he priest's reply was characteristic. It was the reply of a man
who has endured life in the land north of "sixty" for the sheer love of
the dark souls it is his desire to help.

"Yes," he said, with a sigh. "Time can heal almost anything. But it
can't hide the scars. That's the work that falls to the grave."

Murray remained silent while the priest helped himself to snuff. The
little man's eyes became tenderly reflective as he went on.

"Sixty years I've been looking around at things. And my conceit made
me hope to read something of the meaning that lies behind the things
Providence hands out." He shook his white head. "It's just conceit.
I'm not beyond the title page. Maybe the text inside isn't meant for
me. For any of us. It just bewilders. These folk. I've known them
right through from the start. I can see Allan now fixing that old Fort
into order, that old Fort with all its old-time wickedness behind it.
I've watched him, and his wife, and his kiddies, as only a lonely man
in this country can study the folk about him. Wholesome, clean,
God-fearing. That was Allan and his folk in my notion. They fought
their battle with clean hands, and--merciful. It mostly seemed to me
God, was in their hearts all the time. They endured and fought, and it
wasn't always easy. Now?" His eyes were gazing thoughtfully at the
home which had witnessed so much happiness and so much sorrow. "Why,
now God's hand has fallen heavy--heavy. It seems Providence means to
drive them from the Garden. The flaming sword is before their eyes.
It has fallen on them, and they must go. The reason?"

Again came that meditative head-shake. "It's God's will. So be it."

Murray drew a deep breath. He was less impressed by the priestly view
than with the implication.

"Driving them out?" he questioned, his curious eyes searching the wise
old face.

"It seems that way. Mrs. Mowbray won't pass another winter here. It's
not good to pitch camp on the grave of your happiness."

"No."

Murray stood looking after the little man, whom nothing stayed in his
mission of mercy. He watched him vanish within the woods, in the
direction of the Indian encampment.

So two weeks, two long weeks passed, and each day bore its own signs of
the last efforts of winter in its reluctant retreat. And spring, in
its turn, was invincible, and it marched on steadily, breathing its
fresh, invigorating warmth upon an earth it was seeking to make