pay you for this? No more of this folly! Play up a czardas, and at

The musicians hastened to obey, and before the cheers had died, the strains of the czardas filled the room.

With the quick reaction from the tragic to the gay, the company swung into this joyous and exciting dance.

Samuel Sprink, seizing Irma, whirled her off into the crowd struggling and protesting, but all in vain. After

the dance there was a general rush for the beer keg, with much noise and goodnatured horse play. At the

other end of the room, however, there was a fierce struggle going on. Samuel Sprink, excited by the dance

and, it must be confessed, by an unusual devotion to the beer keg that evening, was still retaining his hold of

"Let me go!" cried the girl, struggling to free herself. "You must not touch me! Let me go!"

"Oh, come now, little one," said Samuel pleasantly, "don't be so mighty stiff about it. One kiss and I let you

"That's right, Samuel, my boy," shouted Rosenblatt; "she only wants coaxing just a little mucher."

Rosenblatt's words were followed by a chorus of encouraging cheers, for Samuel was not unpopular among

the men, and none could see any good reason why a girl should object to be kissed, especially by such a man

as Samuel, who was already so prosperous and who had such bright prospects for the future.

But Irma continued to struggle, till Kalman, running to her side, cried, "Let my sister go!"

"Go away, Kalman. I am not hurting your sister. It's only fun. Go away," said Sprink.

"Oh, go away, you leetle kid. Go away and sit down. You think yourself too much."

It was Rosenblatt's harsh voice. As he spoke, he seized the boy by the collar and with a quick jerk flung him

back among the crowd. It was as if he had fired some secret magazine of passion in the boy's heart. Uttering

the wild cry of a mad thing, Kalman sprang at him with such lightning swiftness that Rosenblatt was borne

back and would have fallen, but for those behind. Recovering himself, he dealt the boy a heavy blow in the

face that staggered him for a moment, but only for a moment. It seemed as if the boy had gone mad. With the

same wild cry, and this time with a knife open in his hand, he sprang at his hated enemy, stabbing quick,

fierce stabs. But this time Rosenblatt was ready. Taking the boy's stabs on his arm, he struck the boy a terrific

blow on the neck. As Kalman fell, he clutched and hung to his foe, who, seizing him by the throat, dragged

After they had passed through, the man shut the door and held it fast, keeping the crowd from getting out.

"Now," said Rosenblatt, dragging the halfinsensible boy around to the back of the house, "the time is come.

The chance is too good. You try to kill me, but there will be one less Kalmar in the world tonight. There

will be a little pay back of my debt to your cursed father. Take thatand that." As he spoke the words, he

struck the boy hard upon the head and face, and then flinging him down in the snow, proceeded deliberately

But even as he threw the boy down, a shrill screaming pierced through the quiet of the night, and from the

back of the house a little girl ran shrieking. "He is killing him! He is killing him!"

It was little Elizabeth Ketzel, who had been let in through the back window to hear Kalman sing, and who, at

the first appearance of trouble, had fled by the way she had entered, meeting Rosenblatt as he appeared

dragging the insensible boy through the snow. Her shrieks arrested the man in his murderous purpose. He

"What's the row, kiddie?" said a man, springing out. It was Dr. Wright, returning from a midnight trip to one

The doctor knelt beside the boy. "Great Caesar! It surely is my friend Kalman, and in a bad way. Some more

vendetta business, I have no doubt. Now what in thunder is that, do you suppose?" From the house came a

continuous shrieking. "Some more killing, I guess. Here, throw this robe about the boy while I see about

He ran to the door and kicked it open. It seemed as if the whole company of twenty or thirty men were every

man fighting. As the doctor paused to get his bearings, he saw across the room in the farthest corner, Irma

screaming as she struggled in the grasp of Samuel Sprink, and in the midst of the room Paulina fighting like a

demon and uttering strange weird cries. She was trying to force her way to the door.

As she caught sight of the doctor, she threw out her hands toward him with a loud cry. "Kalmankilling!

The doctor thrust himself forward through the struggling men, crying in a loud voice, "Here, you, let that

"What the deuce are you at, anyway, you men?" he continued, as Paulina and the girl sprang past him and out

"No," said one of the men. "Dis man," pointing to Sprink, "he mak fun wit de girl."

"Mighty poor fun," said the doctor, turning toward Sprink. "And who has been killing that boy outside?"

"It is that young devil Kalman, who has been trying to kill Mr. Rosenblatt," replied Sprink.

"Oh, indeed," said the doctor, "and what was the gentle Mr. Rosenblatt doing meantime?"

"Rosenblatt?" cried Jacob Wassyl, coming forward excitedly. "He mak for hurt dat boy. Dis man," pointing to

Sprink, "he try for kiss dat girl. Boy he say stop. Rosenblatt he trow boy back. Boy he fight."

"Look here, Jacob," said Dr. Wright, "you get these men's names this man," pointing to Sprink, "and a

dozen moreand we'll make this interesting for Rosenblatt in the police court tomorrow morning."

Outside the house the doctor found Paulina sitting in the snow with Kalman's head in her lap, swaying to and

fro muttering and groaning. Beside her stood Irma and Elizabeth Ketzel weeping wildly. The doctor raised

"Get into the cutter," he said to Paulina. Irma translated. The woman ran without a word, seated herself in the

"That will do," said the doctor, laying Kalman in her arms. "Now get some shawls, quilts or something for

"Now, Jacob," said the doctor, turning to Wassyl, who stood near, "you get me those names and we'll get

As he spoke, he sprang into his cutter and sent his horse off at a gallop, for by the boy's breathing he felt that

A map of Western Canada showing the physical features of the country lying between the mountains on the

one side and the Bay and the Lakes on the other, presents the appearance of a vast rolling plain scarred and

seamed and pitted like an ancient face. These scars and seams and pits are great lazy rivers, meandering

streams, lakes, sleughs and marshes which form one vast system of waters that wind and curve through the

rolls of the prairie and nestle in its sunlit hollows, laying, draining, blessing where they go and where they

By these, the countless herds of buffalo and deer quenched their thirst in the days when they, with their rival

claimants for the land, the Black Feet and the Crees, roamed undisturbed over these mighty plains. These

waterways in later days when The Honourable the Hudson's Bay Company ruled the West, formed the great

highways of barter. By these teeming lakes and sleughs and marshes hunted and trapped Indians and

halfbreeds. Down these streams and rivers floated the great fur brigades in canoe and Hudson's Bay pointer

with priceless bales of pelts to the Bay in the north or the Lakes in the south, on their way to that centre of the

world's trade, old London. And up these streams and rivers went the great loads of supplies and merchandise

for the faraway posts that were at once the seats of government and the emporiums of trade in this wide land.

Following the canoe and Hudson's Bay boat, came the river barge and sidewheeler, and with these,

competing for trade, the overland freighter with ox train and pack pony, with Red River cart and shagginappi.

Still later, up these same waterways and along these trails came settlers singly or in groups, the daring

vanguard of an advancing civilization, and planted themselves as pleased their fancy in choice spots, in sunny

nooks sheltered by bluffs, by gemlike lakes or flowing streams, but mostly on the banks of the great rivers,

the highways for their trade, the shining links that held them to their kind. Some there were among those

hardy souls who, severing all bonds behind them, sought only escape from their fellow men and from their

past. These left the great riverways and freighting trails, and pressing up the streams to distant head waters,

there pitched their camp and there, in lonely, lordly independence, took rich toll of prairie, lake and stream as

Such a man was Jack French, and such a spot was Night Hawk Lake, whose shining waters found a tortuous

escape four miles away by Night Hawk Creek into the South Saskatchewan, king of rivers.

The two brothers, Jack and Herbert French, of good old English stock, finding life in the trim downs of

Devon too confined and wearisome for their adventurous spirits, fell to walking seaward over the high head

lands, and to listening and gazing, the soft spray dashing wet upon their faces, till they found eyes and ears

filled with the sights and sounds of far, wide plains across the sea that called and beckoned, till in the middle

seventies, with their mother's kiss trembling on their brows and on their lips, and their father's almost stern

benediction stiffening their backs, they fared forth to the far West, and found themselves on the black trail

that wound up the Red River of the North and reached the straggling hamlet of Winnipeg.

There, in one of Winnipeg's homes, they found generous welcome and a maiden, guarded by a stern old timer

for a father and four stalwart plainriding brothers, but guarded all in vain, for laughing at all such guarding,

the two brothers with the hot selfishness of young love, each unaware of the other's intent, sought to rifle that

To Herbert, the younger, that ardent pirate of her heart, the maiden struck her flaming flag, and on the same

night, with fearful dismay, she sought pardon of the elder brother that she could not yield him like surrender.

With pale appealing face and kind blue eyes, she sought forgiveness for her poverty.

"Oh, Mr. French," she cried, "if I only could! But I cannot give you what is Herbert's now."

"And oh, Jack," she cried again with sweet selfishness, "you will love Herbert still, and me?"

And Jack, having had a moment in which to summon up the reserves of his courage and his command, smiled

into her appealing eyes, kissed her pale face, and still smiling, took his way, unseeing and unheeding all but

those appealing, tearful eyes and that pleading voice asking with sweet selfishness only his life.

Three months he roamed the plains alone, finding at length one sunny day, Night Hawk Lake, whose fair and

lonely wildness seemed to suit his mood, and there he pitched his camp. Thence back to Winnipeg a month

later to his brother's wedding, and that over, still smiling, to take his way again to Night Hawk Lake, where

He passed his days at first in building house and stables from the poplar bluffs at hand, and later in growing

with little toil from the rich black land and taking from prairie, lake and creek with rifle and with net, what

was necessary for himself and his man, the Scotch halfbreed Mackenzie, all the while forgetting till he

could forget no longer, and then with Mackenzie drinking deep and long till remembering and forgetting were

After five years he returned to Winnipeg to stand by her side whose image lived ever in his heart, while they

closed down the coffin lid upon the face dearest to her, dearest but one to him of all faces in the world. Then

when he had comforted her with what comfort he had to give, he set face again toward Night Hawk Lake,

leaving her, because she so desired it, alone but for her aged mother, bereft of all, husband, brothers, father,

And Jack, smiling bravely still, went on his way and for a whole year lived for the monthly letter that

The last letter of the year brought him the word that she was alone. That night Jack French packed his

buckboard with grub for his sixhundredmile journey, and at the end of the third week, for the trail was

heavy on the Portage Plains, he drove his limping broncho up the muddy Main Street of Winnipeg.

When the barber had finished with him, he set forth to find his brother's wife, who, seeing him, turned deadly

"Oh, Jack!" she said at length, with a great pity in her voice, "poor Jack! why did you come?"

"To make you a home with me," said Jack, looking at her with eyes full of longing, "and wherever you

choose, here or yonder at the Night Hawk Ranch, which is much better,"at which her tears began to flow.

"Dear Jack! Poor Jack!" she said again, and fell to sobbing bitterly till he forgot his own grief in hers. "I love

"And I must keep my heart for him till I see him again." Her voice sank to a whisper, but she stood bravely

looking into his eyes, her two hands holding down her fluttering heart as if in fear that it might escape.

"Yes, Jack, my brother, my dear, dear brother," she said, "it is the last. And oh, Jack, I have had much sorrow,

but none more bitter than this!" And sobbing uncontrollably, she laid herself on his breast.

He held her to him, stroking her beautiful hair, his brown hand trembling and his strong face twisting

"Don't cry, dear Margaret. Don't cry like that. I won't make you weep. Never mind. You could not help it.

Then when she grew quiet again he kissed her and went out, smiling back at her as he went, and for fifteen

But month by month there came a letter telling him of her and her work, and this helped him to forget his

pain. But more and more often as the years went on, Jack French and his man Mackenzie sat long nights in

the bare ranch house with a bottle between them, till Mackenzie fell under the table and Jack with his hard

head and his lonely heart was left by himself, staring at the fire if in winter, or out of the window at the lake if

in summer, till the light on the water grew red, to his great hurt in body and in soul.

One spring day in the sixteenth year, in the middle of the month of May, when Jack had driven to the

Crossing for supplies, an unexpected letter met him, which gave him much concern and changed forever the

'MY DEAR JACK,You have not yet answered my last, you bad boy, but you know I do not wait for

answers, or you would seldom hear from me.' "And that's true enough," murmured Jack. 'But this is a special

letter, and is to ask you to do a great thing for me, a very great thing. Indeed, you may not be able to do it at

all.' "Indeed!" said Jack. 'And if you cannot do it, I trust you to tell me so.' "Trust me! well rather," said Jack

'You know something of my work among the Galicians, but you do not know just how sad it often is. They

are poor ignorant creatures, but really they have kind hearts and have many nice things.' "By Jove! She'd find

good points in the very devil himself!" 'And I know you would pity them if you knew them, especially the

women and the children. The women have to work so hard, and the children are growing up wild, learning

little of the good and much of the bad that Winnipeg streets can teach them.' "Heaven help them of their

'Well, I must tell you what I want. You remember seeing in the papers that I sent you some years ago, the

account of that terrible murder by a Russian Nihilist named Kalmar, and you remember perhaps how he

nearly killed a horrid man who had treated him badly, very badly, named Rosenblatt. Well, perhaps you

remember that Kalmar escaped from the penitentiary, and has not been heard of since. His wife and children

have somehow come under the power of this Rosenblatt again. He has got a mortgage on her house and

forces the woman to do his will. The woman is a poor stupid creature, and she has just slaved away for this

man. The boy is different. He is a fine handsome little fellow, thirteen or fourteen years old, who makes his

living selling newspapers and, I am afraid, is learning a great many things that he would be better without.'

"Which is true of more than him," growled Jack. 'Of course, he does not like Rosenblatt. A little while ago

there was a dance and, as always at the dances, that awful beer! The men got drunk and a good deal of

fighting took place. Rosenblatt and a friend of his got abusing the girl. The boy flew at him and wounded him

with a knife.' "And served him jolly well right," said Jack with an oath. 'And then Rosenblatt nearly killed

him and threw him out in the snow. There he would have certainly died, had not Dr. Wright happened along

and carried him to the hospital, where he has been ever since. The doctor had Rosenblatt up before the Court,

but he brought a dozen men to swear that the boy was a bad and dangerous boy and that he was only

defending himself. Fancy a great big man against a boy thirteen! Well, would you believe it, Rosenblatt

escaped and laid a charge against the boy, and would actually have had him sent to jail, but I went to the

magistrate and offered to take him and find a home for him outside of the city.' "Good brave little lady!

'I thought of you, Jack.' "Bless your kind little heart," said Jack. 'And I knew that if you could get him you

would make a man of him.' "Aha! You did!" exclaimed Jack. 'Here he is getting worse and worse every day.

He is so quick and so clever, he has never been to school, but he reads and speaks English well. He is very

popular with his own people, for he is a wonderful singer, and they like him at their feasts. And I have heard

that he is as fond of beer as any of them. He was terribly battered, but he is all right again, and has been living

with his sister and his step mother in the house of a friend of his father's. But I have promised to get him out

of the city, and if I do not, I know Rosenblatt will be after him. Besides this, I am afraid something will

happen if he remains. The boy says quite quietly, but you can't help feeling that he means it, that he will kill

Rosenblatt some day. It is terribly sad, for he is such a nice boy.' "Seems considerable of an angel," agreed

Jack. 'I am afraid you will have to teach him a good many things, Jack, for he has some bad habits. But if he

is with you and away from the bad people he meets with here, I am sure he will soon forget the bad things he

'This is a long letter, dear Jack. How I should like to go up to Night Hawk Ranch and see you, for I know you

will not come to Winnipeg, and we do not see enough of each other. We ought to, for my sake and for

Herbert's too.' "Ah God! and what of me?" groaned Jack. 'I cannot begin to thank you for all your kindness.

And, Jack, you must stop sending me money, for I do not need it and I will not use it, and I just keep putting

what you send me in the bank for you. The Lord has given me many friends, and He never has allowed me to

'I shall wait two weeks, and then send you Kalmanthat is his name, Kalman Kalmar, a nice name, isn't it?

And he is a dear good boy; that is, be might be.' "Good heart, so might we all," cried Jack. 'But I love him just

as he is.' "Happy boy." 'Wouldn't it be fine if you could make him a good man? How much he might do for

his peoples! And if he stays here he will get to be terrible, for his father was terrible, although, poor man, it

'This is a long rambling letter, dear Jack, but you will forgive me. I sometimes get pretty tired.' And Jack's

brown lean hand closed swiftly. 'There is so much to do. But I am pretty well and I have many kind friends.

So much to do, so many sick and poor and lonely. They need a friend. The Winnipeg people are very kind,

'Now, my dear Jack, will you do for Kalman all you can? Andmay I say it?remember, he is just a boy. I

do not want to preach to you, but he needs to be under the care of a good man, and that is why I send him to

There was a grim look on Jack French's face as he finished reading the letter the second time.

"You're a good one," he said, "and you have a wise little head as well as a tender heart. Don't want to preach

to me, eh? But you get your work in all the same. Two weeks! Let's see, this letter has been four weeks on the

wayup to Edmonton and back! By Jove! That boy ought to be along with Macmillan's outfit. I say,

Jimmy," this to Jimmy Green, who, besides representing Her Majesty in the office of Postmaster, was general

And this turned out an unhappy necessity for Jack French, for when the Macmillan outfit drove up to the

Crossing he was lying incapable and dead to all around, in Jimmy Green's back store.

Straight across the country, winding over plains, around sleughs, threading its way through bluffs, over

prairie undulations, fording streams and crossing rivers, and so making its course northwest from Winnipeg

Macmillan was the last of that farfamed and adventurous body of men who were known all through the

western country for their skill, their courage, their endurance in their profession of freighters from Winnipeg

to the far outpost of Edmonton and beyond into the Peace River and Mackenzie River districts. The building

of railroads cut largely into their work, and gradually the freighters faded from the trails. Old Sam Macmillan

was among the last of his tribe left upon the Edmonton trail. He was a master in his profession. In the packing

of his goods with their almost infinite variety, in the making up of his load, he was possessed of marvellous

Macmillan was a big silent Irishman, raw boned, hardy, and with a highly developed genius for handling ox

or horse teams of any size in a difficult bit of road, and possessing as well a unique command of picturesque

and varied profanity. These gifts he considered as necessarily related, and the exercise of each was always in

conjunction with the other, for no man ever heard Macmillan swear in ordinary conversation or on

commonplace occasions. But when his team became involved in a sleugh, it was always a point of doubt

whether he aroused more respect and admiration in his attendants by his rare ability to get the last ounce of

hauling power out of his team or by the artistic vividness and force of the profanity expended in producing

this desired result. It is related that on an occasion when he had as part of his load the worldly effects of an

Anglican Bishop en route to his heroic mission to the far North, the good Bishop, much grieved at

Macmillan's profanity, urged upon him the unnecessary character of this particular form of encouragement.

"Is it swearing Your Riverence objects to?" said Macmillan, whose vocabulary still retained a slight flavour

But the Bishop could not be persuaded of this, and urged upon Macmillan the necessity of eliminating this

"Just as you say, Your Riverence. I ain't hurried this trip and we'll do our best."

The next bad sleugh brought opportunity to make experiment of the new system. The team stuck fast in the

black muck, and every effort to extricate them served only to imbed them more hopelessly in the sticky

gumbo. Time passed on. A dark and lowering night was imminent. The Bishop grew anxious. Macmillan,

with whip and voice, encouraged his team, but all in vain. The Bishop's anxiety increased with the approach

"It is growing late, Mr. Macmillan, and it looks like rain. Something must be done."

"It does that, Your Lordship, but the brutes won't pull half their own weight without I speak to them in the

The good man was in a sore strait. Another half hour passed, and still with no result. It was imperative that

his goods should be brought under cover before the storm should break. Again the good Bishop urged

"Well, I'll tell Your Lordship, it's one of two things, stick or swear, and there's nothing else for it."

"Well, well, Mr. Macmillan," said the Bishop resignedly, "we must get on. Do as you think best, but I take no

responsibility in the matter." At which Pilate's counsel he retired from the scene, leaving Macmillan an

Macmillan seized the reins from the ground, and walking up and down the length of his sixhorse team,

began to address them singly and in the mass in terms so sulphurously descriptive of their ancestry, their

habits, and their physical and psychological characteristics, that when he gave the word in a mighty

culminating roar of blasphemous excitation, each of the bemired beasts seemed to be inspired with a special

demon, and so exerted itself to the utmost limit of its powers that in a single minute the load stood high and

One other characteristic made Macmillan one of the most trusted of the freighters upon the trail. While in

charge of his caravan he was an absolute teetotaler, making up, however, for this abstinence at the end of the

It was to Mr. Macmillan's care that Mrs. French had committed Kalman with many and anxious injunctions,

and it is Macmillan's due to say that every moment of that four weeks' journey was one of undiluted delight to

the boy, although it is to be feared that not the least enjoyable moments in that eventful journey were those

when he stood lost in admiration while his host, with the free use of his sulphurously psychological lever,

pried his team out of the frequent sleughs that harassed the trail. And before Macmillan had delivered up his

charge, his pork and hard tack, aided by the ardent suns and sweeping winds of the prairie, had done their

work, so that it was a brown and thoroughly hardy looking lad that was handed over to Jimmy Green at the

"Here is Jack French's boy," said Macmillan. "And it's him that's got the ear for music. In another trip he'll

dust them horses out of a hole with any of us. Swear! Well, I should smile! By the powers! he makes me feel

"Attend to your own business, sir," said Jack French, whose dignity grew and whose temper shortened with

"Oh, there's nothing to it, Jack," said Macmillan. "I was telling Jimmy here that that's a mighty smart boy of

"I'll break his back," growled Jack French, his face distorted with a scowl. "Look here, boy," he continued,

whirling fiercely upon the lad, "you are sent to me by the best woman on earth to make a man of you, and I'll

have no swearing on my ranch," delivering himself of which sentiment punctuated by a feu de joie of

muddled oaths, he lurched away into the back shop and fell into a drunken sleep, leaving the boy astonished

"Yes, boy, that's her brother," said Macmillan. "But that is not himself any more than a mad dog. Jimmy here

has been filling him up," shaking his finger at the culprit, "which he had no right to do, knowing Jack French

"Oh, come on, Mac," said Jimmy apologetically. "You know Jack French, and when he gets agoin' could I

Next morning when Kalman came forth from the loft which served Jimmy Green as store room for his

marvellously varied merchandise, he found that Macmillan had long since taken the trail and was by this time

miles on his journey toward Edmonton. The boy was lonely and sick at heart. Macmillan had been a friend to

him, and had constituted the last link that held him to the life he had left behind in the city. It was to

Macmillan that the little white faced lady who was to the boy the symbol of all that was high and holy in

character, had entrusted him for safe deliverance to her brother Jack French. Kalman had spent an unhappy

night, his sleep being broken by the recurring vision of the fierce and bloated face of the man who had cursed

him and threatened him on the previous evening. The boy had not yet recovered from the horror and surprise

of his discovery that this drunken and brutalized creature was the noblehearted brother into whose keeping

his friend and benefactress had given him. That a man should drink himself drunk was nothing to his

discredit in Kalman's eyes, but that Mrs. French's brother, the loved and honoured gentleman whom she had

taught him to regard as the ideal of all manly excellence, should turn out to be this bloated and foulmouthed

bully, shocked him inexpressibly. From these depressing thoughts he was aroused by a cheery voice.

He turned quickly and beheld a tall, strongly made and handsome man of middle age, clean shaven, neatly

"No, sir," he stammered, with unusual politeness in his tone, and staring with all his eyes.

It was Jack French who addressed him, but this handsome, kindly, well groomed man was so different from

the man who had reeled over him and poured forth upon him his abusive profanity the night before, that his

"Well, boy," said Jack French, "you must be hungry. Jimmy, anything left for the boy?"

"Lots, Jack," said Jimmy eagerly, as if relieved to see him clothed again and in his right mind. "The very best.

Here, boy, set in here." He opened a door which led into a side room where the remains of breakfast were

disclosed upon the table. "Bacon and eggs, my boy, eggs! mind you, and Hudson's Bay biscuit and black

The boy, still lost in wonder, fell to with a great access of good cheer, and made a hearty meal, while outside

he could hear Jack French's clear, cheery, commanding voice directing the packing of his buckboard.

The packing of the buckboard was a business calling for some skill. In the box seat were stowed away

groceries and small parcels for the ranch and for settlers along the trail. Upon the boards behind the seat were

loaded and roped securely, sides of pork, a sack of flour, and various articles for domestic use. Last of all, and

with great care, French disposed a mysterious case packed with straw, the contents of which were perfectly

The buckboard packed, there followed the process of hitching up,a process at once spectacular and full of

exciting incident, for the trip to the Crossing was to the bronchos, unbroken even to the halter, their first

experience in the ways of civilized man. Wild, timid and fiercely vicious, they were brought in from their

night pickets on a rope, holding back hard, plunging, snorting, in terror, and were tied up securely in an out

shed. There was no time spent in gentle persuasion. French took a collar and without hesitation, but without

haste, walked quietly to the side of one of the shuddering ponies, a buckskin, and paying no heed to its frantic

plunging, slipped it over his neck, keeping close to the pony's side and crowding it hard against the wall. The

rest of the harness offered more difficulty. The pony went wild at every approach of the trailing straps and

buckles. Kalman looked on in admiration while French, without loss of temper, without oath or objurgation,

"Have to put a hitch on him, Jimmy, I guess," said French after he had failed in repeated attempts.

Jimmy took a thin strong line of rope, put a running noose around the pony's jaw, threw the end over its neck

and back through the noose again, thus making a most cruel bridle, and gave the rope a single sharp jerk. The

broncho fell back upon its haunches, and before it had recovered from its pain and surprise, French had the

The second pony, a piebald or pinto, needed no "Commache hitch," but submitted to the harnessing process

But this was easier said than done, for the buckskin after being faced toward the door, set his feet firmly in

Kalman sprang forward with a stick in his hand, dodged under the poles which formed the sides of the stall,

and laid a resounding whack upon the pony's flank. There was a flash of heels, a bang on the shed wall, a

plunge forward, and the pony was found clear of the shed and Kalman senseless on the ground.

"Jimmy, you eternal fool!" cried French, "hold this rope!" He ran to the boy and picked him up in his arms.

He laid the insensible lad on the grass, ran for a pail of water and dashed a portion of it in his face. In a few

moments the boy opened his eyes with a long deep sigh, and closed them again as if in contented slumber.

French took a flask from his pocket, opened the boy's mouth, and poured some of its contents between his

lips. At once Kalman began to cough, sat up, gazed around in a stupid manner upon the ponies and the men.

"Judas priest!" exclaimed Jimmy, using his favourite oath. "He means the broncho."

"By Jove! he IS out, boy," said French, "and you are as near out as you are likely to be for some time to

"Listen here, boy," said Jimmy Green solemnly, "when you go to hit a broncho again, don't take anything

The boy said nothing in reply, but got up and began to walk about, still pale and dazed.

"It is exceptionally lucky that you were standing so near the little beast," said French to the boy. "Get into the

Kalman climbed in, and from that point of vantage watched the rest of the hitching process. By skillful

manoeuvering the two men led, backed, shoved the ponies into position, and while one held them by the

heads, the other hitched the traces. Carefully French looked over all straps and buckles, drew the lines free,

and then mounting the buckboard seat, said quietly, "Stand clear, Jimmy. Let them go." Which Jimmy

For a few moments they stood surprised at their unexpected freedom, and uncertain what to do with it, then

they moved off slowly a few steps till the push of the buckboard threw them into a sudden terror, and the

fight was on. Plunging, backing, kicking, jibing, they finally bolted, fortunately choosing the trail that led in

"Goodby, Jimmy. See you later," sang out French as, with cool head and steady hand, he directed the

"Jumpin' cats!" replied Jimmy soberly, "don't look as if you would," as the bronchos tore up the river bank at

Before they reached the top French had them in hand, and going more smoothly, though still running at top

speed. Kalman sat clinging to the rocking, pitching buckboard, his eyes alight and his face aglow with

excitement. There was stirring in the boy's brain a dim and faraway memory of wild rides over the steppes

of Southern Russia, and French, glancing now and then at his glowing face, nodded grim approval.

Kalman looked up and smiled, and then with a great oath he cried, "Let them go!"

Jack French was startled. He hauled up the ponies sharply and turned to the boy at his side.

"No, no," he said vehemently, "never her." Then after a pause and an evident struggle, "She wants me to stop,

"Boy," repeated French with added solemnity, "swearing is a foolish and unnecessary evil. There is no

"I will not," said the boy promptly, "for I would break my word. Don't you swear?"

French hesitated, and then as if forming a sudden resolution he replied, "When you hear me swear you can

begin. And if you don't mean to quit, don't promise. A gentleman always keeps his word."

The boy looked him steadily in the eye and then said, as if pondering this remark, "I remember. I know. My

French forbore to press the matter further, but for both man and boy an attempt at a new habit of speech

Once clear of the Saskatchewan River, the trail led over rolling prairie, set out with numerous "bluffs" of

western maple and poplar, and diversified with sleughs and lakes of varying size, a country as richly fertile

and as fair to look upon as is given the eyes of man to behold anywhere in God's good world. In the dullest

weather this rolling, treedecked, sleughgemmed prairie presents a succession of scenes surpassingly

beautiful, but with a westering sun upon it, and on a May day, it offers such a picture as at once entrances the

soul and lives forever in the memory. The waving lines, the rounded hills, the changing colour, the chasing

shadows on grass and bluff and shimmering water, all combine to make in the soul high music unto God.

For an hour and more the buckboard hummed along the trail smooth and winding, the bronchos pulling hard

on the lines without a sign of weariness, till the bluffs began to grow thicker and gradually to close into a

solid belt of timber. Beyond this belt of timber lay the Ruthenian Colony but newly placed. The first

intimation of the proximity of this colony came in quite an unexpected way. Swinging down a sharp hill

through a bluff, the bronchos came upon a man with a yoke of oxen hauling a load of hay. Before their course

could be checked the ponies had pitched heavily into the slow moving and terrified oxen, and so disconcerted

them that they swerved from the trail and upset the load. Immediately there rose a volley of shrill execrations

"Whoa, buck! Steady there!" cried Jack French cheerily as he steered his team past the wreck. "Too bad that,

He tied the bronchos securely to a tree and went back to offer aid. The Galician, a heavilybuilt man, was

standing on the trail with a stout stake in his hand, viewing the ruins of his load and expressing his emotions

in voluble Galician profanity with a bad mixture of halting and broken English. Kalman stood beside French

"Oh, well, it will do him good. He will feel better when he gets it all out. And besides, he has rather good

"He says he is going to kill you," said Kalman in a low voice, keeping close to French's side.

"Oh! indeed," said French cheerfully, walking straight upon the man. "That is awkward. But perhaps he will

The Galician, who had recovered something of his fury, damped to a certain extent by French's calm and

cheerful demeanour, began to gesticulate with his stake. French turned his back upon him and proceeded to

ascertain the extent of the wreck, and to advise a plan for its repair. As he stooped to examine the wagon for

breakages, the wrathful Galician suddenly swung his club in the air, but before the blow fell, Kalman

This unexpected cry in his own speech served at once to disconcert the Galician's aim, and to warn his

intended victim. French, springing quickly aside, avoided the blow and with one stride he was upon the

Galician, wrenched the stake from his grasp, and, taking him by the back of the neck, faced him toward the

front wheels of the wagon, saying, as he did so, "Here, you idiot! take hold and pull."

The strength of that grip on his neck produced a salutary effect upon the excited Galician. He stood a few

"Tell the fool," said French to Kalman quietly, "to get hold of those front wheels and pull."

"Would have if you hadn't yelled. I'll remember that too, my boy. But he didn't, and he won't get another

Kalman turned to the subdued and uncertain Galician, and poured forth a volume of angry abuse while he

directed him as to his present duty. Humbly enough the Galician took hold, and soon the wagon was put to

rights, and after half an hour's work, was loaded again and ready for its further journey.

By this time the man had quite recovered his temper and stood for some time after all was ready, silent and

embarrassed. Then he began to earnestly address French, with eager gesticulations.

"He says he is very sorry, and feels very bad here," said Kalman, pointing to his heart, "and he wants to do

"Tell him," said French cheerfully, "only a fool loses his temper, and only a cad uses a club or a knife when

"No, a cad. Don't you know what a cad is? Well, a cad ishanged if I know how to put ityou know what a

The Galician listened attentively while Kalman explained, and made humble and deprecating reply.

"He says," interpreted Kalman, "that he is very sorry, but he wants to know what you fight with. You can't

The Galician came up smiling, and French proceeded to give him his first lesson in the manly art, Kalman

Tap, tap, tap, the knuckles went rapping on the man's forehead, despite his flying arms.

"Come, come," said French, reaching him sharply on the cheek with his open hand, "try better than that."

Again the Galician struck heavily with his huge fists, and again French, easily parrying, tapped him once,

twice, thrice, where he would, drawing tears to the man's eyes. The Galician paused with a scornful

Again the Galician came forward, evidently determined to land one blow at least. But French, taking the blow

on his guard, replied with a heavy lefthander fair on the Galician's chest, lifted him clear off his feet and

hurled him breathless against his load of hay. The man recovered himself, grinning sheepishly, nodding his

"That is enough. He says he would like to learn how to do that. That is better than a club," interpreted

"Tell him that his people must learn to fight without club or knife. We won't stand that in this country. It

Kalman translated, his own face fiery red meanwhile, and his own appearance one of humiliation. He was

And so they parted, Kalman carrying with him an uncomfortable sense of having been at various times in his

life something of a cad, and a fear lest this painful fact should be known to his new master and friend.

"Well, youngster," said French, noticing his glum face, "you did me a good turn that time. That beggar had

Kalman brightened up under his words, and without further speech, each busy with himself, they sped along

But the Edmonton trail that day set its mark on the lives of boy and man,a mark that was never obliterated.

To Kalman the day brought a new image of manhood. Of all the men whom he knew there was none who

could command his loyalty and enthral his imagination. It is true, his father had been such a man, but now his

father moved in dim shadow across the horizon of his memory. Here was a man within touch of his hand who

illustrated in himself those qualities that to a boy's heart and mind combine to make a hero. With what ease

and courage and patience and perfect selfcommand he had handled those plunging bronchos! The same,

qualities too, in a higher degree, had marked his interview with the wrathful and murderous Galician, and, in

addition, all that day Kalman had been conscious of a consideration and a quickness of sympathy in his

moods that revealed in this man of rugged strength and forceful courage a subtle something that marks the

finer temper and nobler spirit, the temper and the spirit of the gentleman. Not that Kalman could name this

thing, but to his sensitive soul it was this in the man that made appeal and that called forth his loyal homage.

To French, too, the day had brought thoughts and emotions that had not stirred within him since those days of

younger manhood twenty years ago when the world was still a place of dreams and life a tourney where glory

might be won. The boy's face, still with its spiritual remembrances in spite of all the sordidness of his past,

the utter and obvious surrender of soul that shone from his eyes, made the man almost shudder with a new

horror of the foulness that twenty years of wild license upon the plains had flung upon him. A fierce hate of

what he had become, an appalling vision of what he was expected to be, grew upon him as the day drew to a

close. Gladly would he have refused the awful charge of this young soul as yet unruined that so plainly

exalted him to a place among the gods, but for a vision that he carried ever in his heart of a face sad and

"No, by Jove!" he said to himself between his shut teeth, "I can't funk it. I'd be a cad if I did."

And with these visions and these resolvings they, boy and man, swung off from the Edmonton trail black and

well worn, and into the halfbeaten track that led to Wakota, the centre of the Galician colony.

Wakota, consisting of the mudhouse of a Galician homesteader who owned a forge and did blacksmithing

for the colony in a primitive way, they left behind half an hour before nightfall, with ten miles of bad going

still before them. The trail wound through bluffs and around sleughs, dived into coulees and across black

creeks, and only the most skilful handling could have piloted the bronchos through.

It was long after dark when they reached the ravine of the Night Hawk Creek, through which they must pass

before arriving at the Lake. Down the sides of this ravine they zigzagged, dodging trees and boulders till they

came to the last sharp pitch, at the foot of which ran the Creek. During this whole descent Kalman sat

clinging to the back and side of the seat, expecting every moment to have the buckboard turn turtle over him,

but when they reached the edge of the final pitch, were it not for sheer shame, he would have begged

permission to scramble down on hands and knees rather than trust himself to the swaying, pitching vehicle. A

moment French held his bronchos steady, poised on the brink of this rocky steep, and then reaching back, he

seized the hind wheel and, holding it fast, used it as a drag, while the bronchos slid down on their haunches

over the mass of gravel and rolling stones till they reached the bed of the Creek in safety. A splash through

the water, a scramble up the other bank, a long climb, and they were out again on the prairie. A mile of good

trail and they were at home, welcomed by the baying of two huge Russian wolf hounds.

Through the dim light Kalman could discover the outlines of what seemed a long heap of logs, but what he

afterwards discovered to be a series of low log structures which did for house, stable and sheds of various

After some time Mackenzie appeared with a lantern, a short, grizzled, thickset man, rubbing his eyes and

"I nefer thought you would be coming home tonight," he said. "What brought ye at this time?"

"Never mind, Mac," said French. "Get the horses out, and Kalman and I will unload this stuff."

In what seemed to be an outer shed, they deposited the pork, flour, and other articles that composed the load.

"You won't, eh?" replied French in rather a shamed tone. "Do you know what it is?"

"Why, sure," said Kalman. "Lots of that stuff used to come into our home in Winnipeg."

"Well, let me have the case," said French. "And you needn't say anything to Mac about it. Mac is all right, but

"That's just it, my boy. He is unhappy while it's outside of him. He's got Indian blood in him, you see, and

he'd die for whiskey." So saying, French took up the case and carried it to the inner room and stowed it away

But as he rose up from making this disposition of the dangerous stuff Mac himself appeared in the room.

"Oh, nothing at all," said Mackenzie, whose strong Highland accent went strangely with his soft Indian voice

French stood for a moment in disgusted silence, and then breaking into a laugh he said: "All right, Mac.

There's no use trying to keep it from you. But, mind you, it's fair play in this thing. Last time, you remember,

"Oh, well, well," said Mackenzie cheerfully, "it will not be for long anyway, more's the peety."

"Now then, get us a bite of supper, Mackenzie," said French sharply, "and let us to bed."

Some wild duck and some bannock with black molasses, together with strong black tea, made a palatable

supper after a long day on the breezy prairie. After supper the men sat smoking.

"They are sowed, but not harrowed yet. I will be doing that to morrow in the morning."

"What in thunder were you waiting for? Those potatoes should have been in ten days ago. It's hardly worth

"Garneau promised to bring them ofer," said Mackenzie, "but you cannot tell anything at all about that man."

"Well, we must get them in at once. We must not lose another day. And now let's get to bed. The boy here

will sleep in the bunk," pointing to a largesized box which did for a couch. "Get some blankets for him,

"There, Kalman," said French, while Mackenzie arranged the blankets, "will that do?"

"Fine," said the boy, who could hardly keep his eyes open and who in five minutes after he had tumbled in

It seemed as if he had been asleep but a few moments when he was wakened by a rude shock. He started up

"Here, you pig!" French was saying in a stern undertone, "can't you tell when you have had enough? Come

"Oh, yes, yes," grumbled Mackenzie, "and I know well what you will be doing after I am in bed, and never a

"Get on, you beast!" said French in tones of disgusted dignity, pushing the man before him into the next

Kalman was wide awake, but, feigning sleep, watched French as he sat with gloomy face, drinking steadily

till even his hard head could stand no more, and he swayed into the inner room and fell heavily on the bed.

Kalman waited till French was fast asleep, then rising quietly, pulled off his boots, threw a blanket over him,

put out the lamp and went back to the bunk. The spectre of the previous night which had been laid by the

events of the day came back to haunt his broken slumber. For hours he tossed, and not till morning began to

Broad morning wakened him to unpleasant memories, and more unpleasant realities. French was still

sleeping heavily. Mackenzie was eating breakfast, with a bottle beside him on the table.

"You will find a basin on the bench outside," observed Mackenzie, pointing to the open door.

When Kalman returned from his ablutions, the bottle had vanished, and Mackenzie, with breath redolent of

its contents, had ready for him a plate of porridge, to which he added black molasses. This, with toasted

bannock, the remains of the cold duck of the night before, and strong black tea, constituted his breakfast.

Kalman hurried through his meal, for he hated to meet French as he woke from his sleep.

"No, not him, nor denner either, like as not. It iss a good thing he has a man to look after the place," said

Mackenzie with the pride of conscious fidelity. "We will just be going on with the oats and the pitaties. You

"I don't know," repeated Kalman, shrinking very considerably in his own estimation.

"Winnipeg? I know it well. I used to. But that was long ago. But did ye nefer drive a team?"

"Well, well," said Mackenzie. "He iss a quare man at times, and does quare things."

"Hoot! toot!" he said. "Who was denyin' ye? He iss all that, but he iss mighty quare, as you will find out. But

The stable was a tumbledown affair, and sorely needing attention, as, indeed, was the case with the ranch

and all its belongings. A team of horses showing signs of hard work and poor care, with harness patched with

rope and rawhide thongs, were waiting in the stable. Even to Kalman's inexperienced eyes it was a deplorable

There was little done in the way of cultivation of the soil upon the Night Hawk Ranch. The market was far

away, and it was almost impossible to secure farm labour. The wants of French and his household were few.

A couple of fields of oats and barley for his horses and pigs and poultry, another for potatoes, for which he

found ready market at the Crossing and in the lumber camps up among the hills, exhausted the agricultural

Kalman concentrated his attention upon the process of hitching the team to the harrows, and then followed

Mackenzie up and down the field as he harrowed in the oats. It seemed a simple enough matter to guide the

"A rest, iss it? You will be getting tired early. And who is keeping you from a rest?" said Mackenzie, whose

"Well, try it, and I will walk along side of you," said Mackenzie, with apparent reluctance.

The attempt was eminently successful, but Kalman was quick both with hands and head. After the second

round Mackenzie allowed the boy to go alone, remaining in the shade and calling out directions across the

field. The result was to both a matter of unmixed delight. With Kalman there was the gratification of the

boy's passion for the handling of horses, and as for Mackenzie, while on the trail or on the river, he was

indefatigable, in the field he had the Indian hatred of steady work. To lie and smoke on the grass in the shade

But after a time Mackenzie grew restless. His cup of bliss still lacked a drop to fill it.

"Just keep them moving," he cried to Kalman. "I will need to go to the house a meenit."

"All right. Don't hurry for me," said Kalman, proud of his new responsibility and delighted with his new

"Keep them straight, mind. And watch your turning," warned Mackenzie. "I will be coming back soon."

"Man, but you are the smart lad," he said as Kalman swung his team around. "You will be making a great

"There is no occasion for shouting. I am not deef, Callum, my boy. Go on. Go on with your harrows," he

Kalman drew near and regarded him narrowly. The truth was clear to his experienced eyes.

"Hoot, toot! Callum man," said Mackenzie in tones of grieved remonstrance, "how would you be saying that

"Good boy," said Mackenzie with a paternal smile, waving the boy on his way while he betook himself to the

bluff side and there supine, continued at intervals to direct the operation of harrowing.

The sun grew hot. The cool morning breeze dropped flat, and as the hours passed the boy grew weary and

footsore, travelling the soft furrows. Mackenzie had long ceased issuing his directions, and had subsided into

smiling silence, contenting himself with a friendly wave of the hand as Kalman made the turn. The poor

spiritless horses moved more and more slowly, and at length, coming to the end of the field, refused to move

"Let them stand a bit, Callum boy," said Mackenzie kindly. "Come and have a rest. You are the fine driver.

"Will the horses stand here?" asked Kalman, whose sense of responsibility deepened as he became aware of

Mackenzie laughed pleasantly. "Will they stand? Yes, and that they will, unless they will lie down."

"What iss this?" said Mackenzie, much affronted. "You will be calling me names?"

As he rose in his indignation a bottle fell from his pocket. Kalman made a dash toward it, but Mackenzie was

too quick for him. With a savage curse he snatched up the bottle, and at the same time made a fierce but

Kalman jibed at him. "You are a nice sort of fellow to be on a job. What will your boss say?"

"The boss?" he said, glancing in the direction of the house. "The boss? What iss the harm of a drop when you

Mackenzie shook his head sadly, sinking back upon the grass. "It iss many years now since I have suffered

with an indisposeetion of the bowels. It iss a coalic, I am thinking, and it iss hard on me. But, Callum, man, it

"I don't know how to put in your horses. Come and put them in yourself, or show me how to do it." He was

Mackenzie struggled to his feet, holding the bottle carefully in his outside coat pocket. Kalman made up his

mind to possess himself of that bottle at all costs. The opportunity occurred when Mackenzie, stooping to

unhitch the last trace, allowed the bottle to slip from his pocket. Like a cat on a mouse, Kalman pounced on

The change in Mackenzie was immediate and appalling. His smiling face became transformed with fury, his

black eyes gleamed with the cunning malignity of the savage, he shed his soft Scotch voice with his genial

manner, the very movements of his body became those of his Cree progenitors. Uttering hoarse guttural cries,

with the quick crouching run of the Indian on the trail of his foe, he chased Kalman through the bluffs. There

was something so fiendishly terrifying in the glimpses that Kalman caught of his face now and then that the

boy was seized with an overpowering dread, and ceasing to tantalize his pursuing enemy, he left the bluffs

and fled toward the house, with Mackenzie hard upon his track. Through the shed the boy flew and into the

outer room, banging the door hard after him. But there was no lock upon the door, and he could not hope to

hold it shut against his pursuer. He glanced wildly into the inner room. French was nowhere to be seen. As he

stood in unspeakable terror, the door opened slowly and stealthily, showing Mackenzie's face, distorted with

rage and cunning hate. With a silent swift movement he glided into the room, and without a sound rushed at

the boy. Once, twice around the table they circled, Kalman having the advantage in quickness of foot.

Suddenly, with a grunt of satisfaction, Mackenzie's eye fell upon a gun hanging upon the wall. In a moment

he had it in his hand. As he reached for it, however, Kalman, with a loud cry, plunged headlong through the

open window and fled again toward the bluffs. Mackenzie followed swiftly through the door, gun in hand. He

ran a few short steps after the flying boy, and was about to throw his gun to his shoulder when a voice

It was French, standing between the stable and the house, dishevelled, bloated, but master of himself.

Mackenzie stood in sullen, defiant silence, his gun thrown into the hollow of his arm. French walked

"Give me that gun, you dog!" he said with an oath, "or I'll kill you where you stand."

Mackenzie hesitated but only for a moment, and without a word surrendered the gun, the fiendish rage fading

out of his face, the aboriginal blood lust dying in his eyes like the snuffing out of a candle. In a few brief

moments he became once more a civilized man, subject to the restraint of a thousand years of life ordered by

"Mackenzie," said French with great dignity as Kalman drew near, "I want you to know that this boy is a

ward of a dear friend, and is to me like my own son. Remember that. Kalman, Mackenzie is my friend, and

you are to treat him as such. Where did you get that?" he continued, pointing to the bottle which Kalman had

"Ah, I understand. All right, Kalman, it's none of your business what Mackenzie drinks. Now, Mackenzie, get

Without a word of parley or remonstrance Mackenzie shuffled off toward the field to bring in the team.

French turned to the boy and, taking the bottle in his hand, said, "This is dangerous stuff, my boy. A man like

Kalman made no reply. His mind was in a whirl of perplexed remembrances of the sickening scenes of the

"Go now," said French, "and help Mackenzie. He won't hurt you any more. He never keeps a grudge. That is

During the early part of the afternoon Mackenzie drove the harrows while French moved about the ranch

doing up odds and ends. But neither of the men was quite at ease. At length French disappeared into the

house, and almost immediately afterwards Mackenzie left his team in Kalman's hands and followed his boss.

Hour after hour passed. The sun sank in the western sky, but neither master nor man appeared, while Kalman

kept the team steadily on the move, till at length the field was finished. Weary and filled with foreboding, the

boy drove the horses to the stable, pulled off the harness as best he could, gave the horses food and drink and

went into the house. There a ghastly scene met his eye. On the floor hard by the table lay Mackenzie on his

face, snoring heavily in a drunken sleep, and at the table, with three empty bottles beside him and a fourth in

his hand, sat French, staring hard before him with eyes bloodshot and sunken, and face of a livid hue. He

neither moved nor spoke when Kalman entered, but continued staring steadily before him.

The boy was faint with hunger. He was too heartsick to attempt to prepare food. He found a piece of bannock

and, washing this down with a mug of water, he crept into his bunk, and there, utterly miserable, waited till

his master should sink into sleep. Slowly the light faded from the room and the shadows crept longer and

deeper over the floor till all was dark. But still the boy could see the outline of the silent man, who sat

without sound or motion except for the filling and emptying of his glass from time to time. At length the

Sick with grief and fear, the boy sprang from his bunk and sought to rouse the man from his stupor, but

without avail, till at last, wearied with his ineffectual attempts and sobbing in the bitterness of his grief, he

threw a blanket over the bowed form and retreated to his bunk again. But sleep to him was impossible, for

often throughout the night he was brought to his feet with horrid dreams, to be driven shivering again to his

At length as day began to dawn he fell into a dead, dreamless slumber, waking, when it was broad day, to

find Mackenzie sitting at the table eating breakfast, and with a bottle beside him. French was not to be seen,

but Kalman could hear his heavy breathing from the inner room. To Kalman it seemed as if he were still in

the grip of some ghastly nightmare. He rubbed his eyes and looked again at Mackenzie in stupid amazement.

"What are you glowering at yonder, Callum, man?" said Mackenzie, pleasantly ignoring the events of the

previous day. "Your breakfast iss ready for you. You will be hungry after your day's work. Oh, yes, I haf

Somehow his smiling face and his kindly tone filled Kalman with rage. He sprang out of his bunk and ran out

of the house. He hated the sight of the smiling, pleasantvoiced Mackenzie. But his boy's hunger drove him

"Never mind, it iss a good name, whatefer. But I am saying we will be getting into the pitaties after breakfast.

"And why would you be wanting to know?" enquired Mackenzie cautiously. "You would not be taking any of

"Oh, go on! you old fool!" replied the boy angrily. "You will never be any good till it is all done, I know."

Kalman spoke out of full and varied experience of the ways of men with the lust of drink in them.

"Well, well, maybe so. But the more there iss for me, the less there iss for him," said Mackenzie, jerking his

"Hoot! toot! man, and would you be guilty of sinful waste like yon? No, no, never with Malcolm Mackenzie's

consent. And you would not be doing such a deed yourself?" Mackenzie enquired somewhat anxiously.

"No," he said, "he might be angry. But," continued the boy, "those potatoes must be finished today. I heard

"Come on, then," cried Kalman, as Mackenzie reached for the bottle. "Come and show me how."

"There iss no hurry," said the deliberate Mackenzie, drinking his glass with slow relish. "But first the pitaties

Again and again, and with increasing rage, Kalman sought to drag Mackenzie away from his bottle and to his

Three days later French came forth from his room, haggard and trembling, to find every bottle empty,

Mackenzie making ineffective attempts to prepare a meal, and Kalman nowhere to be seen.

With a dread of some nameless horror in his heart, French hurried toward the little knoll upon which

Mackenzie stood. From this vantage ground could be seen far off in the potato field the figure of the boy with

"What do you make that out to be?" enquired French. "Who in the mischief are they? Go and see."

It was not long before Mackenzie stood before his master with Kalman by his side.

"As sure as death," said Mackenzie, "he has a tribe of Galician women yonder, and the pitaties iss all in."

"It iss what I am telling you. The pitaties iss all in, and this lad iss bossing the job, and the Galician women

"What does this mean?" said French, turning his eyes slowly upon Kalman. The boy looked older by years.

"I saw a woman passing, she was a Galician, she brought the others, and the potatoes are done. They have

"What are you standing there for, Mackenzie?" roared French. "Confound you for a drunken dog! Confound

There was something so terrible in his look and in his voice that Mackenzie fairly ran to obey his order.

Kalman stood before his master pale and shaking. He was weak from lack of food, but more from anxiety and

"I did the best I could," he said, struggling manfully to keep his voice steady, "andI amawful

gladyou'rebetter." His command was all gone. He threw himself upon the grass while sobs shook his

French stood a moment looking down upon him, his face revealing thoughts and feelings none too pleasant.

"Kalman, you're a good sort," he said in a hoarse voice. "You're a man, by Jove! and," in an undertone, "I'm

hanged, if I don't think you'll make a man of me yet." Then kneeling by his side, he raised him in his arms.

"Kalman," he said, "you are a brick and a gentleman. I have been a brute and a cad."

"Oh, no, no, no!" sobbed the boy. "You are a good man. But I wishyou wouldleaveit alone."

Two weeks of life in the open, roaming the prairie alone with the wolf hounds, or with French after the cattle,

did much to obliterate the mark which those five days left upon Kalman's body and soul. From the very first

the boy had no difficulty in mastering the art of sticking on a broncho's back, partly because he was entirely

without fear, but largely because he had an ear and an eye for rhythm in sound and in motion. He conceived

clearly the idea by watching French as he loped along on his big iron grey, and after that it was merely a

matter of translating the idea into action. Every successful rider must first conceive himself as a rider. In two

weeks' time Kalman could sit the buckskin and send him across the prairie, swinging him by the neck guide

around badger holes and gopher holes, up and down the steep sides of the Night Hawk ravine, without ever

touching leather. The fearless ease he displayed in mastering the equestrian art did more than anything else to

The pride of the ranch was Black Joe, a Percheron stallion that French a year before had purchased, with the

idea of improving his horse stock to anticipate the market for heavy horses, which he foresaw the building of

railroads would be sure to provide. Black Joe was kept in a small field that took in a bit of the bluff and ran

Dismay, therefore, smote the ranch, when Mackenzie announced one morning that Black Joe had broken out

"He can't be far away," said French; "take a circle round towards the east. He has likely gone off with

But at noon Mackenzie rode back to report that nowhere could the stallion be seen, that he had rounded up

"I am afraid he has got across the Eagle," said French, "and if he has once got on to those plains, there will be

the very deuce to pay. Well, get a move on, and try the country across the creek first. No, hold on. I'll go

myself. Throw the saddle on Roanoke; I'll put some grub together, for there's no time to be lost."

"Try me, sir," said the boy, who had unconsciously in conversation with French dropped much of his street

While the horses were being saddled, French rolled up into two neat packs a couple of double blankets, grub

consisting of Hudson's Bay biscuits, pork, tea and sugar, a camp outfit comprising a pan, a teapail, and two

"So long, Mackenzie," said French, as they rode away. "Hold down the ranch till we get back. We'll strike out

north from here, then swing round across the Night Hawk toward the hills and back by the Eagle and Wakota,

To hunt up a stray beast on the wide open prairie seems to the uninitiated a hopeless business, but it is a

simple matter, after all. One has to know the favourite feedinggrounds, the trails that run to these grounds,

and have an idea of the limits within which cattle and horses will range. As a rule, each band has its own

feedinggrounds and its own spots for taking shelter. The difficulties of search are enormously increased by

the broken character of a rolling bluffy prairie. The bluffs intercept the view, and the rolls on the prairie can

hide successfully a large bunch of cattle or horses, and it may take a week to beat up a country thickly strewn

with bluffs, and diversified with coulees that might easily be searched in a single afternoon.

"We'll camp right here, Kalman," said French, as they reached a level tongue of open prairie, around three

Of all their camps during the three days' search none was so beautiful, and none lived so long in Kalman's

memory, as the camp by the Eagle River near Wakota. The firm green sward, cropped short by a succession

of campers' horses,for this was a choice spot for travellers,the flowing river with its soft gurgling

undertone, the upstanding walls of the poplar bluffs in all the fresh and ample beauty of the early summer

drapery, the over arching sky, deep and blue, through which peeped the shy stars, and the air, so sweet and

kindly, breathing about them. It was all so clean, so fresh, so unspoiled to the boy that it seemed as if he had

dropped into a new world, remote from and unrelated to any other world he had hitherto known.

They picketed their horses, and with supper over, they sat down before their fire, for the evening air was chill,

in weary, dreamy delight. They spoke few words. Like all men who have lived close to Nature, whether in

woods or in plains, French had developed a habit of silence, and this habit, as all others, Kalman was rapidly

As they reclined thus dreamily watching the leaping fire, a canoe came down the river, in the stern of which

sat a man whose easy grace proclaimed long practice in the canoeman's art. As his eyes fell upon the fire, he

paused in his paddling, and with two or three swift flips he turned his canoe toward the bank, and landing,

He was a young man of middle height, stoutly built, and with a strong, goodnatured face.

"I have a tent up stream a little way. I should be glad to have you camp with me. It is going to be a little

The boy turned and gave him a quick look of perfect satisfaction. "First rate! You bet!"

"The dew is going to be heavy, though," said the stranger, "and it will be cold before the night is over. I have

not much to offer you, only shelter, but I'd like awfully to have you come. A visitor is a rare thing here."

"Well," said French, "since you put it that way we'll go, and I am sure it is very decent of you."

"And mine is French, Jack French throughout this country, as perhaps you have heard."

"And this," continued French, "is Kalman Kalmar, a friend of mine from Winnipeg, and more remotely from

"Yes, a trail of a sort. Follow the winding of the river and you will come to my camp at the next bend. You

Following a faint trail for a quarter of a mile through the bluffs, they came upon an open space on the river

bank similar to the one they had left, in the midst of which stood Brown's tent. That tent was a wonder to

behold, not only to Kalman, but also to French, who had a large experience in tents of various kinds. Ten by

twelve, and with a fourfoot wall, every inch was in use. The ground which made the floor was covered with

fresh, sweetsmelling swamp hay; in one corner was a bed, neat as a soldier's; in the opposite corner a series

of cupboards made out of packing cases, filled, one with books, one with drugs and surgical instruments,

another with provisions. Hanging from the ridgepole was a double shelf, and attached to the back upright

were a series of pigeonhole receptacles. It was a wonder of convenience and comfort, and albeit it was so

packed with various impedimenta, such was the orderly neatness of it that there seemed to be abundance of

His every movement was full of brisk energy, and his voice carried with it a note of cheery frankness that

In a few moments Brown had a fire blazing in front of the tent, for the night air was chill, and a heavy dew

"Here you are," he cried, throwing down a couple of rugs before the fire. "Make yourselves comfortable. I

"Well," said French, glancing into the tent, throwing himself down before the fire, "you apparently do, and

you have attained an unqualified success in exemplifying your belief. You certainly do yourself well."

"Oh, I am a lazy dog," said Brown cheerfully, "and can't do without my comforts. But you don't know how

glad I am to see you. I can't stand being alone. I get most awfully blue and funky, naturally nervous and

"You do, eh?" said French, pleasantly. "Well, if you ask me, I believe you're lying, or your face is."

"Not a bit, not a bit. Good thing a fellow has a skin to draw over his insides. I'd hate the world to see all the

French pulled out his pipe, stirred up its contents with his knife, struck a match, and proceeded to draw what

comfort he could from the remnants of his last smoke. The result was evidently not entirely satisfactory. He

began searching his pockets with elaborate care, but all in vain, and with a sigh of disappointment he sank

"Hello!" said Brown, whose eyes nothing seemed to escape, "I know what you're after. You have left your

pouch. Well, let that be a lesson to you. You ought not to indulge habits that are liable any moment to involve

you in such distress. Now look at you, a big, healthy, ablebodied man, on a night like this too, with all the

splendour and glory of sky and woods and river about you, with decent company too, and a good fire, and yet

you are incapable of enjoyment. You are an abnormality, and you have made yourself so. You need

He disappeared into his tent, leaving Kalman in a fury of rage, and French with an amused smile upon his

"In cases like yours," he said gravely, "I prescribe vapores nicotinenses. I hope you have forgotten your Latin.

Here is a brand, a very special brand, which I keep for decoy purposes. Having once used this, you will be

sure to come back again. Try that," he cried in a threatening tone, "and look me in the eye."

The anger fled from Kalman's face, and he began to understand that their new friend had been simply jollying

them, and he sincerely hoped that neither he nor French had noticed his recent rage.

French filled his pipe with the mixture, lit it, and took one or two experimental draws, then with a great sigh

he threw himself back upon the rug, his arms under his head, and puffed away with every symptom of

"See here, Brown," he said, sitting up again after a few moments of blissful silence, "this is 'Old London,'

"See here, French, don't you get off any of your high British nonsense. 'Old London,' indeed! No, sir, that is

'Young Canada'; that is, I have a friend in Cuba who sends me the Prince of Wales brand."

"My word!" exclaimed French. "You don't dispense this to the general public, do you?"

"Thank you," said French. "I take this as a mark of extreme hospitality. By the way, where is your own pipe?"

"The exposition is simple enough. I am constitutionally lazy and selfindulgent, and almost destitute of

"And permit me to interject without offence, an awful liar," said French pleasantly. "Go on."

"I would find myself immersed in dreamy seas of vaporous and idle blissdo you catch that

combination?and fancy myself, mark you, busy all the time. It is the smoker's dementia accentuated by

such a mixture as this, that while he is blowing rings he imagines he is doing something"

"So, having something other to do than blow rings, I have abjured the pipe. There are other reasons, but that

"Abundantly," said French with emphasis, "and permit me to remark that you have been talking rot."

"Now tell me," continued French, "what is your idea? What have you in view in planting yourself down here?

"Doing nothing, as yet," said Brown cheerfully, "but I want to do a lot. I have got this Galician colony in my

"Well, I may be, though I can't preach much. But my main line is the kiddies. I can teach them English, and

then I am going to doctor them, and, if they'll let me, teach them some of the elements of domestic science; in

short, do anything to make them good Christians and good Canadians, which is the same thing."

"That is a pretty large order. Look here, now," said French, sitting up, "you look like a sensible fellow, and

open to advice. Don't be an ass and throw yourself away. I know these people well. In a generation or two

something may be done with them. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, you know. Give it up. Take

up a ranch and go cattle raising. That is my advice. I know them. You can't undo in your lifetime the results

of three centuries. It's a hopeless business. I tried myself to give them some pointers when they came in first,

and worried a good deal about it. I got myself disliked for my pains and suffered considerable annoyance.

Now I leave them beautifully alone. Their suspicions have vanished and they no longer look at me as if I

Brown's face grew serious. "It's a fact, they are suspicious, frightfully. I have been talking school to them, but

they won't have a school as a gift. My Church, the Presbyterian, you know, offers to put up a school for them,

since the Government won't do anything, but they are mightily afraid that this is some subtle scheme for

extracting money from them. But what can you expect? The only church they know has bled them dry, and

"But look here, Brown," said French, "you don't mean to tell me,I assure you I don't wish to be rude,but

you don't mean to tell me that you have come here, a man of your education and snap"

"Well," said Brown, "I admit I have come partially for my health. You see, I am constitutionally inclined"

"Partially for my health, and partially for the good of the country. These people here exist as an undigested

foreign mass. They must be digested and absorbed into the body politic. They must be taught our ways of

thinking and living, or it will be a mighty bad thing for us in Western Canada. Do you know, there are over

"Oh, that's all right," said French, "but they'll learn our ways fast enough. And as for teaching their children,

pardon me, but it seems to me you are too good a man to waste in that sort of thing. Why, bless my soul, you

can get a girl for fifty dollars a month who would teach them fast enough. But younow you could do big

things in this country, and there are going to be big things doing here in a year or two."

"Oh, well, ranching, farming on a big scale, building railroads, lumber up on the hills, then, later, public life.

We will be a province, you know, one of these days, and the men who are in at the foundation making will

"You're all right," cried Brown, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. "There will be big things doing, and, believe

"What? Teaching a score of dirty little Galicians? The chances are you'll spoil them. They are good workers

as they are. None better. They are easy to handle. You go in and give them some of our Canadian ideas of

living and all that, and before you know they are striking for higher wages and giving no end of trouble."

"No, not exactly. But if you educate these fellows, you hear me, they'll run your country, by Jove! in half a

"That's exactly it," replied Brown; "they'll run your country anyhow you put it, school or no school, and,

therefore, you had better fit them for the job. You have got to make them Canadian."

"That's my game too," said Brown with increasing eagerness. "That's my idea,the school and the Church.

You say the big things are ranches, railroads, and mills. So they are. But the really big things are the things

that give us our ideas and our ideals, and those are the school and the Church. But, I say, you will be wanting

"Bed? Nonsense!" said French. "Your tent floor is all right. I've been twenty years in this country, and

"Might as well be comfortable," said Brown cheerfully. "I have a great weakness for comfort. In fact, I can't

He disappeared behind a bluff and came back in a short time with a large bundle of swampgrass, which he

"Now then," he said cheerfully, "there you are. Have you any objection to prayers? It is a rule of this camp to

have prayers night and morning, especially if any strangers happen along. I like to practise on them, you

Brown brought out two hymn books and passed one to French, stirred up the fire to a bright blaze, and

proceeded to select a hymn. Suddenly he turned to Kalman. "I say, my boy, do you read?"

"That's all right, boy. I'll get you a book for yourself. We have lots of them. Now, French, you select."

"No, sir," said Brown emphatically. "You have got to select, and you have got to read too. Rule of the camp.

True, I didn't feed you, but thenI hesitate to speak of itperhaps you remember that mixture."

"Do I? Oh, well, certainly, if you put it that way," said French. "Let's see, all the old ones are here. Suppose

we make it a good oldfashioned one. How will this do?" He passed the book to Brown.

"Just the thing," said Brown. "'Nearer, my God, to Thee.' Can you find it, Kalman?"

French laid down his pipe, took off his hat, Kalman following his example, and began to read. Instinctively,

as he read, his voice took a softer modulation than in ordinary speech. His manner, too, became touched with

reverent dignity. His very face seemed to grow finer. Brown sat listening, with his face glowing with pleasure

"Fine old hymn that! Great hymn! And finely read, if I might say so. Now we'll sing."

His voice was strong, true, and not unmusical, and what he lacked of finer qualities he made up in volume

and force. His visitors joined in the singing, Kalman following the air in a low sweet tone, French singing

"Can't you sing any louder?" said Brown to Kalman. "There's nobody to disturb but the fish and the Galicians

up yonder. Pipe up, my boy, if you can. I couldn't sing softly if I tried. Can he sing?" he enquired of French.

Then Kalman sat up and sang. Strong, pure, clear, his voice rose upon the night until it seemed to fill the

whole space of clearing and to soar away off into the sky. As the boy sang, French laid down the book and in

silence gazed upon the singer's face. Through verse after verse the others sang to the end.

"I say, boy," said Brown, "you're great! I'd like to hear you sing that last verse alone. Get up and try it. What

Without hesitation the boy rose up. His spirit had caught the inspiration of the hymn and began,

"Or if on joyful wing Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly, Still all my song shall be,

The warm soft light from the glow still left in the western sky fell on his face and touched his yellow hair

with glory. A silence followed, so deep and full that it seemed to overflow the space so recently filled with

song, and to hold and prolong the melody of that exquisite voice. Brown reached across and put his hand on

"Boy, boy," he said solemnly, "keep that voice for God. It surely belongs to Him."

French neither spoke nor moved. He could not. Deep floods were surging through him. For one brief moment

he saw in vision a little ivycoloured church in its environment of quiet country lanes in faraway England,

and in the church, the family pew, where sat a man stern and strong, a woman beside him and two little boys,

one, the younger, holding her hand as they sat. Then with swift change of scene he saw a queer, rude, wooden

church in the raw frontier town in the new land, and in the church himself, his brother, and between them, a

fair, slim girl, whose face and voice as she sang made him forget all else in heaven and on earth. The tides of

memory rolled in upon his soul, and with them strangely mingled the swelling springs rising from this scene

before him, with its marvellous setting of sky and woods and river. No wonder he sat voiceless and without

All this Brown could not know, but he had that instinct born of keen sympathy that is so much better than

knowing. He sat silent and waited. French turned to the index, found a hymn, and passed it over to Brown.

"'For all thy saints'? Well, rather," said Brown. "Here, Kalman," passing it to the boy, "can you sing this?"

"Oh, never mind," said French hastily. "I don't care about having it rehearsed now."

Brown sang the first verse. The boy listened intently. "Yes, I can sing it," he said eagerly. In the second verse

Without pause or faltering Kalman sang the next two verses. But there was not the same subtle spiritual

interpretation. He was occupied with the music. French was evidently disappointed.

"No," said Brown, "let me read it to you, Kalman. You are not singing the words, you are singing the notes.

'The golden evening brightens in the west; Soon, soon, to faithful warriors comes their rest; Sweet is the calm

With face aglow and uplifted to the western sky the boy sang, gaining confidence with every word, till he

himself caught and pictured to the others the vision of that "golden evening." When he came to the last verse,

"Wait, Kalman," he said. "Let me read that for you. Or better, you read it," he said, passing French the book.

French took the book, paused, made as if to give it back, then, as if ashamed of his hesitation, began to read

"From earth's wide bounds, from ocean's farthest coast, Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host."

But before the close his voice shook, and ended in a husky whisper. Touched by the strong man's emotion,

the boy began the verse in tones that faltered. But as he went on his voice came to him again, and with a

With the spell of the song still upon them Brown prayed in words simple, reverent, and honest, with a child's

confidence, as if speaking to one he knew well. Around the open glade with its three worshippers breathed

the silent night, above it shone the stars, the mysterious stars, but nearer than night, and nearer than the stars,

Through all his after years Kalman would look back to that night as the night on which God first became to

him something other than a name. And to French that evening song and prayer were an echo from those dim

Next day, Black Joe, tired of freedom, wandered home, to the great joy of the household.

"Open your letter, Irma. From the postmark, it is surely from Kalman. And what good writing it is! I have just

Mrs. French was standing in the cosy kitchen of Simon Ketzel's house, where, ever since the tragic night

when Kalman had been so nearly done to death, Irma, with Paulina and her child, had found a refuge and a

Irma stood, letter in hand, her heart in a tumult of joy, not because it was the first letter she had ever received

in her life, but because the letter was from Kalman. She had one passion, love for her brother. For him she

held a strangely mingled affection of mother, sister, lover, all in one. By day she thought of him, at night he

"Yes," cried the girl, and ran into the little room which she shared with Paulina and her child.

Once in that retreat, she threw herself on her knees by the bed, put the letter before her, and pressed her lips

hard upon it, her tears wetting it as she prayed in sheer joy. It was just sixteen months, one week, three days,

and nine hours since she had watched, through a mist of tears, the train carrying him away to join the

Macmillan outfit at Portage la Prairie. Through Jack French's letters to his sister she had been kept in close

How she laughed and wept at the rude construction and the quaint spelling, for the letter was written in her

"My sister, my Irma, my beloved," the letter ran. Irma kissed the words as she read them. "How shall I ever

write this letter, for it must be in our own beloved tongue? I could have written long ago in English, but with

you I must write as I speak, only in our dear mother's and father's tongue. It is so hard to remember it, for

everything and every one about me is English, English, English. The hounds, the horses, the cattle call in

English, the very wind sounds English, and I am beginning not only to speak, but to think and feel in English,

except when I think of you and of our dear mother and father, and when I speak with old Portnoff, an old

Russian nihilist, in the colony near here, and when I hear him tell of the bad old days, then I feel and breathe

Russian again. But Russia and all that old Portnoff talks about is far away and seems like a dream of a year

"I like this place, and oh! I like Jack, that is, Mr. French, my master. He told me to call him Jack. He is so big

and strong, so kind too, never loses his temper, that is, never loses hold of himself like me, but even when he

is angry, speaks quietly and always smiles. One day Elluck, the Galician man that works here sometimes,

struck Blucher with a heavy stick and made him howl. Jack heard him. 'Bring me that stick, Elluck,' he said

quietly. 'Now, Elluck, who strikes my dog, strikes me.' He caught him by the collar and beat him until Elluck

howled louder than the dog, and all the while Jack never stopped smiling. He is teaching me to box, as he

says that no gentleman ever uses a knife or a club, as the Galicians do, in fighting; and you know that when

they get beer they are sure to fight, and if they use a knife they will kill some one, and then they are sorry.

"You know about my school. Jack has told Mrs. French. I like Mr. Brown, well, next to Jack. He is a good

man. I wish I could just tell you how good and how clever he is. He makes people to work for him in a

wonderful way. He got the Galicians to build his house for him, and his school and his store. He got Jack to

help him too. He got me to help with the singing in the school every day, and in the afternoon on Sundays

when we go down to meeting. He is a Protestant, but, although he can marry the people and baptise and say

prayers when they desire it, I do not think he is a priest, for he will take no money for what he does. Some of

the Galicians say he will make them all pay some day, but Jack just laughs at this and says they are a

suspicious lot of fools. Mr. Brown is going to build a mill to grind flour and meal. He brought the stones from

an old Hudson's Bay Company mill up the river, and he is fixing up an old engine from a sawmill in the hills.

I think he wants to keep the people from going to the Crossing, where they get beer and whiskey and get

drunk. He is teaching me everything that they learn in the English schools, and he gives me books to read.

One book he gave me, I read all night. I could not stop. It is called 'Ivanhoe.' It is a splendid book. Perhaps

Mrs. French may get it for you. But I like it best on Sunday afternoons, for then we sing, Brown and Jack and

the Galician children, and then Brown reads the Bible and prays. It is not like church at all. There is no

crucifix, no candles, no pictures. It is too much like every day to be like church, but Brown says that is the

best kind, a religion for every day; and Jack, too, says that Brown is right, but he won't talk much about it.

"I am going to be a rancher. Jack says I am a good cattle man already. He gave me a pony and saddle and a

couple of heifers for myself, that I saved last winter out of a snowdrift, and he says that when I grow a little

bigger, he will take me for his partner. Of course, he smiles when he says this, but I think he means it. Would

not that be splendid? I do not care to be a partner, but just to live with Jack always. He makes every one do

what he likes because they love him and they are afraid of him too. Old Mackenzie would let him walk over

his body. There is only one thing, and I don't like to speak of it, and I would not to any one else, but it makes

me sore in my heart. When Jack and Old Mackenzie go to the Crossing, they bring back whiskey, and until it

is done they have a terrible time. You know, I don't mind seeing the Galicians drink whiskey and beer. I drink

it myself now and then. But Jack and old Mackenzie just sit down and drink and drink, and afterwards I know

Jack feels very bad. Once we went here to a Galician wedding, and you know what that means. They all got

drinking whiskey and beer, and then we had a terrible time. The whole roomful got fighting. They were all

against Jack and Mackenzie. The Galicians had clubs and knives, but Jack just had his hands. It was fine to

see him stand up and knock those Galicians back, and smiling all the time. Mackenzie had a hand spike. Of

course, I helped a little with a club. I thought they were going to kill Jack. We got away alive, but Jack was

badly hurt, and for a week afterwards he did not look at me. Mackenzie said he was ashamed, but I don't

know why. He made a big fight. Mackenzie says he did not like to fight with 'them dogs.' Brown heard all

about it and came to see Jack, and he too looked ashamed and sorry. But Brown never fights; no matter what

they do to him, he won't fight; and he is a strong man, too, and does not look afraid.

"Have you heard any word at all of father? I sometimes get so lonely for him and you. I used to dream I was

back with you again, and then I would wake up and find myself alone and far away. It will not be so long

now till I'm a man, and then you will come and live with me. Oh! I cannot write fast enough to put down the

"I send my love to Simon Ketzel and Lena and Margaret, and you tell Mrs. French I do not forget that I owe

all I have here to her. Tell her I wish I could do something for her. Nothing would be too hard.

Proud of her brother, Irma read parts of her letter to her friend, leaving out, with a quick sense of what was

fitting, every unhappy reference to Jack French; but the little lady was keen of ear and quick of instinct where

Jack French was concerned, and Irma's pauses left a deepening shadow upon her face. When the letter was

done, she said: "Is it not good to hear of Kalman doing so well? Tell him he can do something for me. He can

grow up a good man, and he can help Jack to be" But here her loyal soul held her back. "No, don't say

that," she said; "just tell him I am glad to know he is going to be a good man. There is nothing I want more

for those I love than that. Tell him too," she added, "that I would like him and Jack to help Mr. Brown all

they can," and this message Irma wrote to Kalman with religious care, telling him too how sad the dear sweet

But when Mrs. French reached her home, she read again parts out of the letter which the same mail had

brought her from the Night Hawk Ranch, read them in the light of Kalman's letter, while the shadows

"He is a strange little beggar," she read, "though, by Jove, he is little no longer. He is somewhere about

sixteen, is away past my shoulder, and nearly as strong as I am, rides like a cowboy, and is as good after the

cattle as I am, is afraid of nothing, and dearly loves a fight, and, I regret to say, he gets lots of it, for the

Galicians are always after him for their feasts. He is a great singer, you know, and dances much too well; and

at the feasts, as I suppose you know quite well, there are always fights. And here I want to consult you. I very

nearly sent him back to you a little while ago, not for his fault, but, I regret to say, for mine. We went to a

fool show among the Galicians, and, I am ashamed to say, played the fool. There was the deuce of a row, and

Mackenzie and I were in a tight box, for a dozen or so of our Galician friends were determined upon blood.

They got some of mine too, for they were using their knives, and, I am bound to say, it looked rather serious.

At this juncture that young beggar, forgetting all my good training in the manly art, and reverting to his

Slavic barbaric methods of defence, went in with a handspike, yelling, and, I regret to say, cursing, till I

thought he had gone drunk or mad. Drunk, he was not, but mad,well, he was possessed of some kind of

demon none too gentle that night. I must acknowledge it was a good thing for us, and though I hate to think

of the whole ghastly business, it was something fine, though, to see him raging up and down that room,

taunting them for cowards, hurling defiance, and, by Jove, looking all the while like some Greek god in

cowboy outfit, if your imagination can get that. I am telling you the whole sickening story, because I must

treat you with perfect sincerity. I assure you next morning I was sick enough of myself and my useless life,

sick enough to have done with the unhappy and disgraceful farce of living, but for your sake and for the boy's

"But I have come to the opinion that he ought not to stay with me. As I said before, he is a splendid chap in

many ways, but I am afraid in these surroundings he will go bad. He is clean as yet, I firmly believe, thank

God, but with this Colony near us with their low standard of morality, and to be quite sincere, in the care of

such a man as I am, the boy stands a poor chance. I know this will grieve you, but it is best to be honest. I

think he ought to go to you. I must refuse responsibility for his remaining here. I feel like a beast in saying

In the postscript there was a word that brought not a little hope and comfort. "One thing in addition. No more

Galician festivals for me." It was a miserably cruel letter, and it did its miserably cruel work on the heart of

the little whitefaced lady. She laid the letter down, drew from a box upon her table a photo, and laid it

before her. It was of two young men in football garb, in all the glorious pride of their young manhood. Long

It took Irma some days of thought and effort to prepare the answer to her letter, for to her, as to Kalman,

English had become easier than her native Russian. To Jack French a reply went by return mail. It was not

long, but, as Jack French read, the easy smile vanished, and for days he carried in his face the signs of the

remorse and grief that gnawed at his heart. Then he rode alone to Wakota to take counsel with his friend

As he read, one phrase kept repeating itself in his mind: "The responsibility of leaving Kalman with you, I

must take. What else can I do? I have no other to help me. But the responsibility for what you make him, you

"The responsibility for making him is not mine," he said to himself impatiently. "I can teach him a lot of

things, but I can't teach him morals. That is Brown's business. He is a preacher. If he can't do this, what's he

And so he argued the matter with himself with great diligence, and even with considerable heat of mind. He

made no pretence to goodness. He was no saint, nor would he set up for one. All who knew him knew this,

"I may not be a saint, but I am no hypocrite, neither will I play the part for any one." In this thought his mind

took eager refuge, and he turned it over in various phrases with increasing satisfaction. He remembered with

some anxiety that Brown's mental processes were to a degree lacking in subtlety. Brown had a

disconcertingly simple and direct method of dealing with the most complex problems. If a thing was right, it

was right; if wrong, it was wrong, and that settled the matter with Brown. There was little room for argument,

and none for compromise. "He has a deucedly awkward conscience too," said Jack French, "and it is apt to

get working long shifts." Would he show his sisterinlaw's letter? It might be good tactics, but that last page

would not help him much, and besides he shrank from introducing her name into the argument.

As he approached Wakota, he was impatient with himself that he was so keenly conscious of the need of

arguments to support his appeal. He rode straight to the school, and was surprised to find Brown sitting there

"Hello, Brown!" he cried, as he entered the building, "another holiday, eh! Seems to me you get more than

"I only wish it were," said Brown; "smallpox would not be too bad." Brown's goodnatured face was

"I'm blue, I'm depressed, I'm in a funk. It is my constitutional weakness that I cannot stand"

"Oh, let it go at that, Brown, and get on with the facts. But come out into the light. That's the thing that makes

me fear that something has really happened that you are moping here inside. Nothing wrong in the home I

hope, Brown; wife and baby well?" said French, his tone becoming more kind and gentle.

"No, not a thing, thank God! both fine and fit," said Brown, as they walked out of the school and down the

river path. "My school has folded itself up, and, like the Arab, has stolen away."

"A Polish priest, small and dark and dirty; he can't help the first two, but with the Eagle River running

"I wish I knew. He introduced himself by ordering, upon pain of hell fire, that no child attend my school;

"No, I am not going to quit," said Brown, recovering his quiet manner. "If he wants the school, and will

"Not a bit" said Brown emphatically. "I am not sent here to proselytize. My church is not in that business. We

are doing business, but we are in the business of making good citizens. We tried to get the Government to

establish schools among the Galicians. The Government declined. We took it up, and hence this school. We

tried to get Greek Catholic priests from Europe to look after the religion and morals of these people. We

absolutely failed to get a decent man to offer. Remember, I say decent man. We had offers, plenty of them,

but we could not lay our hands on a single, clean, honestminded man with the fear of God in his heart, and

the desire to help these people. So, as I say, we will give this man a fair chance, and if he makes good, I will

back him up and say, 'God bless you.' But he won't make good," added Brown gloomily, "from the way he

French waited, and Brown went on. "He was called to marry a couple the other day, got hopelessly drunk,

charged them ten dollars, and they are not sure whether they are married or not. Last Sunday he drummed the

people up to confession. It was a long time since they had had a chance, and they were glad to come. He

charged them two dollars apiece, tried to make it five, but failed, and now he introduces himself to me by

closing my school. He may mean well, but his methods would bear improvement. However, as I have said,

"Meantime? Oh! I shall stick to my pills and plasters,we have ten patients in the hospital now,run the

store and the mill, and try to help generally. If this priest gets at his work and makes good, I promise you I'll

"If not? Well, then," said Brown, sinking back into his easy, goodnatured manner, "you see, I am

constitutionally indolent. I would rather he'd move out than I, and so while the colony stays here, it will be

much easier for me to stay than to go. And," he added, "I shall get back my school, too."

French looked at him admiringly. Brown's lips had come together in a straight line.

"By George! I believe you," exclaimed French, "and I think I see the finish of the Polish gentleman. Can I

"I do not know," said Brown, "but Kalman can. I want him to do some interpreting for me some of these

French's face changed. "That reminds me," he said, "but I hate to unload my burden on you today when you

"Do not hesitate," said Brown, with a return of his cheery manner; "another fellow's burden helps to balance

one's own. You know I am constitutionally selfish and get thinking far too much of myself, habit of mine,

"You go to thunder, Brown, with your various and many constitutional weaknesses. When I look at you and

"Hold up there, now, don't you abuse my parishioners. They are a perfectly good lot if left alone. They are

Brown winced. "Let us up on that spot, French," he said. "it is a little raw yet. What's your trouble?"

"Well," said French, "I hardly know how to begin. It is Kalman." At once Brown was alert.

"Oh! no, not he. Fit as a fiddle; but the fact is he is not doing just as well as he ought."

"Well, he is growing up into a big chap, you know, getting towards sixteen, and pretty much of a man in

many ways, and while he is a fine, clean, straight boy and all that, he is not just what I would like."

"True, as far as I am concerned," replied French. "I do not know about you. But to go on. The boy has got a

"Oh, come," said French, "you know better than that. No, he gets with those Galicians, and then there is a

"I heard about it," said Brown; "they told me the boy was half drunk, and you more." Brown's tone was not

"You've hit it, Brown, and that's the sort of thing that makes me anxious. The boy is getting into bad ways,

and I thought you might take him in hand. I cannot help him much in these matters, and you can."

"Look here," he said at length desperately, "here is a letter which I got a few days ago. I want you to read that

last page. It will show you my difficulty. It is from my sisterinlaw, and, of course, her position is quite

preposterous; but you know a woman finds it difficult to understand some things in a man's life. You know

what I mean, but read. I think you know who she is. It was she who sent Kalman out here to save him from

Brown took the letter and read it carefully, read it a second time, and then said simply:

"That seems straight enough. That woman sees her way through things. But what's the trouble?"

"All right, let's have it," said Brown; and French plunged at once at his main argument, adopting with great

effort the judicial tone of a man determined to examine dispassionately on the data at command.

"You see, she does not know me, has not seen me for fifteen years, and I am afraid she thinks I am a kind of

saint. Now, you know better," Brown nodded his assent with his eyes steadily on the other's face, "and I know

"Certainly," said Brown, "count on me for all I can do. But that does not touch the question so far as I can see

"What can I do?" cried French, losing his judicial tone. "Do you think I am going to accept the role of moral

"Who asks you to?" said Brown, with a touch of scorn. "Be honest in the matter."

"Oh, come now, Brown, let us not chop words. Look at the thing reasonably. I came for help and not"

"Count on me for all the help I can give," said Brown promptly, "but let's look at your part."

"Well," said French, "we will divide up on this thing. I will undertake to look after the boy's physical

andwellsecular interests, if you like. I will teach him to ride, shoot, box, and handle the work on the

ranch, in short, educate him in things practical, while you take charge of his moral training."

"Excuse me, Brown," he said, in a quiet tone. "I came to talk this over with you as a friend, but if you do not

"Old man, I apologize for the tone I used just now, but I foresee that this is going to be serious. I can see as

clearly as light what I ought to say to you now. There is something in my heart that I have been wanting to

say for months, but I hate to say it, and I won't say it now unless you tell me to."

"Go on," said French at length; "what are you afraid of?" His tone was unfortunate.

"Afraid," said Brown quickly, "not of you, but of myself." He paused a few moments, as if taking counsel

with himself, then, with a sudden resolve, he spoke in tones quiet, deliberate, and almost stern. "First, be clear

about this," he said; "I stand ready to help you with Kalman to the limit of my power, and to assure you to the

full my share of responsibility for his moral training. Now then, what of your part in this?"

"But wait, hear me out. For good or for evil, you have that boy's life in your hands. Did you ever notice how

he rides,his style, I mean? It is yours. How he walks? Like you. His very tricks of speech are yours. And

how else could it be? He adores you, you know that. He models himself after you. And so, mark me, without

either of you knowing it, YOU WILL MAKE HIM IN SPITE OF YOURSELF AND IN SPITE OF HIM.

And it is your fate to make him after your own type. Wait, French, let me finish." Brown's easy good nature

was gone, his face was set and stern. "You ask me to teach him morals. The fact is, we are both teaching him.

From whom, do you think, will he take his lesson? What a ghastly farce the thing is! Listen, while the

teaching goes on. 'Kalman,' I say, 'don't drink whiskey; it is a beastly and degrading habit.' 'Fudge!' he says,

'Jack drinks whiskey, and so will I.' 'Kalman,' I urge, 'don't swear.' 'Rot,' says he, 'Jack swears.' 'Kalman, be a

man, straight, selfcontrolled, honourable, unselfish.' The answer is, but no! the answer never will be,'Jack

is a drunken, swearing, selfish, reckless man!' No, for he loves you. But like you he will be, in spite of all I

can say or do. That is your curse for the life you are leading. Responsibility? God help you. Read your letter

again. That woman sees clearly. It is God's truth. Listen, 'The responsibility for what you make him you must

take. God puts it there, not I.' You may refuse this responsibility, you may be too weak, too wilful, too selfish

to set upon your own wicked indulgence of a foolish appetite, but the responsibility is there, and no living

French stood silent for some moments. "Thank you," he said, "you have set my sins before me, and I will not

try to hide them; but by the Eternal, not for you or for any man, will I be anything but myself."

"That is not the question," said French hotly. "I will be no hypocrite, as you would have me be."

"Jack French," said Brown, "you know you are speaking a lie before God and man."

"Brown, you will have to apologize," he said in a low, tense voice, "and quick."

"I cannot discuss it with you, Brown," said French, his voice thick with rage. "I allow no man to call me a

"If you are a man, French," said Brown with equal calm, "give me a minute. Read your letter again. Does she

ask you to be a hypocrite? Does she not, do I not, only ask you to be a man, and to act like a man?"

"French, I wish to apologize for what I said just now," said Brown. "I said you knew you were speaking a lie.

I take that back, and apologize. I cannot believe you knew. All the same, what you said was not the truth. No

one asks you, nor does that letter ask you, to be a hypocrite. You said I did. That was not true. Now, if you

French stood motionless. His rage wellnigh overpowered him, but he knew this man was speaking the truth.

For some moments they stood face to face. Then, impulsively offering his hand, and with a quick change of

But ignoring the outstretched hand, French turned from him without a word, mounted his horse, and rode

Brown stood watching him until he was out of sight. "My God, forgive me," he cried, "what a mess I made of

that! I have lost him and the boy too;" and with that he passed into the woods, coming home to his wife and

Rumours of the westward march of civilization had floated from time to time up the country from the main

line as far as the Crossing, and had penetrated even to the Night Hawk ranch, only to be allayed by

It was Mackenzie who brought word of the appearance of the first bona fide scout of the advancing host.

"There was a man with a bit flag over the Creek yonder," he announced one spring evening, while the snow

was still lying in the hollows, "and another man with a stick or something, and two or three behind him."

Mackenzie looked glum. "And will they be putting a railroad across our ranch?" he asked indignantly.

"Indeed, and it wouldn't be my land they would be putting that railroad over, I'll warrant ye."

"You could not stop them, Mack," said French; "they have got the whole Government behind them."

"I would be putting some slugs into them, whateffer," said Mackenzie. "There will be no room in the country

Mackenzie was right. That surveyor's flag was the signal that waved out the old order and waved in the new.

The old free life, the only life Mackenzie knew, where each man's will was his law, and where law was

enforced by the strength of a man's right hand, was gone forever from the plains. Those great empty spaces of

rolling prairie, swept by viewless winds, were to be filled up now with the abodes of men. Mackenzie and his

world must now disappear in the wake of the red man and the buffalo before the railroad and the settler. To

Jack French the invasion brought mingled feelings. He hated to surrender the untrammelled, unconventional

mode of life, for which twenty years ago he had left an ancient and, as it seemed to his adventurous spirit, a

wornout civilization, but he was quick to recognize, and in his heart was glad to welcome, a change that

would mean new life and assured prosperity to Kalman. whom he had come to love as a son. To Kalman that

surveyor's flag meant the opening up of a new world, a new life, rich in promise of adventure and

"Yes, Kalman, boy," he said, "it will be a great thing for you, great for the country. It means towns and

French shrugged his shoulders. It was hard to throw off the old laissez faire of the pioneer.

"All right, Kalman, you go on. I will give you a free hand. Mackenzie and I will back you up; only don't ask

"One hundred teams!" exclaimed Kalman. "How much oats do you think they will need? One thousand

"Why, that would mean three hundred acres of oats at least, and we have only twenty acres in our field. Oh!

Jack!" he continued, "let us get every horse and every man we can, and make ready for the oats. Just think!

one hundred acres of oats, five or six thousand bushels, perhaps more, besides the potatoes."

"But we will have to break this year for next," said the boy, "and it will take us a long time to break one

"That's so," said Jack; "it will take all our forces hard at it all summer to get one hundred acres ready."

Eagerly the boy's mind sprang forward into plans for the summer's campaign. His enthusiasm stirred French

to something like vigorous action, and even waked old Mackenzie out of his aboriginal lethargy. That very

day Kalman rode down to Wakota to consult his friend Brown, upon whose guidance in all matters he had

come more and more to depend. Brown's Canadian training on an Ontario farm before he entered college had

greatly enriched his experience, and his equipment for the battle of life. He knew all about farming

operations, and to him, rather than to French or to Mackenzie, Kalman had come to look for advice on all

practical details connected with cattle, horses, and crops. The breach between the two men was an

unspeakable grief to the lad, and all the greater because he had an instinctive feeling that the fault lay with the

man to whom from the first he had given the complete and unswerving devotion of his heart. Without

explaining to Kalman, French had suddenly ceased his visits to Wakota, but he had taken care to indicate his

desire that Kalman continue his studies with Brown, and that he should assist him in every way possible with

the work he was seeking to carry on among the Galicians. This desire both Brown and Kalman were only too

eager to gratify, for the two had grown into a friendship that became a large part of the lives of both. Every

Sunday Kalman was to be found at Wakota. There, in the hospitable home of the Browns, he came into

contact with a phase of life new and delightful to him. Brown's wife, and Brown's baby, and Brown's home

were to him neverending sources of wonder and joy. That French was shut out from all this was the abiding

grief of Kalman's life, and this grief was emphasized by the all tooevident effect of this exclusion. For with

growing frequency French would ride off on Sunday afternoon to the Crossing, and often stay for three or

four days at a time. On such occasions life would be to Kalman one long agony of anxiety. Through the

summer he bore his grief in silence, never speaking of it even to Brown; but on one occasion, when French's

absence had been extended from one Sunday to the next, his anxiety and grief became unsupportable, and he

"He has not been home for a week, Mr. Brown, and oh! I can't stand it any longer," cried the distracted boy.

"I can't stay here while Jack is over there in such a terrible way. I must go to him."

"He won't like it, Kalman," said Brown; "he won't stand it, I am afraid. I would go, but I know it would only

"I am going down to the Crossing today," said Kalman. "I don't care if he kills me, I must go."

But his experience was such that he never went again, for Jack French in his madness nearly killed the boy,

who was brought sadly battered to Brown's hospital, where he lay for a week or more. Every day, French,

penetrated with penitence, visited him, lavishing on the boy a new tenderness. But when Kalman was on his

feet again, French laid it upon him, and bound him by a solemn promise that he should never again follow

him to the Crossing, or interfere when he was not master of himself. It was a hard promise to give, but once

given, that settled the matter for both. With Brown he never discussed Jack French's weakness, but every

Sunday afternoon, when in his own home Brown prayed for friends near and dear, committing them into the

Heavenly Father's keeping, in their minds, chiefly and before all others was the man whom they had all come

to love as an elder brother, and for whose redemption they were ready to lay down their lives. And this was

the strongest strand in the bond that bound Kalman and his friend together. So to Brown Kalman went with

his plans for the coming summer, and with most happy results. For through the spring and summer, following

Brown's advice and under Kalman's immediate directions, a strong force of Galicians with horse teams and

ox teams were kept hard at work, breaking and backsetting, in anticipation of an early sowing in the

following spring. In the meantime Brown himself was full of work. The addition to his hospital was almost

always full of patients; his school had begun to come back to him again, for the gratitude of his

warmhearted Galician people, in return for his many services to their sick and suffering, sufficed to

overcome their fear of the Polish priest, whose unpriestly habits and whose mercenary spirit were fast turning

against him even the most loyal of his people. In the expressive words of old Portnoff, who, it is to be feared,

had little religion in his soul, was summed up the general opinion: "Dat Klazowski bad man. He drink, drink

all time, take money, money for everyting. He damn school, send doctor man hell fire," the meaning of which

So full of work were they all, both at the ranch and at Wakota, that almost without their knowing it the

summer had gone, and autumn, with its golden glorious days, nippy evenings, and brilliant starry nights,

Canada's most delightful season, was upon them. Throughout the summer the construction gangs had steadily

worked their way north and west, and had crossed the Saskatchewan, and were approaching the Eagle Hill

country. Preceding the construction army, and following it, were camp followers and attendants of various

kinds. On the one hand the unlicensed trader and whiskey pedlar, the bane of the contractor and engineer; on

the other hand the tourist, the capitalist, and the speculator, whom engineers and contractors received with

welcome or with scant tolerance, according to the letters of introduction they brought from the great men in

Attached to the camp of Engineer Harris was a small and influential party, consisting of Mr. Robert Menzies

of Glasgow, capitalist, and, therefore, possible investor in Canadian lands, mines, and

railroads,consequently, a man to be considered; with him, his daughter Marjorie, a brownhaired maid of

seventeen, out for the good of her health and much the better of her outing, and Aunt Janet, maiden sister to

Mr. Menzies, and guardian to both brother and niece. With this party travelled Mr. Edgar Penny, a young

English gentleman of considerable means, who, having been a year in the country, felt himself eminently

qualified to act as adviser and guide to the party. At present, however, Mr. Penny was far more deeply

interested in the study of the lights that lurked in Miss Marjorie's brown eyes, and the bronze tints of her

abundant hair, than in the opportunities for investments offered by Canadian lands, railroads, and mines.

With an elaborate equipment, this party had spent three months travelling as far as Edmonton, and now, on

their way back, were attached to the camp of Engineer Harris, in order that the Scotch capitalist might

personally investigate methods of railway construction as practised in Western Canada. At present, the party

were encamped at a little distance from the Wakota trail, and upon the sunny side of a poplar bluff, for it was

It was on a rare October morning that Kalman, rising before the sun, set out upon his broncho to round up the

horses for their morning feed in preparation for the day's backsetting. With his dogs at his horse's heels, he

rode down to the Night Hawk, and crossed to the opposite side of the ravine. As he came out upon the open

prairie, Captain, the noble and worthy son of Blucher, caught sight of a prairie wolf not more than one

"Aha! my boy," cried Kalman, getting between the coyote and the bluff, and turning him towards the open

Headed off from the woods that marked the banks of the Night Hawk Creek, the coyote in desperation took to

the open prairie, with Captain and Queen, a noble foxhound bitch, closing fast upon him. Two miles across

the open country could be seen the poplar bluff, behind which lay the camp of the Engineer and his travelling

companions. Steadily the gap between the wolf and the pursuing hounds grew less, till at length, fearing the

inevitable, the hunted beast turned towards the little bluff, and entered it with the dogs only a few yards

behind. Alas! for him, the bluff afforded no shelter. Right through the little belt of timber dashed the wolf

with the dogs and Kalman hard upon his trail. At the very instant that the wolf came opposite the door of

Aunt Janet's tent, Captain reached for the extreme point of the beast's extended tail. Like a flash, the brute

doubled upon his pursuer, snapping fiercely as the hound dashed past. With a howl of rage and pain, Captain

clawed the ground in his effort to recover himself, but before he could renew his attack, and just as the wolf

was setting forth again, like a cyclone Queen was upon them. So terrific was her impact, that dogs and wolf

rolled under the tent door in one snarling, fighting, snapping mass of legs and tails and squirming bodies.

"Mercy sakes alive! What, what is this? Help! Help! Help! Where are you all? Will some one not come to my

help?" Kalman sprang from his horse, rushed forward, and lifted the tent door. A new outcry greeted his ear.

"Get out, get out, you man!" He dropped the flap, fled aghast before the appalling vision of Aunt Janet in

night attire, with a ring of curlpapers round her head, driven back into the corner of the tent, and crouched

upon a box, her gown drawn tight about her, while she gazed in unspeakable horror at the whirling, fighting

mass upon the tent floor at her feet. Higher and higher rose her shrieks above the din of the fight. From a

neighbouring tent there rushed forth a portly, middleaged gentleman in pyjamas, gun in hand.

"Where am I? Where but here, ye gowk! Oh, Robert! Robert! I shall be devoured alive."

The stout gentleman ran to the door of the tent, lifted the flap, and plunged in. With equal celerity he plunged

"What is this, sir?" indignantly turning upon Kalman, who stood in bewildered uncertainty.

"Go in, sir; go in at once and save my sister! What are you looking at, sir? She will be devoured alive. I

From another tent appeared a young man, rotund of form and with a chubby face. He was partly dressed, his

nightrobe being stuffed hastily into his trousers, and he held the camp axe in his hand.

"What the deuce is the row?" he exclaimed. "By Jove! sounds like a beastly dog fight."

"Aunt Janet! Aunt Janet! What is the matter?" A girl in a dressinggown, with her hair streaming behind her,

came rushing from another tent, and sprang towards the door of the tent, from which came the mingled

clamour of the fighting dogs and the terror stricken woman. Kalman stepped quickly in front of her, caught

"Go back!" he cried. "Get away, all of you." There was an immediate clearance of the space in front of the

"Oh! you good man! Come here and save me," cried Aunt Janet in a frenzy of relief. But Kalman was too

busy for the moment to give heed to her cries. As he entered, a fiercer howl arose above the din. The wolf had

seized hold of Captain's upper lip and was grimly hanging on, while Queen was gripping savagely for the

beast's throat. With his club Kalman struck the wolf a heavy blow, stunning it so that it released its hold on

the dog. Then, catching it by the hind leg, he hauled wolf and hounds out of the tent in one squirming mass.

"God help us!" cried the stout gentleman, darting into his own tent and poking his head out through the door.

The girl screamed and ran behind Kalman. The young man with the chubby face dropped his axe and jumped

But the wolf's days were numbered. Queen's powerful jaws were tearing at his throat, while Captain, having

"No! No! Don't you think of it!" cried the man from the tent door "He will attack us."

Kalman stepped forward, and beating the dogs from their quarry, drew his pistol and shot the beast through

"Get back, Captain! Back! Back! I say. Down!" With difficulty he drew the wolf from the jaws of the eager

"My word!" exclaimed the young man, leaping from the wagon with precipitate haste. "What are you doing?"

The young man's red, chubby face, out of which peered his little round eyes, his red hair standing in a

disordered halo about his head, his strange attire, with trailing braces and tagends of his nightrobe hanging

about his person, made a picture so weirdly funny that the girl went off into peals of laughter.

"Marjorie! Marjorie!" cried an indignant voice, "what are ye daein' there? Tak' shame to yersel', ye hizzie."

Marjorie turned in the direction of the voice, and again her peals of laughter burst forth. "Oh! Aunt Janet, you

do look so funny." But at once the head with its aureole of curlpapers was whipped inside the tent.

With a swift motion the girl put her hand to her head, gathered her garments about her, and fled to the cover

of her tent, leaving Kalman and the young man together, the latter in a state of indignant wrath, for no man

can bear with equanimity the ridicule of a maiden whom he is especially anxious to please.

"By Jove, sir!" he exclaimed. "What the deuce did you mean, running your confounded dogs into a camp like

Kalman heard not a word. He was standing as in a dream, gazing upon the tent into which the girl had

vanished. Ignoring the young man, he got his horse and mounted, and calling his dogs, rode off up the trail.

"Hello there!" cried Harris, the engineer, after him. Kalman reined up. "Do you know where I can get any

"Ten miles from here, across the Night Hawk Creek." Then, as if taking a sudden resolve, "I'll bring them

In a few moments the girl came out of the tent. "Oh!" she cried to the engineer, "is he gone?"

"Yes," said Harris, "but he'll be back this afternoon. He is going to bring me some oats." His smile brought a

"Oh! has he?" she said, with elaborate indifference. "What a lovely morning! It's wonderful for so late in the

"That's right," he said; "and the longer you stay in it, the better you like it. You'll be going to settle in it

"I'm not so sure about that," cried the girl, with a deeper blush, and a saucy toss of her head. "It is a fine

country, but it's no' Scotland, ye ken, as my Aunt would say. My! but I'm fair starving."

It happened that the ride to the Galician colony, planned for that afternoon by Mr. Penny the day before, had

to be postponed. Miss Marjorie was hardly up to it. "It must be the excitement of the country," she explained

"Indeed, you are wise for once in your life," said her Aunt Janet. "As for me, I'm fair dune out. With this

"Hoots awa', Aunt Janet," said her niece, "it was no time for fainting, I'm thinking, with yon wolf in the tent

"Aye, lassie, you may well say so," said Aunt Janet, lapsing into her native tongue, into which in unguarded

moments she was rather apt to fall, and which her niece truly loved to use, much to her Aunt's disgust, who

As the afternoon was wearing away, a wagon appeared in the distance. The gentlemen were away from camp

"There's something coming yonder," said Miss Marjorie, whose eyes had often wandered down the trail that

"Mercy on us! What can it be, and them all away," said her Aunt in distress. "Put your saddle on and fly for

your father or Mr. Harris. I am terrified. It is this awful country. If ever I get out alive!"

"Marjorie, why will you use such vulgar expressions? Of course, it's a wagon. Wha'swho's in it?"

"Marjorie, behave yourself, I'm saying, and speak as you are taught. Run away for your father."

"Indeed, Aunt, how could I do this and leave you here by yourself? A wild Indian might run off with you."

"Oh, Auntie dear," said Marjorie, with a change of voice, "it is just a man bringing some oats. Mr. Harris told

me he was to get a load this afternoon. We will need to take them from him. Have you any money? We must

"Money?" cried her Aunt. "What is the use of money in this country? No, your father has it all."

"It's a stranger. I meanit'sanother man," said Marjorie, distinct disappointment in her tone.

"Oh," said Marjorie innocently. "Mr. Harris is expecting that young man who was here this morning,the

"That man! The impudent thing that he was," cried her Aunt. "Wait till I set my eyes on him. Indeed, I will

not look at any one belonging to him." Aunt Janet flounced into the tent, leaving her niece to meet the

"Good afternoon! Am I right in thinking that this is the engineer's camp, for which a load of oats was ordered

this morning?" Jack French was standing, hat in hand, looking his admiration and perplexity, for Kalman had

"Yes, this is the camp. At least, I heard Mr. Harris say he expected a load of oats; but," she added in slight

confusion, "it was from another man, a young man, the man, I mean, who was here this morning."

"Oh," said Miss Marjorie, struggling with her laughter, "it's my Aunt; she was much alarmed this morning.

"Terrible, indeed," said Jack French, with grave politeness. "I could only get the most incoherent account of

Upon this, Miss Marjorie ran to the tent door. "Aunt," she cried, lifting up the flap, "you might as well come

"Very happy to meet you, madam." Jack's bow was so inexpressibly elegant that Aunt Janet found herself

French was profuse in his apologies and sympathetic regrets, as he gravely listened to Aunt Janet's excited

account of her warm adventure. The perfect gravity and the profuse sympathy with which he heard the tale

won Aunt Janet's heart, and she privately decided that here, at last, she had found in this wild and terrible

Under Miss Marjorie's direction, French unloaded his oats, the girl pouring forth the while a stream of

observations, exclamations, and interrogations upon all subjects imaginable, and with such an abandonment

of good fellowship that French, for the first time in twenty years, found himself offering hospitality to a party

in which ladies were to be found. Miss Menzies accepted the invitation with eager alacrity.

"Oh! it will be lovely, won't it, Aunt Janet? We have not yet seen a real ranch, and besides," she added, "we

"That matters not at all," said French; "but if your Aunt will condescend to grace with her presence my poor

Aunt Janet was quite captivated, and before she knew it, she had accepted the invitation for the party.

"Oh, good!" cried Miss Marjorie in ecstasy; "we shall come to morrow, Mr. French."

And with this news French drove back to the ranch, to the disgust of old Mackenzie, who dreaded "women

folks," and to Kalman's alternating delight and dismay. That short visit had established between the young

girl and Jack French a warm and abiding friendship that in a more conventional atmosphere it would have

taken years to develop. To her French realized at once all her ideals of what a Western rancher should be, and

to French the frank, fresh innocence of her unspoiled heart appealed with irresistible force. They had

The girl's enthusiasm for her newfound friend was such that the whole party decided to accept his invitation.

And so they did, spending a full day and night on the ranch, exploring, under French's guidance, the beauty

spots, and investigating with the greatest interest, especially on Miss Marjorie's part, the farming operations,

That young man, in dumb and abashed confusion of face, strictly avoided the party, appearing only at meals.

There, while he made a brave show, he was torn between the conflicting emotions of admiration of the easy

nonchalance and selfpossession with which Jack played the host, and of furious rage at the air of

proprietorship which Mr. Edgar Penny showed towards Miss Marjorie. Gladly would he have crushed into a

shapeless pulp the ruddy, chubby face of that young man. Kalman found himself at times with his eyes fixed

upon the very spot where his fingers itched to grip that thickset neck, but in spite of these passing moments

of fury, the whole world was new to him. The blue of the sky, the shimmer of the lake, the golden yellow of

the poplars, all things in earth and heaven, were shining with a new glory. For him the day's work had no

weariness. He no longer trod the solid ground, but through paths of airy bliss his soul marched to the strains

Poor Kalman! When on that fateful morning upon his virgin soul there dawned the vision of the maid, the

hour of fate struck for him. That most ancient and most divine of frenzies smote him. He was deliciously,

madly in love, though he knew it not. It is something to his credit, however, that he allowed the maiden to

depart without giving visible token of this divine frenzy raging within his breast, unless it were that in the

blue of his eyes there came a deeper blue, and that under the tan of his cheek a pallor crept. But when on their

going the girl suddenly turned in her saddle and, waving her hand, cried, "Goodby, Kalman," the pallor fled,

chased from his cheek by a hot rush of Slavic blood as he turned to answer, "Goodby." He held his hat high

in a farewell salutation, as he had seen Jack do, and then in another moment she was gone, and with her all

To Kalman it seemed as if months or years must have passed since he first saw her by her Aunt's tent on that

eventful morning. To take up the ordinary routine was impossible to him. That very night, rolling up his

blankets and grub for three days, and strapping on to his saddle an axe and a shovel, Kalman rode off down

the Night Hawk Creek, telling Mackenzie gruffly, as he called his dogs to follow, that he purposed digging

out a coyote's den that he knew lay somewhere between the lake and the Creek mouth.

The afternoon of the second day found him far down the Creek, where it plunged headlong into the black

ravine below, not having discovered his wolf den and not much caring whether he should or not; for as he

rode through the thick scrub he seemed to see dancing before him in the glancing beams that rained down

through the yellow poplar leaves a maiden's face with saucy brown eyes that laughed at him and lured him

At the edge of the steep descent he held up his broncho. He had never been down this way before. The sides

of the ravine pitched sharply into a narrow gorge through which the Night Hawk brawled its way to the

"We'll scramble down here, Jacob," he said to his broncho,so named by Brown, for that he had

He dismounted, drew the reins over the broncho's head, and began the descent, followed by his horse,

slipping, sliding, hanging on now by trees and now by jutting rocks. By the edge of what had once been a

small landslip, he clutched a poplar tree to save himself from going over; but the tree came away with him,

and horse and man slid and rolled down the slope, bringing with them a great mass of earth and stone.

Unhappily, Jacob in his descent rolled over upon the boy's leg. There was a snap, a twinge of sharp pain, and

boy and horse lay half imbedded in the loose earth. Kalman seized a stick that lay near at hand.

Jacob responded with a mighty plunge and struggled free, making it possible for Kalman to extricate himself.

He was relieved to discover that he could stand on his feet and could walk, but only with extreme pain. Upon

examination he could find no sign of broken bones. He took a large handkerchief from his neck, bound it

"I say, Jacob, we're well out of that," he said, looking up at the great cave that had been excavated by the

landslip. "Quite a hole, eh? A great place to sleep in. Lots of spruce about, too. We'll just camp here for the

night. I guess I'll have to let those coyotes go this trip. This beastly foot of mine won't let me dig much.

Hello!" he continued, "that's a mighty queer rock. I'll just take a look at that hole."

He struggled up over the debris and entered the cave. Through the earth there showed a glistening seam

"By Jove!" he cried, copying Jack French in his habit of speech as in other habits, "that looks like the coal we

Forgetting for the time the pain of his foot, he scrambled down over the soft earth, got his shovel, and was

soon hard at work excavating the seam. Soon he had a very considerable pile lying at the front of the cave.

He hurriedly gathered some dry wood, heaped the black stuff upon it, lighted it, and sat down to wait the

issue. Wild hopes were throbbing at his heart. He knew enough of the value of coal to realize the importance

of the discovery. If it should prove to be coal, what a splendid thing it would be for Jack and for him! How

much they would be able to do for Mrs. French and for his sister Irma! Amid his dreams a new face mingled,

a face with saucy brown eyes, but on that face he refused to allow himself the rapture of looking. He dared

not, at least not yet. Keenly he watched the fire. Was it taking hold of the black lumps? The flames were

dying down. The wood had nearly burned itself out. The black lumps were charred and dead, and with their

He glanced out upon the ravine. Large soft flakes of snow were falling lazily through the trees.

"I'll get my blankets and grub under cover, and get some more wood for the night. It's going to be cold."

He heaped the remains of the wood he had gathered upon the fire, and with great difficulty, for his foot was

growing more and more painful with every move, he set about gathering wood, of which there was

abundance near at hand, and making himself snug for the night. He brought up a pail of water from the Creek,

and tethered his broncho where there was a bunch of grass at the bottom of the ravine. Before he had finished

these operations the ground was white with snow, and the wind was beginning to sigh ominously through the

"Going to be a blizzard, sure," he said. "But let her blow. We're all right in here. Hello! where are those dogs?

With every moment the snow came down more thickly, and the wind grew toward a gale.

At the cost of great pain and labour, he dragged within reach of the cave a number of dead trees. He was

"I wish I'd eaten less," he grumbled. "If I'm in for a three days' storm, and it looks like that, my grub will run

As he was busy with these preparations, a sudden darkness fell on the valley. A strange sound like a muffled

roaring came up the ravine. In a single minute everything was blotted out before him. There hung down

"By Jove! that's a corker of a blizzard, sure enough! I'll draw my fire further in."

He seized his shovel and began to scrape the embers of his fire together. With a shout he dropped his shovel,

fell on his knees, and gazed into the fire. Under the heap of burning wood there was a mass of glowing coal.

"Coal!" he shouted, rushing to the front of the cave. "Coal! Coal! Oh, Jack! Dear old Jack! It's coal!"

Trembling between fear and hope, he broke in pieces the glowing lumps, rushed back to the seam, gathered

more of the black stuff, and heaped it around the fire. Soon his doubts were all at rest. The black lumps were

soon on fire and blazed up with a blue flame. But for his foot, he would have mounted Jacob and ridden

"Let her snow!" he cried, gazing into the whirling mist before his eyes. "I've got the stuff that beats

He turned to his tea making, now pausing to examine the great black seam, and again going to the cave

entrance to whistle for his dogs. As he stood listening to the soft whishing roar of the storm, he thought he

heard the deep bay of Queen's voice. Holding his breath, he listened again. In the pause of the storm he heard,

He drank his tea, struggled down the steep slope, the descent made more difficult by the covering of soft

snow upon it, and drew another pail of water for evening use. Still the dogs did not appear. He went to the

cave's mouth again, and whistled loud and long. This time quite distinctly he caught Queen's long, deep bay,

He dropped upon his knees, put his hands up to his ears, and listened intently again. Once more, in a lull of

"Heavens above!" he cried, "a woman's voice! And I can't make a hundred yards with this foot of mine."

He knew enough of blizzards to realize the extreme danger to any one caught in those blinding, whirling

"I can't stay here, and I can't make it with this foot, butyes By Jove! Jacob can, though."

He seized his saddle and struggled out into the storm. Three paces from the door he fell headlong into a soft

drift, wrenching his foot anew. Choking, blinded, and almost fainting with the pain, he got to his feet once

In a few minutes he was on the broncho's back and off down the valley, feeling his way carefully among the

trees and over stones and logs. As he went on, he caught now and then Queen's ringing buglenote, and as

often as he caught it he answered with a loud "Halloo!" It was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep

Jacob's head toward the storm. Yard by yard he pressed his way against the gale, holding his direction by

means of the flowing stream. Nearer and nearer sounded the cry of the hound, till in answer to his shouting he

heard a voice call loud and clear. The valley grew wider, the timber more open, and his progress became

more rapid. Soon, through the drifting mass, he caught sight of two white moving figures. The dogs bounded

"You! You!" he shouted aloud above the howling gale. "Marjorie! Marjorie!" He had her in his arms, kissing

"Oh, Kalman! Kalman!" she gasped. "You must stop! You must stop! Oh! I am so glad! You must stop!"

"God in Heaven!" shouted the man, boy no longer. "Who can stop me? How can I stop? You might have died

At a little distance the other figure was hanging to a tree, evidently near to exhaustion.

"Oh, Kalman, we were fair done when the dogs came, and then I wouldn't stop, for I knew you were near. But

"I say, young man, what the deuce are we going to do? I'm played out. I cawn't move a blawsted foot."

The voice recalled Kalman from heaven to earth. He turned to the speaker and made out Mr. Edgar Penny.

"Do!" cried Kalman. "Why, make for my camp. Come along. It's up stream a little distance, and we can feel

"Yes, at once," said Kalman, taking full command of her. "Now, hold on tight, and we'll soon be at camp."

With the gale in their backs, they set off up stream, the men holding by the stirrups. For some minutes they

battled on through the blizzard. Well for them that they had the brawling Creek to guide them that night, for

through this swaying, choking curtain of snow it was impossible to see more than a horse length.

In a few minutes Mr. Penny called out, "I say, I cawn't go a step further. Let's rest a bit." He sat down in the

"Come on!" shouted Kalman through the storm. "We must keep going or we'll freeze."

Still there was no answer. Kalman made his way round to the man's side. He was fast asleep.

"Get up! Get up, you fool, or you will be smothered!" said Kalman, roughly shaking him. "Get up, I say!"

He pulled the man to his feet and they started on once more, Mr. Penny stumbling along like a drunken man.

"Let me walk, Kalman," entreated Marjorie. "I feel fresh and strong. He can't go on, and he will only keep us

She slipped off the horse, Kalman growling his wrath and disgust, and together they assisted Mr. Penny to

mount. By this time they had reached the thickest part of the woods. The trees broke to some extent the force

Slowly, painfully, through the darkness and drifted snow, with teeth clenched to keep back the groans which

the pain of his foot was forcing from him, Kalman stumbled along. At length a misstep turned his foot. He

"It is this cursed foot of mine," he groaned. "I twisted it and something's broken, I am afraid, and it IS rather

"Hello there! what's up?" cried Mr. Penny from his saddle. "I'm getting beastly cold up here."

"It's just a great shame!" cried Marjorie, half sobbing, keeping by his side. "Can't I help you? Let me try."

"That's camp," said Kalman, pausing for breath while Marjorie held him up. "We're just there."

And so, staggering and stumbling, they reached the foot of the landslip. Here Kalman took the saddle off

Jacob, turned him loose, and clambered up to the cave, followed by the others. Mr. Penny sank to the ground

She sank to her knees on the ground, and putting her face in her hands, burst into tears.

"What is it, Marjorie?" said Kalman, taking her hands down from her face. "Are you hurt? What is it? I can't

bear to see you cry like that." But he didn't kiss her. The conventionalities were seizing upon him again. His

"Do!" cried Marjorie through her sobs. "What more can you do? Oh, Kalman, you have saved me from an

"Don't speak of it," said the boy with a shudder. "Don't I know it? I can't bear to think of it. But are you all

"Right?" said Marjorie briskly, wiping away her tears. "Of course I'm all right, an' sair hungry, tae."

"Why, of course. What a fool I am!" said Kalman. "I'll make you tea in a minute."

"No, let me," cried Marjorie. "Your poor foot must be awful. Where's your teapot? I'm a gran' tea maker, ye

Never was such tea as that which they had from the tin tea pail and from the one tin cup. What though the

blizzard howled its loudest in front of their cave? What though the swirling snow threatened now and then to

douse their fire? What though the tea boiled over and the pork burned to a crisp? What though a single

bannock stood alone between them and starvation? What cared they? Heaven was about them, and its music

Refreshed by their tea, they sat before the blazing fire, all three, drying their soaked garments, while Mr.

Penny and Marjorie recounted their experiences. They had intended to make Wakota, but missed the trail.

The day was fine, however, and that gave them no concern till the storm came up, when suddenly they had

lost all sense of direction and allowed their ponies to take them where they would. With the instinct bred on

the plains, the ponies had made for the shelter of the Night Hawk ravine. Up the ravine they had struggled till

"They'll look after themselves, never fear," said Kalman. "They live out all winter here."

Then through the drifts they had fought their way, till in the moment of their despair the dogs came upon

"We thought they were wolves," cried Marjorie, "till one began to bay, and I knew it was the foxhound. And

then I was sure that you would not be far away. We followed the dogs for a while, and I kept calling and

A sweet confusion checked her speech. The heat of the fire became suddenly insupportable, and putting up

Mr. Penny, under the influence of a strong cup of boiling tea and a moderate portion of the bannock and

pork,for Kalman would not allow him full rations,became more and more confident that they "would

"Why, Mr. Penny," cried Marjorie, "you couldn't move a foot further. Don't you remember how often you sat

"Oh," said Mr. Penny, "it was the beastly drift getting into my eyes and mouth, don't you know. But I would

have pulled up again in a minute. I was just getting my second wind. By Jove! I'm strong on my second wind,

But Marjorie was quite unconvinced, while Kalman said nothing. Over and over again they recounted the tale

of their terrors and their struggle, each time with some new incident; but ever and anon there would flame up

in Marjorie's cheek the flag of distress, as if some memory smote her with a sudden blow, and her hand

would cover her cheek as if to ward off those other and too ardent kisses of the dancing flames. But at such

times about her lips a fitful smile proclaimed her distress to be not quite unendurable.

At length Mr. Penny felt sleepy, and stretching himself upon the dry earth before the fire, passed into

unconsciousness, leaving the others to themselves. Over the bed of spruce boughs in the corner Kalman

spread his blankets, moving about with painful difficulty at his task, his groans growing more frequent as

The story of those vigil hours could not be told. How they sat now in long silences, gazing into the glowing

coals, and again conversing in low voices lest Mr. Penny's vocal slumbers should be disturbed; how Marjorie

told the short and simple story of her life, to Kalman all wonderful; how Kalman told the story of his life,

omitting parts, and how Marjorie's tender eyes overflowed and her rosy cheeks grew pale and her hand crept

toward his arm as he told the tragedy of his mother's death; how she described with suppressed laughter the

alarms of her dear Aunt Janet that morning was it a month ago?how he told of Jack French, what a man

he was and how good; how she spoke of her father and his strength and his tenderness, and of how he spoiled

her, against which Kalman vehemently protested; how he told of Brown and his work for the poor ignorant

Galicians, and of the songs they sang together; how she made him sing, at first in undertones soft and low,

lest poor Mr. Penny's sleep should be broken, and then in tones clear and full, the hymns in which Brown and

French used to join, and then, in obedience to her peremptory commands, his own favourite Hungarian

lovesong, of which he shyly told her; how her eyes shone like stars, her cheeks paled, and her hands held

fast to each other in the ecstasy of her rapture while he told her what it all meant, at first with averted looks,

and then boldly pouring the passion of his soul into her eyes, till they fell before the flame in his as he sang

"While the flower blooms in the meadow, And fishes swim the sea, Heart of my heart, soul of my soul, I'll

how then shyness fell on her and she moved ever so little to her own side of the fire; how he, sensitive to her

every emotion, rose at once to build the fire, telling her for the first time then of his wonderful discovery,

which he had clean forgot; how together on tiptoe they examined, with heads in close proximity and voices

lowered to a whisper, the black seam that ran down a side of the cave; how they discussed the possible value

of it and what it might mean to Kalman; and then how they fell silent again till Kalman commanded her to

bed, to which she agreed only upon condition that he should rouse Mr. Penny when his watch should be over;

how she woke in broad daylight to find him with breakfast ready, the blizzard nearly done, and the sun

breaking through upon a wonderful world, white and fairylike; how they vainly strove to simulate an ease of

manner, to forget some of the things that happened the night before, and that neither could ever forget till the

All this might be told, had one the art. But no art or skill of man could tell how, as they talked, there flew

from eye to eye, hers brown and his bluegrey, those swift, fluttering signals of the heart; how he watched to

see on her cheek the red flush glow and pale again, not sure whether it was from the fire upon the cave floor

or from the fire that burns eternal in the heart of man and maid; how, as he talked and sang, she feared and

loved to see the bold leap of passion in his eyes; and how she speedily learned what words or looks of hers

could call up that flash; how, as she slept, he piled high the fire, not that she might be warm, but that the light

might fall upon her face and he might drink and drink till his heart could hold no more, of her sweet

loveliness; how, when first waking, her eyes fell on him moving softly about the cave, and then closed again

till she could dream again her dream and drink in slow sips its rapture; how he feared to meet her waking

glance, lest it should rebuke his madness of the night; how, as her eyes noted the haggard look of sleepless

watching and of pain, her heart flowed over as with a mother's pity for her child, and how she longed to

comfort him but dared not; how he thought of the coming days and feared to think of them, because in them

she would have no place or part; how she looked into the future and wondered what like would be a life in

this new and wonderful landall this, no matter what his skill or art, no man could tell.

It was still morning when Jack French and Brown rode up the Night Hawk ravine, driving two saddled ponies

before them. Their common anxiety had furnished the occasion for the healing of the breach that for a year

With voluble enthusiasm Mr. Penny welcomed them, plunging into a graphic account of their struggle with

the storm till happily they came upon the dogs, who led them to Kalman and his camp. But French, brushing

him aside, strode past to where, trembling and speechless, Marjorie stood, and then, taking her in his arms, he

And Margaret, putting her arms around Jack's neck, whispered through radiant tears, "It was Kalman, Jack.

Don't listen to yon gommeril. It was Kalman saved us; and oh, Jack, he is just lovely!"

"Do you, indeed?" she answered, with a knowing smile. "I doubt. But oh! he has broken his foot or

And Jack, not knowing what she meant, looked curiously into her face and wondered, till Brown, examining

Kalman's foot and finding a broken bone, exclaimed wrathfully, "Say, boy, you don't tell me you have been

"He came for mefor us, Mr. Brown, through that awful storm," cried Marjorie penitently; "and is it

But Kalman still answered nothing. His dream was passing from him. She was restored to her world and was

But during those hours spent in the cave Kalman and Marjorie had something other to occupy their minds

"He's just half dead and starved," said Marjorie in a voice that broke with pity. "He watched all last night

At the tone in her voice, Jack French turned and gave her a searching look. The quick, hot blood flamed into

her cheeks, and in her eyes dawned a frank shyness as she gave him back his look.

But Jack only nodded his head sagely while he whispered to her, "Happy boy, happy boy! Two mines in one

At which the red flamed up again and she fell to examining with greater diligence the seam of black running

In a few minutes they were mounted and away, Brown riding hard to bring the great news to the engineer's

camp and recall the hunting parties; the rest to make the ranch, Marjorie in front in happy sparkling converse

with Jack French, and Kalman, haggard and gloomy, bringing up the rear. A new man was being brought to

birth within him, and sore were the parturition pangs. For one brief night she had been his; now back to her

It was quite two days before the shining sun and the eager air had licked up from earth the drifts of snow, and

two days before Marjorie felt quite sure she was able to bear again the rigours of camp life, and two days

before Aunt Janet woke up to the fact that that foreign young man was altogether too handsome to be riding

from morning till night with her niece. For Jack, meanwhile, was attending with assiduous courtesy the Aunt

and receiving radiant looks of gratitude from the niece. Two days of Heaven, when Kalman forgot all but that

she was beside him; two days of hell when he remembered that he was but a poor foreign boy and she a great

English lady. Two days and they said farewell. Marjorie was the last, turning first to French, who kissed her,

saying, "Come back again, little girl," and then to Kalman, sitting on his broncho, for he hated to go lame

"Goodby, Kalman," she said, smiling bravely, while her lips quivered. "I'll no forget yon awful and,"

leaning slightly toward him as he took her hand, "yon happy night. Goodby for now. I'll no forget."

And Kalman, looking straight into her eyes, held her hand without a word till, withdrawing it from his hold,

she turned away, leaving the smile with him and carrying with her the quivering lips.

"I shall ride a bit with you, little girl," said Jack French, who was ever quick with his eyes.

She tried to smile at him, but failed piteously. But Jack rode close to her, talking bright nothings till she could

"Oh, Jack, but you are the dear!" she said to him as they galloped together up the trail, Mr. Penny following

But before they took the descent to the Night Hawk ravine, they heard a thunder of hoofs, and wheeling,

"I have come to say goodby," he shouted, his broncho tearing up the earth by Marjorie's side.

Reaching out his hands, he drew her toward him and kissed her before them all, once, again, and yet again,

with Aunt Janet screaming, "Mercy sakes alive! The lad is daft! He'll do her a hurt!"

"Hoots! woman, let the bairns be," cried Marjorie's father. "He saved her for us."

But having said his farewell, Kalman rode away, waving his hand and singing at the top of his voice his

"While the flower blooms in the meadow, And fishes swim the sea, Heart of my heart, soul of my soul, I'll

which none but Marjorie could understand, but they all stood watching as he rode away, and listening,

"With my lances at my back, My good sword at my knee, Light of my life, joy of my soul, I'll fight, I'll die

The early approach of winter checked the railroad construction proper, but with the snow came good roads,

and contractors were quick to take advantage of the easier methods of transportation furnished by winter

roads to establish supply depots along the line, and to open tie camps up in the hills. And so the old

Edmonton Trail was once more humming with life and activity far exceeding that of its palmiest days.

As for Kalman, however, it was the mine that absorbed his attention and his energies. By day and by night he

planned and dreamed and toiled for the development of his mine. With equal enthusiasm Brown and French

joined in this enterprise. It was French that undertook to deal with all matters pertaining to the organization of

a company by which the mine should be operated. Registration of claim, the securing of capital, the obtaining

of charter, all these matters were left in his hands. A few weeks' correspondence, however, revealed the fact

that for Western enterprises money was exceedingly difficult to secure. French was eager to raise money by

mortgaging his ranch and all his possessions, but this proposal Kalman absolutely refused to consider.

Brown, too, was opposed to this scheme. Determined that something should be done, French then entered

into contracts with the Railroad Company for the supply of ties. But though he and Mackenzie took a large

force into the woods, and spent their three months in arduous toil, when the traders and the whiskey runners

The actual working of the mine fell to Kalman, aided by Brown. There was an immediate market for coal

among the Galicians of the colony, who much preferred it to wood as a fuel for the clay ovens with which

they heated their houses. But they had little money to spare, and hence, at the beginning of the work, Kalman

hit upon the device of bartering coal for labour, two days' work in the mine entitling a labourer to a load of

coal. Brown, too, needed coal for his mill. At the Crossing there was large demand for coal, while

correspondence with the Railroad Company discovered to Kalman a limitless market for the product of his

mine. By outside sales Kalman came to have control of a little ready money, and with this he engaged a small

force of Galicians, who, following lines suggested by Brown, pushed in the tunnel, ran cross drifts, laid down

a small tramway, and accomplished exploration and development work that appeared to Kalman's

uninstructed eyes wonderful indeed. The interest of the whole colony centred in the mine and in its

development, and the confidence of the people in Kalman's integrity and efficiency became more and more

But Brown was too fully occupied with his own mission to give much of his time to the mine. The work

along the line of construction and in the camps meant sickness and accident, and consequently his hospital

accommodation had once more to be increased, and this entailed upon himself and his wife, who acted as

It was a happy inspiration of Jack French's that led Brown to invoke the aid of Mrs. French in securing the

services of a nurse, and Mrs. French's proposal that Irma, who for two years had been in regular training,

should relieve Mrs. Brown of her duties as matron, was received by all concerned with enthusiastic approval.

And so, to the great relief of Mrs. Brown and to the unspeakable joy of both Kalman and his sister, Irma and

Paulina with her child were installed in the Wakota institution, Irma taking charge of the hospital and Paulina

It was not by Brown's request or even desire that Paulina decided to make her home in the Wakota colony.

She was there because nothing could prevent her coming. Her life was bound up with the children of her lord,

and for their sakes she toiled in the kitchen with a devotion that never flagged and never sought reward.

The school, too, came back to Brown and in larger numbers than before. Through the autumn and early

winter, by his drunkenness and greed, Klazowski had fallen deeper and deeper into the contempt of his

parishioners. It was Kalman, however, that gave the final touch to the tottering edifice of his influence and

laid it in ruins. It was the custom of the priest to gather his congregation for public worship on Sunday

afternoon in the schoolhouse which Brown placed at his disposal, and of which he assumed possession as his

right, by virtue of the fact that it was his people who had erected the building. On a Sunday afternoon, as the

winter was nearing an end, Klazowski, under the influence of a too complete devotion to the beer barrel that

stood in his host's kitchen, spent an hour in a furious denunciation of the opponents of his holy religion, and

especially of the heretic Brown and all his works, threatening with excommunication those who in any degree

would dare after this date to countenance him. His character was impugned, his motives declared to be of the

basest. This was too much for his congregation. Deep murmurs rose among the people, but unwarned, the

At length Kalman, unable any longer to contain his indignation, sprang to his feet, gave the priest the lie

"You all know Mr. Brown," he cried, "what sort of man is he? And what sort of man is this priest who has

spoken to you? You, Simon Simbolik, when your child lay dead and you sought help of this Klazowski, what

"He asked me for ten dollars," said Simon promptly, "and when I could not give it he cursed me from him.

Yes," continued Simbolik, "and Mr. Brown made the coffin and paid for it, and would take no money. My

daughter is in his school, and is learning English and sewing, beautiful sewing, and she will stay there."

"You, Bogarz," cried Kalman, "when your children were down with scarlet fever and you went to the priest

"Yes," continued Kalman, "and Mr. Brown came and took the children to his hospital, and they are well

"Yes," cried Bogarz, "and he would take nothing for it all, but I paid him all I could, and I will gladly pay

And so from one to another went the word. The friends of Klazowski, for he still had a following, were

"I would not have Klazowski in my house with my family," cried one, "a single day. It would not be safe. I

Others were found with similar distrust of Klazowski's morals. Klazowski was furious, and sought with loud

denunciations and curses to quell the storm of indignation that had been roused against him. Then Kalman

"This man," he cried, his loud, clear voice gaining him a hearing, "This man is promising to build us a

church. He has been collecting money. How much money do you think he has by this time? I, myself, gave

At once cries came from all parts of the building. "I gave him twentyfive." "And I ten." "And I five." And so

"I make it nearly two hundred dollars," he cried. "Has any one seen the books? Does any one know where the

"Then," cried Kalinan, "let us enquire. We are not sheep. This is a free country, and we are free men. The

days of the old tyranny are gone." The house rocked with the wild cheers of the excited crowd. "Let us

examine into this. Let us appoint a committee to find out how much money has been paid and where it is."

With enthusiasm Kalman's suggestion was carried into effect. A committee was appointed and instructed to

Next day Klazowski was not to be found in the colony. He had shaken the Wakota snow from off his feet,

and had departed, carrying with him the people's hardearned money, their fervent curses, and a deep, deep

grudge against the young man upon whom he laid the responsibility for the collapse of his influence among

A few days later, to an interested and devout congregation in the city of Winnipeg, he gave an eloquent

account of his labours as a missionary in the remote colony of Wakota, depicted in lurid colours the

persecutions he had endured at the hands of the heretic Brown, reserving his most fervid periods for the

denunciation of the unscrupulous machinations of an apostate and arch traitor, Kalman Kalmar, whose name

Among those who remained to congratulate and sympathize with the orator, none was more cordial than Mr.

Rosenblatt, with whom the preacher went home to dine, and to whom, under the mellowing influence of a

third bottle, he imparted full and valuable information in regard to Wakota, its possibilities as a business

centre, its railroad prospects, its land values, its timber limits, and especially in regard to the character and

work of Kalman Kalmar, and the wonderful mine which the young man had discovered.

The information thus obtained Rosenblatt was careful to impart to his friend and partner, Samuel Sprink. As a

result of further interviews with the priest and of much shrewd bargaining with railroad contractors and

officials, in early spring, before the break up of the roads, Mr. Samuel Sprink had established himself along

the line of construction as a vendor of "gents' furnishings," working men's supplies, tobaccos and cigars, and

other useful and domestic articles. It was not announced, however, in the alluring posters distributed among

the people in language suited to their comprehension, that among his stores might be found a brand of

whiskey of whose virtues none could speak with more confidence than Mr. Sprink himself, for the sufficient

Chief among Mr. Sprink's activities was that of "claim jumping," to wit, the securing for himself of

homesteads for which patents had not been obtained, the homesteaders for one reason or another having not

been able to complete the duties required by Government. In the prosecution of this business Mr. Sprink

made a discovery, which he conveyed in a letter to Mr. Rosenblatt, who was still in charge of the Winnipeg

"You must come at once," wrote Mr. Sprink. "I save a great business on hand. I have discovered that no

application has been made for the coal mine claimed by young Kalmar, and this means that the mine is still

open. Had I the full description of the property, I should have jumped the claim at once, you bet. So get a

move on and come. Get the description of the land on the quiet, and then do some work among the Galician

people to prepare for the change of ownership, because there will be trouble, sure. So, come along. There is

Meanwhile, Kalman was developing his mine, and dreaming great dreams as to what he should do when he

had become a great mine owner. It was his custom, ever since Irma's coming, to spend the Sunday evening

with her at the hospital. His way to the mine lay through scrub and sleugh, a heavy trail, and so he welcomed

the breaking up of the ice on the Eagle River. For, taking Brown's canoe, he could paddle down to the

Saskatchewan, and thence to the mouth of the Night Hawk Creek, from which point it was only a short walk

It was a most fortunate thing for old Pere Garneau that Kalman had adopted this method of transportation on

the very night the old priest had chosen for his trip down the Eagle. Pere Garneau, a pioneer priest of the

North Saskatchewan country, had ministered for twenty years, by river and by trail, to the spiritual and

temporal needs of the halfbreeds and the Indians under the care of his church. A heroic soul was the old

Father, not to be daunted by dangers, simple as a child, and kindly. But the years had done their work with

him on eye and hand. The running ice in the spring flood of the Eagle River got itself under the nose of the

good Father's canoe, and the current did the rest. His feeble cry would have brought no aid, had not Kalman,

at the very moment, been shoving out his canoe into the current of the Eagle. A few strong sweeps of the

paddle, and Kalman had the old priest in tow, and in a few minutes, with Brown's aid, into the hospital and

snugly in bed, with his canoe, and what of his stuff could be rescued, safe under cover. Two days of Irma's

nursing and of Brown's treatment, and the ill effects of his chilly dip had disappeared sufficiently to allow the

"Eet will be to me a pleasant remembrance of your hospitalite," he said to Brown on the morning of the third

"And to us of your stay, Father Garneau," replied Brown. "But you need not go today. You are not strong

enough, and, besides, I have some work for you. There is a poor Galician woman with us here who cannot

see the morning. She could not bear the priest Klazowski. She had trouble with him, and I think you could

"Ah, dat Klazowski!" exclaimed Pere Garneau. "Eet ees not a good man. Many peep' tell me of dat man. He

"Ah, he ees a fine young man, Kalman. He mak' troub' for dat priest, ees eet not?"

"Well, I am afraid he did," said Brown, laughing. "But I fancy it was the priest made trouble for himself."

The poor woman made her confession, received her Sacrament, and thus comforted and at peace, made exit

"My son," said the priest to Kalman when the service was over, "I would be glad to confess you."

"No, I think not," said Kalman. "I have for some years been reading my Bible, and I have lived beside a good

man who has taught me to know God and our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. I seek to follow him as Peter

and the others did. But I am no longer of the Galician way of religion, neither Greek nor Roman."

"My son," exclaimed the old priest in horror, "you are not an apostate? You have not denied your faith?"

Long and painfully, and with tears, did the old priest labour with Kalman, to whom his soul went out in

gratitude and affection, but without making any change in the young man's mind. The teaching, but more the

life, of his friend had not been lost, and Kalman had come to see clearly his way.

"I leave to you," he said to Brown, "my double blessing, of the stranger whom you received, and of the sick

to whom you served. Ah! what a peety you are in the darkness of error," he continued with a gentle smile;

"Thank you, thank you," said Brown warmly. "The prayers of a good man bring blessing, and I love to

For some days Rosenblatt had been at work quietly in the colony, obtaining information and making friends.

Among the first who offered their services was old Portnoff and a friend of his, an old man with ragged

beard, and deepset, piercing eyes looking out from under shaggy brows, to whom Portnoff gave the name of

Malkarski. As Portnoff seemed to be a man of influence among his people, Rosenblatt made him foreman

over one of the gangs of workmen in his employ. It was through Portnoff he obtained an accurate description

of the mine property. But that same night Portnoff and Malkarski were found at Brown's house.

"There is a man," said Portnoff, "who wishes to know about the mine. Perhaps he desires to purchase."

"Rosenblatt? That name has a familiar sound. It would be wise," he continued, "to carry your information to

"It shall be done tonight," said Malkarski in a deep voice. "It is important. Portnoff will go." Portnoff

The following morning brought Kalman to Wakota. The arrival of Rosenblatt in the country had changed for

him the face of heaven and earth. Before his eyes there rose and remained the vision of a spot in a Russian

forest where the snow was tramped and bloody. With sobs and execrations he poured forth his tale to Brown.

"Kalman, my boy," said Brown, "I cannot wonder that you feel like this. Killing is too good for the brute. But

"You must not think like that, much less speak so," said Brown. "This is Canada, not Russia. You are a

"I can't help it," said Kalman; "I can only see that bloody snow." He put his hands over his eyes and

"And would you ruin your own life? Would you shut yourself off forever from your best and holiest

thoughts? And what of your sister, and Jack, and me? And what ofofall your friends? For this one fierce

and sinful passionfor it is sinful, Kalmanyou would sacrifice yourself and all of us."

"I know all that. It would sacrifice all; but in here," smiting his breast, "there is a cry that will not cease till I

"God pity you, Kalman. And you call yourself a follower of Him who for His murderers prayed, 'Father,

forgive them.'" Then Brown's voice grew stern. "Kalman, you are not thinking clearly. You must face this as

a Christian man. The issue is quite straight. It is no longer between you and your enemy; it is between you

and your Lord. Are you prepared tonight to reject your Lord and cut yourself off from Him? Listen." Brown

took his Bible, and turning over the leaves, found the words, "'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither

will your Father forgive your trespasses'; and remember, these are the words of Him who forgave those who

had done their worst on Him, blighting his dearest hopes, ruining His cause, breaking His heart. Kalman, you

And Kalman went his way to meet his Gethsemane in the Night Hawk ravine, till morning found him on his

face under the trees, with his victory still in the balance. The hereditary instincts of Slavic blood cried out for

vengeance. The passionate loyalty of his heart to the memory of his mother and to his father cried out for

vengeance. His own wrongs cried out for vengeance, and against these cries there stood that single word,

Before a week was gone old Portnoff came hot foot to Brown to report that early that morning Rosenblatt had

"It is something about the mine. He was in good spirits. He offered me something good on his return. If this

"Yes, yes," growled his friend Malkarski, in his deep voice, "we should soon do for him."

Brown thought quickly. What could it mean? Was it possible the registration had been neglected? Knowing

French's easygoing methods of doing business, he knew it to be quite possible. French was still away in his

tie camp. Kalman was ten miles off at the mine. It was too great a chance to take.

He made a few hurried preparations, sent word to Kalman, and departed. He had forty miles before him, and

his horse was none of the best. Rosenblatt had two hours' lead and was, doubtless, well mounted. There was a

chance, however, that he would take the journey by easy stages. But a tail chase is a long chase, especially

when cupidity and hate are spurring on the pursued. Five hours' hard riding brought Brown to the wide plain

upon which stood the Fort. As he entered upon the plain, he discovered his man a few miles before him. At

almost the same instant of his discovery, Rosenblatt became aware of his pursuer, and the last five miles were

done at racing speed. But Brown's horse was spent, and when he arrived at the Land Office, it was to find that

application had been made for one hundred and sixty acres of mining land, including both sides of the Night

"This man," Brown said at length to the agent, "never saw the mine. He is not the discoverer."

"A young friend of mine, Kalman Kalmar. To that I can swear." And he told the story of the discovery,

adding such details as he thought necessary in regard to Rosenblatt's character.

"The Government cannot be responsible for neglect," he said. "You have yourselves to blame for it. Nothing

The door opened, and Brown turned to find Rosenblatt with a smile of triumph upon his face. Before he was

aware, his open hand had swung hard upon the grinning face, and Rosenblatt fell in a huddled heap into the

"I will have the law on you!" he shouted. "I call you as witness," he continued to the agent.

"What's the matter with you?" said the agent. "I didn't see anything. If you trip yourself up and pitch into the

corner, that is your own business. Get out of this office, you disorderly beast! Hurry up!" The agent put his

"Brute!" said the agent, "I can't stand these claim jumpers. You did that very neatly," he said to Brown,

shaking him warmly by the hand. "I am awfully sorry, but the thing can't be helped now."

Brown was too sick at heart to reply. The mine was gone, and with it all the splendid castles he and Kalman

had been building for the last six months. He feared to meet his friend. With what heart now could he ask that

this brute, who had added another to the list of the wrongs he had done, should be forgiven? It was beyond all

human strength to wipe out from one's mind such an accumulation of injuries. Well for Brown and well for

his friend that forty miles lay before him. For forty miles of open country and of God's sun and air, to a man

whose heart is open to God, work mighty results. When at last they came together, both men had won their

Quietly Brown told his story. He was amazed to find that instead of rousing Kalman to an irrepressible fury,

it seemed to make but little impression upon him that he had lost his mine. Kalman had faced his issue, and

fought out his fight. At all costs he could not deny his Lord, and under this compulsion it was that he had

surrendered his blood feud. The fierce lust for vengeance which had for centuries run mad in his Slavic

blood, had died beneath the stroke of the Cross, and under the shock of that mighty stroke the loss of the

The whole colony was thrown into a ferment of indignation by the news that Kalman had been robbed of his

mine. But the agents of Rosenblatt and Sprink were busy among the people. Feast days were made hilarious

through their lavish gifts of beer. Large promises in connection with the development of the mine awakened

hopes of wealth in many hearts. After all, what could they hope from a young man without capital, without

backing, without experience? True, it was a pity he should lose his mine, but men soon forget the losses and

injuries of others under the exhilaration of their own ambitions and dreams of success. Kalman's claims and

Kalman's wrongs were soon obliterated. He had been found guilty of the unpardonable crime of failure. The

new firm went vigorously to work. Cabins were erected at the mine, a wagon road cut to the Saskatchewan.

It was in the end of April before French returned from his tie camp, with nothing for his three months' toil but

battered teams and empty pockets, a worn and illfavoured body, and with a heart sick with the sense of

failure and of selfscorn. Kalman, reading at a glance the whole sordid and heartbreaking story, met him with

warm and cheery welcome. It was for French, more than for himself, that he grieved over the loss of the

mine. Kalman was busy with his preparations for the spring seeding. He was planning a large crop of

"I've quit mining. The ranch for me," exclaimed Kalman, with cheerful enthusiasm.

As he concluded the tale, French's listlessness vanished. He was his own man again.

"No use," said Kalman, wishing to save him further pain. "Brown saw the entry at the Land Office, and the

"Well, we won't just lie down yet, boy," said Jack. "Come along orwell, perhaps I'd better go alone. You

In half an hour French appeared clean shaven, dressed in his "civilization clothes," and looking his old self

"Yes, boy," said Jack, gripping his hand, "and that is the best. But we'll get the mine, too, or I'm a

Dutchman." All the old, easy, lazy air was gone. In every line of his handsome face, in every movement of

his body, there showed vigour and determination. The old English fighting spirit was roused, whose tradition

Four weeks passed before Kalman saw him again. Those four weeks he spent in toil from early dawn till late

at night at the oats and the potatoes, working to the limit of their endurance Mackenzie and the small force of

Galicians he could secure, for the mine and the railroad offered greater attractions. At length the level black

fields lay waiting the wooing of the sun and rain and genial air. Then Kalman rode down for a day at Wakota,

for heart and body were exhausted of their vital forces. He wanted rest, but he wanted more the touch of a

At Wakota, the first sight that caught his eye was French's horse tethered on the grassy sward before Brown's

house, and as he rode up, from within there came to his ear the sound of unusual and hilarious revelry.

"Hello there!" yelled Kalman, still sitting his horse. "What's happened to you all?"

The cry brought them all out,Brown and his wife, French and Irma, with Paulina in the background. They

crowded around him with vociferous welcome, Brown leading in a series of wild cheers. After the cheering

"Congratulations, old boy!" he cried, shaking him by the hand. "It's all right; we've won, after all! Hurrah!

"Yes, it's all true, Kalman dear," she cried, pulling down his head to kiss him, her voice breaking in a sob and

"Don't be alarmed, old man," said French, taking him by the hand when Irma had surrendered her place.

Kalman sat still on his horse, looking from one to the other in utter bewilderment. Brown was still yelling at

"You seem to be sane, anyway," he said; "perhaps you will tell me what they all mean?"

"It means, Kalman," said the little woman, offering him both hands, "we are so glad that we don't know what

"Yes! Brown here," yelled that individual; "I know Brown. He's a corker! But he's sometimes wrong, and this

is one of the times. A mine, and a company! And there's the man that did it! Jack French, to whom I take off

my hat! He has just got home, and we have just heard his tale, andschool's out and the band's going to play

and the game begin. And get down from your broncho, you graven image!" Here Brown pulled Kalman

headlong from his horse. "And Jack will perform. I have not been mad like this for a thousand years. I have

been in Hades for the last month, and now I'm out! I know I am quite mad, but it's fine while it lasts. Now,

The story was simple enough. Immediately after the discovery of the mine French had arranged with Mr.

Robert Menzies that he should make application with the Department of the Interior at Ottawa for the

necessary mining rights. The application had been made, but the Department had failed to notify the local

"No," said Kalman, "not mine, ours; yours as much as mine, Jack, or not mine at all."

"And the Company!" yelled Brown. "Tell him about the Company. Let the play proceed."

"Oh," said French, with an air of indifference, "Mr. Menzies has a company all organized and in his pocket,

"And the party will arrive in about three weeks, I think you said, French," remarked Brown, with a tone of

"If it were not that I am constitutionally disinclined to an active life, I should like to join myself," said

Brown; "for it will be a most remarkable mining company, if I know anything of the signs."

But Kalman could not speak. He put his arm around Jack's shoulder, saying, "You are a great man, Jack. I

"All right, boy," said Jack. "From this time we shall play the man. Life is too good to lose for nothing. A

"Brown," said Jack solemnly, "as my friend Pierre Lamont would say, 'you have reason.'"

The hut of the Nihilist Portnoff stood in a thick bluff about midway between Wakota and the mine, but lying

off the direct line about two miles nearer the ranch. It was a poor enough shack, made of logs plastered over

with mud, roofed with poplar poles, sod, and earth. The floor was of earth, the walls were whitewashed, and

with certain adornments that spoke of some degree of culture. Near one side of the shack stood the clay oven

stove, which served the double purpose of heating the room and of cooking Portnoff's food. Like many of the

Galician cabins, Portnoff's stood in the midst of a garden, in which bloomed a great variety of brilliant and

old fashioned flowers and shrubs, while upon the walls and climbing over the roof, a honeysuckle softened

It was toward the end of the third week which followed French's return that Portnoff and Malkarski were

sitting late over their pipes and beer. The shack was illumined with half a dozen candles placed here and there

on shelves attached to the walls. The two men were deep in earnest conversation. At length Portnoff rose and

"Malkarski," he cried, "you are asking too much. This delay is becoming impossible to me."

"My brother," said Malkarski, "you have waited long. There must be no mistake in this matter. The work

must be thoroughly done, so let us be patient. And meantime," he continued with a laugh, "he is having

suffering enough. The loss of this mine is like a knife thrust in his heart. It is pleasant to see him squirm like a

reptile pierced by a stick. He is seeking large compensation for the work he has done, three thousand dollars,

"Curse him! Curse him! Curse him!" he cried, lifting his clenched hands above his head.

"Patient!" cried Portnoff. "I see blood. I hear cries of women and children. I fall asleep and feel my fingers in

"Malkarski," cried Portnoff, pausing in his walk, "I have suffered through this man in my country, in my

"Aha!" ejaculated old Malkarski with fierce emphasis, "have you? Do you know what suffering is? Butyes,

Portnoff, we must be patient yet." As he spoke he took on a dignity of manner and assumed an attitude of

"You speak truly," replied the latter gravely. "I heard a good thing today," he continued with a change of

"Sprink!" muttered Malkarski with infinite contempt, "a rat, a pig! Why speak of him?"

"It is a good story," replied Portnoff with a laugh, "but not pleasant for Sprink to tell. It appears he was

negotiating with Mr. French, suggesting a partnership in the mine, but Mr. French kicked him out. It was

amusing to hear Sprink tell the tale with many oaths and curses. He loves not French any more."

"Bah!" said Malkarski, "the rest of the tale I heard. He had the impudence to proposethe dog!alliance

with the young lady Irma. Bah!" he spat upon the ground. "And French very properly kicked him out of his

house and gave him one minute to remove himself out of gun range. There was quick running," added old

"We must keep close watch these days," said Portnoff. "They are both like mad dogs, and they will bite."

"Ha!" cried Malkarski with sudden vehemence, "if we could strike at once, now! Tonight!" his voice rose in

a cry, "Ah, if it were to night! But patience," he muttered. "Ah, God! how long?"

"No, not long," answered Malkarski. "Let them go away from the mine, away from these people. On the

"I shall keep watch tomorrow," said Malkarski. "After all, it is joy to look on his face and think how it will

appear when we have done our work." He rose and paced the floor, his deepset eyes gleaming like live coals

in his haggard old face. "Ah," he continued in his deep undertone, "that will be joy."

Ever since the arrival of Rosenblatt in the country he had been under surveillance of one of these two old

Nihilists, walking, though he knew it not, side by side with death. To Malkarski fell the task of keeping

The negotiations in connection with the transfer of the mine property were practically completed. The money

for the improvements effected had been paid. There remained only a few minor matters to be settled, and for

that a meeting was arranged at the mine on the evening of the following day. At this meeting Kalman had

with great reluctance agreed to be present. The place of meeting was the original cave, which had been

enlarged to form a somewhat spacious room, from which there had been run back into the hill a tunnel. At the

entrance to this tunnel a short crosstunnel had been cut, with an exit on the side of the hill and at right

angles to the mouth. Across the ravine from the cave stood a small log building which Messrs. Rosenblatt and

Sprink had used as an office during the month of their regime. Further down the ravine were scattered the

In the preparing of plans for this last meeting Rosenblatt and Sprink spent long hours that day. Indeed, it was

An hour later found Malkarski, pale and breathless, at the door of Portnoff's cabin, unable to recover his

"What is it, my brother?" cried Portnoff, alarmed at his condition. "What is it?"

Under the stimulus of the potent liquid, Malkarski was able in a few minutes between his gasps to tell his

story. Concealed by a lumber pile behind Rosenblatt's shack, with his ear close to a crack between the logs,

he had heard the details of the plot. In the cross tunnel at the back of the cave bags of gunpowder and

dynamite were to be hidden. To this mass a train was to be laid through the cross tunnel to a convenient

distance. At a certain point during the conference Rosenblatt would leave the cave on the pretext of securing

a paper left in his cabin. A pile of brushwood at some distance from the cave would be burning. On his way

to his cabin Rosenblatt would fire the train and wait the explosion in his own shack, the accidental nature of

which could easily be explained under the circumstances. In order to remove suspicion from him, Rosenblatt

was to appear during the early evening in a railway camp some distance away. The plot was so conceived and

"And now," said Malkarski, "rush to Wakota, where I know Mr. French and Kalman are to be today. I shall

Old Portnoff was long past his best. Not for many years had he quickened his pace beyond a slow dog trot.

The air was heavy with an impending storm, the blazed trail through the woods was rough, and at times

difficult to find, so that it was late in the evening when the old man stumbled into the missionary's house and

poured out his tale between his sobbing gasps to Brown and a Sergeant of the Mounted Police, who was

present on the Queen's business. Before the tale was done the Sergeant was on his feet.

"It is best by the river," cried Brown. "The cross trail you might lose. Go! Go, in God's name!" he added,

rushing toward his stable, followed by Portnoff and his wife. "Where is Paulina?" he cried.

"Paulina," said his wife, "is gone. She is acting strangely these days,goes and comes, I don't know where."

"Get a boy, then," said her husband, "and send him to the ranch. There is a bare chance we may stop them

there. Portnoff, there is another pony here; saddle and follow me. We'll take the cross trail. And pray God,"

Great masses of livercoloured clouds were piling up in the west, blotting out the light from the setting sun.

Over all a heavy silence had settled down, so that in all the woods there was no sound of living thing.

Lashing his pony into a gallop, heedless of the obstacles on the trail, or of the trees overhead, Brown crashed

through scrub and sleugh, with old Portnoff following as best he could. Mile after mile they rode, now and

then in the gathering darkness losing the trail, and with frantic furious haste searching it again, till at length,

with their ponies foaming and trembling, and their own faces torn and bleeding with the brush, they emerged

Meantime, the ghastly tragedy was being enacted. Impatiently at the cave mouth French and Kalman waited

the coming of those they were to meet. At length, in the gathering gloom, Rosenblatt appeared, coming up the

"I have ridden hard," he said, "and I am shaken with my ride. My papers are in my cabin. I shall get them."

"Drink!" he said. "No? Then I will." He poured out a cup full of raw whiskey and drank it off. "My partner is

late," he said. "He will be here in a few moments. Meantime, we can look over the papers."

"It is too dark here," said French. "We can't see to read. You have in your cabin a light, let us go there."

"Oh," cried Rosenblatt hastily, "it is more comfortable here. I have a lantern."

Rosenblatt snatched the match from his hand, crushed it in his fingers and hurried out of the cave.

With great care he lighted his lantern outside of the cave and set it upon a table that had been placed near the

cave's mouth. French drew out his pipe, slowly filled it and proceeded to light it, when Rosenblatt in a

"Don't smoke!" he cried. "I meanit makes me very illwhen I am in thisconditionthe smell of

Rosenblatt sprang to the cave mouth, came back again, furtively treading upon the match. The perspiration

"It is a terrible night," he said. "Let us proceed. We can't wait for my partner. Read, read."

With fingers that trembled so that he could hardly hold the papers, he thrust the documents into Kalman's

Opening the papers, Kalman proceeded to read them carefully, by the light of the lantern, French smoking

"Have you no better light than this, Rosenblatt?" said French at length. "Surely there are candles about here."

"Ah, my God!" cried Rosenblatt, seizing him and drawing him toward the table again. "Sit down, sit down. If

you want candles, let me get them. I know where they are. But we need no candles here. Yes," he cried with a

laugh, "young eyes are better than old eyes. The young man reads well. Read, read."

"There is another paper," said French after Kalman had finished. "There is a further agreement."

"Yes, truly," said Rosenblatt. "Is it not there? It must be there. No, I must have left it at my cabin. I will bring

He drew a match, struck it on the sole of his boot, lighted his pipe and threw the blazing remnant toward the

"Ah, my God!" cried Rosenblatt, his voice rising almost to a shriek. Both men looked curiously at him. "Ah,"

he said, with his hand over his heart, "I have pain here. But I will get the paper."

His face was livid, and the sweat was running down his beard. As he spoke he ran out and disappeared,

leaving the two men poring over the papers together. Beside the burning heap of brushwood he stood a

He rushed past the blazing heap, paused. "Fool!" he said, "what is there to fear?"

He crept back to the pile of burning brush, seized a blazing ember, ran with it to the train he had prepared of

rags soaked in kerosene, leading toward the mouth of the cross tunnel, dropped the blazing stick upon it, and

fled. Looking back, he saw that in his haste he had dashed out the flame and that besides the saturated rags

the stick lay smoking. With a curse he ran once more to the blazing brush heap, selected a blazing ember,

carried it carefully to the train, and set the saturated rags on fire, waiting until they were fully alight. Then

like a man pursued by demons, he fled down the ravine, splashed through the Creek and up the other side, not

As he closed the door, a dark figure appeared, slipped up to the door, there was a click, a second, and a third,

and the door stood securely fastened with three stout padlocks. In another moment Rosenblatt's livid face

At the same instant, upon the opposite side of the ravine, appeared Brown, riding down the slope like a

madman, and shouting at the top of his voice, "French! French! Kalman! For God's sake, come here!"

Out of the cave rushed the two men. As they appeared Brown stood waving his hands wildly. "Come here!

Come, for God's sake! Come!" His eyes fell upon the blazing train. "Run! run!" he shouted, "for your lives!

He dashed toward the blazing rags and trampled them under his feet. But the fire had reached the powder.

There was a quick hissing sound of a burning fuse, and then a great puff. Brown threw himself on his face

and waited, but there was nothing more. His two friends rushed to him and lifted him up.

"Come away!" gasped Brown, stumbling down the ravine and dragging them with him.

Meantime, the whole hillside was in flames. In the clear light of the blazing trees the Sergeant was seen

riding his splendid horse at a hard gallop. Soon after his appearing came Portnoff.

"What does all this mean?" said French, looking around from one to the other with a dazed face.

Before they could answer, a voice clear and sonorous drew their eyes across the ravine towards Rosenblatt's

cabin. At a little distance from the cabin they could distinguish the figure of a man outlined in the lurid light

of the leaping flames. He was speaking to Rosenblatt, whose head could be seen thrust far out of the window.

"Rosenblatt," cried the old man in the Russian tongue, "I have something to say to you. Those bags of

gunpowder, that dynamite with which you were to destroy two innocent men, are now piled under your cabin,

With a shriek Rosenblatt disappeared, and they could hear him battering at the door. Old Malkarski laughed a

"Rosenblatt," he cried again, "the door is securely fastened! Three stout locks will hold it closed."

The wretched man thrust his head far out of the window, shrieking, "Help! Help! Murder! Help!"

"Listen, you dog!" cried Malkarski, his voice ringing down through the ravine, "your doom has come at last.

All your crimes, your treacheries, your bloody cruelties are now to be visited upon you. Ha! scream! pray!

but no power in earth can save you. Aha! for this joy I have waited long! See, I now light this train. In one

He deliberately struck a match. A slight puff of wind blew it out. Once more he struck a match. A cry broke

Malkarski laughed scornfully at him and proceeded to strike his third match. Before the Sergeant could fire,

Meantime, under the third match, the train was blazing, and slowly creeping toward the cabin. Shriek after

shriek from the wretched victim seemed to pierce the ears of the listeners as with sharp stabs of pain.

The old man drew himself up to a figure straight and tall. The years seemed to fall from him. He stepped

nearer Rosenblatt and stood in the full light and in the attitude of a soldier at attention.

"Ahhhh!" Rosenblatt's voice was prolonged into a wail of despair as from a damned soul.

"My father!" cried Kalman from across the ravine. "My father! Don't commit this crime! For my sake, for

He rushed across the ravine and up the other slope. His father ran to meet him and grappled with him. Upon

the slope they struggled, Kalman fighting fiercely to free himself from those encircling arms, while like a

With a heavy iron poker which he found in the cabin, Rosenblatt had battered off the sash and the frame of

the window, enlarging the hole till he could get his head and one arm free; but there he stuck fast, watching

the creeping flames, shrieking prayers, entreaties, curses, while down upon the slope swayed the two men in

"Let me go! Let me go, my father!" entreated Kalman, tearing at his father's arms. "How can I strike you!"

"Never, boy. Rather would I die!" cried the old man, his arms wreathed about his son's neck.

At length, with his hand raised high above his head, Kalman cried, "Now God pardon me this!" and striking

his father a heavy blow, he flung him off and leaped free. Before he could take a single step, another figure,

that of a woman, glided from the trees, and with a cry as of a wild cat, threw herself upon him. At the same

instant there was a dull, thick roar; they were hurled stunned to the ground, and in the silence that followed,

Slowly recovering from the shock, the Sergeant staggered down the ravine, crying, "Come on!" to the others

who followed him one by one as they recovered their senses. On the other side of the slope lay Kalman and

the woman. It was Paulina. At a little distance was Malkarski, or Kalmar, as he must be called, and where the

cabin had been a great hole, and at some distance from it a charred and blackened shape of a man writhing in

Brown rushed down to the Creek, and with a hatful of water extinguished the burning clothes.

"Bring him some water, some one," said Brown who was now giving his attention to Kalman. But no one

Old Portnoff found a can, and filling it at the stream, brought it to the group on the slope. In a short time they

began to revive, and before long were able to stand. Meantime, the wretched Rosenblatt was piteously crying

"Oh, give him some water," said Kalman to Brown, who was anxiously taking his pulse.

Brown took the can over, gave the unhappy wretch a drink, pouring the rest over his burned and mangled

limbs. The explosion had shattered the lower part and one side of Rosenblatt's body, leaving untouched his

"Very well; it matters not," said the old man, holding up his hands for the handcuffs.

"Can anything be done for this man?" asked the Sergeant, pointing to Rosenblatt.

"You need not fear, I shall not try to escape," said Kalmar. "I give you my honour."

"Very well," said the Sergeant, turning from him to Rosenblatt. "What do you wish?"

The Sergeant kneeled down and leaned over him to listen. With a quick movement Rosenblatt jerked the

pistol from the Sergeant's belt and fired straight at old Kalmar, turned the pistol toward Kalman and fired

again. But as he levelled his gun for the second time, Paulina, with a cry, flung herself upon Kalman,

received the bullet, and fell to the ground. With a wild laugh, Rosenblatt turned the pistol on himself, but

"Fool!" said old Kalmar, who was being supported by his son. "Fool! You have only done for me what I

With a snarl as of a dog, Rosenblatt sank back upon the ground, and with a shudder lay still.

"Ah," said old Kalmar, "I breathe freer now that his breath no longer taints the air. My work is done."

"Boy," said the old man sternly, "mean you for the death of yon dog? You hang the murderer. He is many

times a murderer. This very night he had willed to murder you and your friend. He was condemned to death

by a righteous tribunal. He has met his just doom. God is just. I meet Him without fear for this. For my sins,

"My father," said Kalman, "you are right. I believe you. And God is merciful. Christ is merciful."

As he spoke, he leaned over, and wiping from his father's face the tears that fell upon it, he kissed him on the

forehead. The old man's breath was growing short. He looked towards Brown. At once Brown came near.

"You are a good man. Your religion is good. It makes men just and kind. Ah, religion is a beautiful thing

French dropped quickly on his knee, took him by the hand and said, "I will be to him a brother."

At the sound of his voice, the woman struggled up to her knees, crawled over to his side, the blood flowing

The woman made an inarticulate moan like some dumb beast, and lifted her face toward him.

"Now let me die," she cried, kissing him on the lips, and falling down in a faint beside him.

Brown lifted her and laid her in Portnoff's arms. The dying man lay silent, gathering his strength. He was

"Here I am, father," said Kalman, kneeling beside him and holding his two hands.

"Bidmy daughter Irmafarewell! She will be safe with you." Then after a pause he whispered, "In my

Kalman understood, found a packet, and from it drew the miniature of his mother.

"I give you this," said the father, lifting it with difficulty to his lips. "No curse with it nowonly

blessingfarewellyou have brought me joylet me see her faceah, dear heart" he said, fastening

his glazing eyes upon the beautiful face, "I come to you ah! freedom!sweet freedom at last!and

A smile as of an infant falling asleep played over the rugged face, while the poor lips whispered, "At

He breathed once, deep and long, and then no more. The long, long fight was done, the fight for freedom and

The Night Hawk Mining Company, after a period of doubt and struggle, was solidly on its feet at last. True,

its dividends were not large, but at least it was paying its way, and it stood well among the financial

institutions of the country. Its satisfactory condition was accounted for by its President, Sir Robert Menzies,

at the last Annual Meeting of the Company, in the following words: "It is to the fidelity, diligence, good

judgment, and ability to handle men, shown by our young Manager, Mr. Kalmar, during the past five years,

The Foreign Colony and the mine reacted upon each other, to their mutual advantage, the one furnishing

labourers, the other work and cash. The colony had greatly prospered on this account, but perhaps more on

account of the influence of Dr. Brown and his mission. The establishment of a Government school had

relieved the missionary of an exacting and laborious department of his work, and allowed him to devote

himself to his Hospital and his Training Home. The changes apparent in the colony, largely as the result of

Dr. Brown's labours, were truly remarkable. The creating of a market for their produce by the advent of the

railway, and for their labour by the development of the mine, brought the Galician people wealth, but the

influence of Dr. Brown himself, and of his Home, and of his Hospital, was apparent in the life and character

of the people, and especially of the younger generation. The old mudplastered cabins were giving place to

neat frame houses, each surrounded by its garden of vegetables and flowers. In dress, the sheep skin and the

shawl were being exchanged for the readymade suit and the hat of latest style. The Hospital, with its staff of

trained nurses under the direction of the young matron, the charming Miss Irma, by its ministrations to the

sick, and more by the spirit that breathed through its whole service, wrought in the Galician mind a new

temper and a new ideal. In the Training Home fifty Galician girls were being indoctrinated into that most

noble of all sciences, the science of homemaking, and were gaining practical experience in all the cognate

At the Night Hawk ranch too were all the signs of the new order of things. Fenced fields and imported stock,

a new ranch house with stables and granaries, were some of the indications that the coming of the market for

the produce of the ranch had synchronized with the making of the man for its administration. The call of the

New Time, and the appeal of the New Ideal, that came through the railroad, the mine, but, more than both,

through the Mission and its founder, found a response in the heart of Jack French. The old laissez faire of the

pioneer days gave place to a sense of responsibility for opportunity, and to habits of decisive and prompt

attention to the business of the hour. Five years of intelligent study of conditions, of steady application to

duty, had brought success not in wealth alone, but in character and in influence.

But upon Kalman, more than upon any other, these five years had left their mark. The hard grind of daily

work, the daily burden of administration, had toughened the fibre of his character and hardened the temper of

his spirit, and this hardening and toughening could be seen in every line of his face and in every motion of his

body. Twice during the five years he had been sent by Jack French to the city for a three months' term in a

Business College, where he learned to know, not only the books of his College curriculum, but, through

Jack's introductions, the men who were doing big things for the country. He had returned to his place and to

his work in the mine with vision enlarged, ideal exalted, and with the purpose strengthened to make the best

out of life. In every sense the years had made a man of him. He was as tall as Jack, lithe and strong; in mind

keen and quick, in action resolute. To those he met in the world of labour and of business he seemed hard. To

his old friends on the ranch or at the Mission, up through all the hardness there welled those springs that

come from a heart kind, loyal, and true. Among the Galicians of the colony, he was their acknowledged

leader, because he did justly by them and because, although a Canadian among Canadians, he never forgot to

own and to honour the Slav blood that flowed in his veins, and to labour for the advancement of his people.

But full of work and ambition as he was, yet there were times when Jack French read in his eyes the hunger

of his heart. For after all, it is in the heart a man carries his life, it is through the heart come his finest ideals,

At one such time, and the week before she came again, Jack French, looking through the window of his own

heart and filled with a great pity for the young man who had come to be more than brother to him, had

ventured to speak. But only once, for with such finality of tone and manner as made answer impossible,

"No, Jack, I had my dream. It was great while it lasted, but it is past, and I shall dream no more."

"Kalman, my boy, don't make a mistake. Life is a long thing, and can be very dreary." There was no

"Is it, Jack?" said Kalman. "I am afraid you are right. But I can never forgetmy father was a foreigner, and

I am one, and the tragedy of that awful night can never be wiped from her mind. The curse of it I must bear!"

Then Kalman lifted up his head and his voice rang out. "Of my blood? No. But it is not hers. Of my father?

No. To me he was the just avenger of a great cause. But to her," his voice sank to a hoarse whisper, "he was a

"Think? For these five years I have thought till my heart is sore with thinking! No, Jack, don't fret. I don't.

Thank God there are other things. There is work, a people to help, a country to serve."

"Other things!" said French bitterly. "True, there are, and great things, but, Kalman, boy, I have tried them,

and tonight after thirty years, as I speak to youmy God!my heart is sick of hunger for something better

"Poor Jack!" said Kalman softly, "dear old boy!" and went out. But of that hunger of the heart they never

And now at the end of five years' absence she was coming again. How vivid to Kalman was his remembrance

of the last sight he had of her. It was at the Night Hawk ranch, and on the night succeeding that of the tragedy

at the mine. In the inner room, beside his father's body, he was sitting, his mind busy with the tragic pathos of

that grieftortured, stormbeaten life. Step by step, as far as he knew it, he was tracing the tearwet,

bloodstained path that life had taken; its dreadful scenes of blood and heart agony were passing before his

mind; when gradually he became aware that in the next room the Sergeant, with bluff and almost brutal

straightforwardness, was telling her the story of Rosenblatt's dreadful end. "And then, begad! after grilling

the wretch for all that time, didn't the infernal, bloodthirsty fiend in the most cheerful manner touch off the

powder and blow the man into eternity." Then through the thin partition he heard her faint cry of horror. He

remembered how, at the Sergeant's description of his father, something seemed to go wrong in his brain. He

had a dim remembrance of how, dazed with rage, he had felt his way out to the next room, and cried, "You

defamer of the dead! you will lie no more!" He had a vivid picture of how in horror she had fled from him

while he dragged out the Sergeant by the throat into the night, and how he had been torn from him by the

united efforts of Brown and French together. He remembered how, after the funeral service, when he had

grown master of himself again, he had offered the Sergeant his humble apology before them all. But most

vivid of all was his memory of the look of fear and repulsion in her eyes when he came near her. And that

was the last look he had had of her. Gladly would he have run away from meeting her again; but this he could

not do, for Jack's sake and for his own. Carefully he rehearsed the scene, what he would say, and how he

would carry himself with what rigid selfcontrol and with what easy indifference he would greet her.

But the meeting was quite other than he had planned. It was at the mine. One shiny September morning the

heavy cars were just starting down the incline to the mine below, when through the carelessness of the

operator the brake of the great drum slipped, and on being applied again with reckless force, broke, and the

car was off, bringing destruction to half a dozen men at the bottom of the shaft. Quick as a flash of light,

Kalman sprang to the racing cog wheels, threw in a heavy coat that happened to be lying near, and then, as

the machinery slowed, thrust in a handspike and checked the descent of the runaway car. It took less than two

He turned and saw Sir Robert Menzies, and between him and French, his daughter Marjorie.

One keen searching look he thrust in through her eyes, scanning her soul. Bravely, frankly, she gave him

back his look. Kalman drew a deep breath. It was as if he had been on a long voyage of discovery, how long

he could not tell. But what he had seen brought comfort to his heart. She had not shrunk from him.

"I am afraid," he said, holding back his, "that my hand is not clean enough to shake with you."

"Give it to me," she said almost imperiously. "It is the hand of a brave man and good."

Her tone was one of warm and genuine admiration. All Kalman's practised selfcontrol deserted him. He felt

the hot blood rising in his face. With a great effort he regained command of himself and began pointing out

"Great changes have taken place in the last five years," she said, looking down the ravine, disfigured by all

"At Wakota, too, there are great changes," she said, walking a little apart from the others. "That Mr. Brown

"They are becoming good Canadians," replied Marjorie, her colour showing that she had noted his tone and

"Yes, they will be good Canadians," said Kalman. "They are good Canadians now. They are my best men.

"I am sure they are," cried Marjorie heartily. "How wonderful the power of this country of yours to transform

"That it is," cried Kalman with enthusiasm. "No man can tell, for no man knows the magnificence of its

"It is a fine thing," said Marjorie, "to have a country to be made, and it is fine to be a man and have a part in

Then she said goodby, leaving him with heart throbbing and nerves tingling to his finger tips. Ah, how dear

she was! What mad folly to think he could forget her! Every glance of her eye, every tone in her soft Scotch

voice, every motion of hand and body, how familiar they all were! Like the faint elusive perfume from the

clover fields of childhood, they smote upon his senses with intoxicating power. Standing there tingling and

trembling, he made one firm resolve. Never would he see her again. Tomorrow he would make a

longplanned trip to the city. He dared not wait another day. Tomorrow? No, that was Sunday. He would

spend one full happy day in that ravine seeking to recatch the emotions that had thrilled his boy's heart on that

great night five years ago, and having thus filled his heart, he would take his departure without seeing her

It was the custom of the people of the ranch to spend Sunday afternoon at the Mission. So without a word

even to French, calling his dogs, Captain and Queen, Kalman rode down the trail that led past the lake and

toward the Night Hawk ravine. By that same trail he had gone on that memorable afternoon, and though five

years had passed, the thoughts, the imaginings of that day, were as freshly present with him as if it had been

but yesterday. And though they were the thoughts and imaginings of a mere boy, yet today they seemed to

Down the trail, well beaten now, through the golden poplars he rode, his dogs behind him, till he reached the

pitch of the ravine. There, where he had scrambled down, a bridle path led now. It was very different, and yet

how much remained unchanged. There was the same glorious sun raining down his golden beams upon the

yellow poplar leaves, the same air, sweet and genial, in him the same heart, and before him the same face, but

sweeter it seemed, and eyes the same that danced with every sunbeam and lured him on. He was living again

At the mine's mouth he paused. Not a feature remained of the cave that he had discovered five years ago, but

sitting there upon his horse, how readily he reconstructed the scene! Ah, how easy it was! Every line of that

cave, the new fresh earth, the gleaming black seam, the very stones in the walls, he could replace. Carefully,

deliberately, he recalled the incidents of the evening spent in the cave: the very words she spoke; how her lips

moved as she spoke them; how her eyes glanced, now straight at him, now from under the drooping lids; how

she smiled, how she wept, how she laughed aloud; how her face shone with the firelight playing on it, and the

soul light radiating through it. He revelled in the memory of it all. There was the very spot where Mr. Penny

had lain in vocal slumber. Here he had stood with the snowstorm beating on his face. He resolved to trace

step by step the path he had taken that night, and to taste again the bliss of which he had drunk so deep. And

all the while, as he rode down the gorge, underneath the rapture of remembering, he was conscious of an

exquisite pain. But he would go through with it. He would not allow the pain to spoil his day, his last day

near her. Down by the running water, as on that night, underneath and through the crowding trees, out to

where the gorge widened into the valley, he rode. When hark! He paused. Was that Queen's bay? Surely it

was. "A wolf?" he thought. "No, there are none left in the glen." He shrank from meeting any one that

afternoon. He waited to hear again that deep, soft trumpet note, and strained his ear for voices. But all was

still except for the falling of a ripe leaf now and then through the trees. He hated to give up the afternoon he

He rode on. He reached the more open timber. He remembered that it was here he had first caught the sound

of voices behind that blinding drift. Through the poplars he pressed his horse. It was at this very spot that,

through an opening in the storm, he had first caught sightwhat! His heart stood still, and then leaped into

his throat. There, on the very spot where he had seen her that night, she stood again today! Was it a vision

of his fond imagination? He passed his hand over his eyes. No, she was there still! standing among the golden

poplars, the sunlight falling all around her. With all his boyhood's frenzy in his heart, he gazed at her till she

turned and looked toward him. A moment more, with his spurs into his horse's side, he crashed through the

Once more he had her in his arms. Once more he was kissing her face, her eyes, her lips. Once more she was

crying, "Oh, Kalman! Stop! You must stop! You must stop!" And then, as before, she laid her head upon his

breast, sobbing, "When I saw the dogs I feared you would come, but I could not run away. Oh, you must

"Marjorie," he said, "tell me it is no dream, that it is you, that you are mine! Yes," he shouted aloud, "do you

hear me? You are mine! Before Heaven I say it! No man, nothing shall take you from me!"

"Hush, Kalman!" she cried, coming to him and laying her hand upon his lips; "they are just down by the river

"And oh, how near I was to losing you!" she cried. "You were going away tomorrow, and I should have

"Ah, dear heart! How could I know?" he said. "How could I know you could ever love a foreigner, the son of

"The son of a hero, who paid out his life for a great cause," she cried with a sob. "Oh, Kalman, I have been

Kalman's face was pale, his voice shaking. "You have seen? You understand? You do not shrink from me?"

"Shrink from you!" she cried in scorn. "Were I Russian, I should be like your father!"

"Now God be thanked!" cried Kalman. "That fear is gone. I fear nothing else. Ah, how brave you are,

"I didn't mean to, father," she said penitently, "not a bit. But I couldn't help myself. He just made me."

Kalman stepped forward. "And I couldn't help it, Sir," he said. "I tried my best not to. Will you give her to

"Listen to him, now, will you?" said Sir Robert, shaking him warmly by the hand. "It wasn't the fault of either

"Quite true, Sir," said French gravely. "I'm afraid it was partly mine. I saw the dogsI thought it would be

"Blame me, Sir," said Brown penitently. "It was I who helped to conquer her aversion to the foreigner by

showing her his many excellences. Yes," continued Brown in a reminiscent manner, "I seem to recall how a

certain young lady into these ears made solemn declaration that never, never could she love one of those

"Ah," said Marjorie with sweet and serious emphasis, "but not my foreigner, my Canadian foreigner."