ssed him quickly and ran out into the darkness before he could
object any further. The wind just tore at me, and I had to seize
Frenchy's arm as we splashed through the puddles, with heads bent low,
leaning against the storm.

And so we reached the poor little shack Yves calls his home. On the floor
he had placed some pans that caught some of the drippings from the leaky
roof, and a piece of sail-cloth was stretched upon a homemade pallet
covered with an old caribou hide, upon which the poor little fellow was
lying. Unable to bear any heat he had cast away all his coverings, in the
fever that possessed him, and when I heard him moan and knelt beside him
he stretched out his arms to me, and his pleading face grew sweet with
hope.

"Heem too young to be widout moder ven seek," said Frenchy,
apologetically. "Heem moder is dead."

I bathed the hot little head, and the touch of my hand made the poor wee
thing more contented. After this I sent Frenchy to our house for some
alcohol, with which I washed the boy, who finally fell into a restless
sleep.

Frenchy had placed his only chair near the pallet for me, and after a
while he drew up a big pail, on the bottom of which he sat, with his
elbows upon his knees and his jaws in the palm of his hands, staring at
the child. One could see that an immense fear was upon the man, but that
my presence was of some comfort to him. It really looks as if men in
trouble always seek help from women, and this poor fellow was now leaning
upon me, just as I had leaned on his big arm when we had made our way
through the storm. Something was tearing away at his heart-strings, and
after a time the pain of it, I think, opened the fount of his memories,
as if an irresistible desire had come upon him for the balm there is in
pouring them out.

How can I tell you all that he said? It was in fragments, disconnected,
and represented the great tragedy of a humble life. I remember that
several times, while he told it to me, my hand rested in sympathy upon
that great arm of his, that had now become very weak. It was at first
just the simplest little tale of love somewhere on the coast of Brittany,
and of vows exchanged before a Virgin that stretched out her arms towards
the sea. And then Yves was taken away upon a warship, and there were
tears and prayers for his return. He couldn't remember all the countries
from which he had sent letters, but after many months answers ceased to
come.

Then a new r