he Peace, a hole in
the snow, a fetid corner of an Eskimo hut. His "Bishop's Palace," when
he was not afloat, consisted of a bare room twelve feet by eight, in
which he studied, cooked, slept, and taught the Indians.

They tell you stories up here of seeing the good Bishop come back from a
distant journey to some isolated tribe, followed at heel by a dozen
little Indian babies, his disciples for the days to come. Bishop Bompas
lived in one continent, but manifested in two, keeping himself closely
in touch with the religious and Church growth of the Old World. When the
British press had been given over to any particular
religious-controversial subject, and the savants had finally disposed of
the matter to their own satisfaction, travelling out by summer traverse
or winter dog-sled would come a convincing pamphlet by Bishop Bompas, to
upset altogether the conclusions of the wranglers.

There is one tale of this man which only those can appreciate who travel
his trail. An Indian lad confides to us, "Yes, my name is William
Carpenter--Bishop Bompas gave me my name, he was a good man. He wouldn't
hurt anybody, he never hit a dog, he wouldn't kill a mosquito. He had
not much hair on his head, and when it was _meetsu_, when the Bishop eat
his fish, he shoo that mosquito away and he say, 'Room for you, my
little friend, and room for me, but this is not your place: go.'"

We call upon the present incumbents of the little church of St. David.
They are young people, the Rev. and Mrs. Day, putting in their first
year in this Northern charge. Their home with its spotless floors and
walls papered with old copies of _The Graphic_ and _Illustrated London
News_ is restful and attractive. The garden of the parsonage shows an
amount of patient work on the part of some one. Potatoes eighteen
inches high and peas twice the height of this, with turnips and cabbages
and cauliflower are good to look at. There are records to show that,
years ago, Fort Simpson produced tomatoes and decent crops of barley.

[Illustration: Interior of St. David's Cathedral]

Entering the little church we see the neat font sent here by Mrs.
Bompas, "In dear memory of Lucy May Owindia, baptised in this Church,
January, 1879." Owindia was one of the many red waifs that the good
Bishop and Mrs. Bompas took into their big hearts. Her story is a sad
one. Along the beach at Simpson, _Friday_, an Indian, in a burst of
ungovernable temper murdered his wife and fled, le