out in a human sort of way. I suppose I wanted a sign
from Heaven--wanted too much, no doubt."

The tailor's lips twitched, and his hand convulsively clutched the
shears at his side.

"It is no matter now," he answered shortly. "I have had signs from
Heaven; perhaps you will have one too!"

"It would be worth while," rejoined Charley musingly. Charley wondered
bitterly if he had made an irreparable error in saying those ill-chosen
words. This might mean a breach between them, and so make his position
in the parish untenable. He had no wish to go elsewhere--where could he
go? It mattered little what he was, tinker or tailor. He had now only
to work his way back to the mind of the peasant; to be an animal with
intelligence; to get close to mother earth, and move down the declivity
of life with what natural wisdom were possible. It was his duty to adapt
himself to the mind of such as this tailor; to acquire what the
tailor and his like had found--an intolerant belief and an inexpensive
security, to be got through yielding his nature to the great religious
dream. And what perfect tranquillity, what smooth travelling found
therein.

Gazing across the street towards the little post-office, he saw Rosalie
Evanturel at the window. He fell to thinking about her. Rosalie, on her
part, kept wondering what old Louis' violence meant.

Presently she saw a half-dozen men come quickly down the street, and,
before they reached the tailorshop, stand in a group talking excitedly.
Afterwards one came forward from the others quickly--Filion Lacasse the
saddler. He stopped short at the tailor's door. Looking at Charley, he
exclaimed roughly:

"If you don't hand out the cross you stole from the church door, we'll
tar and feather you, M'sieu'." Charley looked up, surprised. It had
never occurred to him that they could associate him with the theft. "I
know nothing of the cross," he said quietly. "You're the only heretic
in the place. You've done it. Who are you? What are you doing here in
Chaudiere?"

"Working at my trade," was Charley's quiet answer. He looked towards
Louis Trudel, as though to see how he took this ugly charge.

Old Louis responded at once. "Get away with you, Filion Lacasse," he
croaked. "Don't come here with your twaddle. M'sieu' hasn't stole the
cross. What does he want with a cross? He's not a Catholic."

"If he didn't steal the cross, why, he didn't," answered the saddler;
"but if he did, what'll you say for y