l things very near!
The words he had written the night before came to him: "Therefore,
wherefore, tailor-man? Therefore, wherefore, God?... Show me a sign from
Heaven, tailor-man!" As if in reply to his thoughts there came the sound
of singing, and of bells ringing in the parish church.

A procession with banners was coming near. It was a holy day, and
Chaudiere was mindful of its duties. The wanderers of the parish had
come home for Easter. All who belonged to Chaudiere and worked in the
woods or shanties, or lived in big cities far away, were returned--those
who could return--to take the holy communion in the parish church.
Yesterday the parish had been alive with a pious hilarity. The great
church had been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of
cheerily dressed habitants. There had, however, come a sudden chill to
the seemly rejoicings--the little iron cross blessed by the Pope had
been stolen from the door of the church!

The fact had been told to the Cure as he said the Mass, and from the
altar steps, before going to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with
poignant feeling; for the relic had belonged to a martyr of the Church,
who, two centuries before, had laid down his life for the Master on the
coast of Africa.

Louis Trudel had heard the Cure's words, and in his place at the rear
of the church he smiled sourly to himself. In due time the little cross
should be returned, but it had work to do first. He did not take the
holy communion this Easter day, or go to confession as was his wont.
Not, however, until a certain day later did the Cure realise this,
though for thirty years the tailor had never omitted his Easter-time
duties.

The people guessed and guessed, but they knew not on whom to cast
suspicion at first. No sane Catholic of Chaudiere could possibly have
taken the holy thing. Presently a murmur crept about that M'sieu' might
have been the thief. He was not a Catholic, and--who could tell?
Who knew where he came from? Who knew what he had been? Perhaps a
jail-bird-robber-murderer! Charley, however, stitched on, intent upon
his own struggle.

The procession passed the doorway: men bearing banners with sacred
texts, acolytes swinging censers, a figure of the Saviour carved in wood
borne aloft, the Cure under a silk canopy, and a long line of habitants
following with sacred song. People fell upon their knees in the street
as the procession passed, and the Cure's face was bent here a