ed on his lip and the light in his eye, and
before him, leaning on a stile, was a lass with--

"... cheeks like the dawn of day."

And all the good world swam in circles, eddying ever inward until it
streamed intensely and joyously through her eyes "blue as the fairy
flax." And he had carried the remembrance of this away into the world
with him, but had never gone back again. He had travelled beyond the
seas to live among savages and wear out his life in self-denial; and now
he had come to the evening of his life, a benignant figure in a lonely
land. And as he sat here murmuring mechanically bits of an office, his
heart and mind were with a sacred and distant past. Yet the spirits
recorded both these things on their tablets, as though both were worthy
of their remembrance.

He did not know that he kept repeating two sentences over and over to
himself:

"'Quoniam ipse liberavit me de laqueo venantium et a verbo aspero.
Quoniam angelis suis mandavit de te: ut custodiant te in omnibus viis
tuis.'"

These he said at first softly to himself, but unconsciously his voice
became louder, so that the girl heard, and she said:

"Father Corraine, what are those words? I do not understand them, but
they sound comforting."

And he, waking from his dream, changed the Latin into English, and said:

"'For he hath delivered me from the snare of the hunter, and from the
sharp sword.
For he hath given his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all
thy ways.'"

"The words are good," she said. He then told her he was going out, but
that he should be within call, saying, at the same time, that someone
would no doubt arrive from Fort Cypress soon: and he went from the
house. Then the girl rose slowly, crept lamely to a chair and sat
down. Outside, the priest paced up and down, stopping now and then, and
listening as if for horses' hoofs. At last he walked some distance away
from the house, deeply lost in thought, and he did not notice that a man
came slowly, heavily, to the door of the hut, and opening it, entered.

Mary Callen rose from her seat with a cry in which was timidity, pity,
and something of horror; for it was Pretty Pierre. She recoiled, but
seeing how he swayed with weakness, and that his clothes had blood upon
them, she helped him to a chair. He looked up at her with an enigmatical
smile, but he did not speak. "Oh," she whispered, "you are wounded!"

He nodded; but still he did not speak. Th