art with mockery and futile pain.

TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC

It was soon after the Rebellion, and there was little food to be had
and less money, and winter was at hand. Pontiac, ever most loyal to old
France, though obedient to the English, had herself sent few recruits to
be shot down by Colborne; but she had emptied her pockets in sending to
the front the fulness of her barns and the best cattle of her fields.
She gave her all; she was frank in giving, hid nothing; and when her own
trouble came there was no voice calling on her behalf. And Pontiac
would rather starve than beg. So, as the winter went on, she starved in
silence, and no one had more than sour milk and bread and a potato now
and then. The Cure, the Avocat, and the Little Chemist fared no better
than the habitants; for they gave all they had right and left, and
themselves often went hungry to bed. And the truth is that few outside
Pontiac knew of her suffering; she kept the secret of it close.

It seemed at last, however, to the Cure that he must, after all, write
to the world outside for help. That was when he saw the faces of the
children get pale and drawn. There never was a time when there were so
few fish in the river and so little game in the woods. At last, from
the altar steps one Sunday, the Cure, with a calm, sad voice, told the
people that, for "the dear children's sake," they must sink their pride
and ask help from without. He would write first to the Bishop of Quebec;
"for," said he, "Mother Church will help us; she will give us food, and
money to buy seed in the spring; and, please God, we will pay all back
in a year or two!" He paused a minute, then continued: "Some one
must go, to speak plainly and wisely of our trouble, that there be no
mistake--we are not beggars, we are only borrowers. Who will go? I may
not myself, for who would give the Blessed Sacrament, and speak to the
sick, or say Mass and comfort you?"

There was silence in the church for a moment, and many faces meanwhile
turned instinctively to M. Garon the Avocat, and some to the Little
Chemist.

"Who will go?" asked the Cure again. "It is a bitter journey, but our
pride must not be our shame in the end. Who will go?"

Every one expected that the Avocat or the Little Chemist would rise; but
while they looked at each other, waiting and sorrowful, and the Avocat's
fingers fluttered to the seat in front of him, to draw himself up, a
voice came from the corner opposi