r it breathing, but I could not open my
eyes at first, for, as I say, the lashes were froze. Something touch me,
smell me, and a nose was push against my chest. I put out my hand ver'
soft and touch it. I had no fear, I was so glad I could have hug it, but
I did not--I drew back my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little I can
see. There stand the thing--a polar bear--not ten feet away, its red
eyes shining. On my knees I spoke to it, talk to it, as I would to a
man. It was like a great wild dog, fierce, yet kind, and I fed it with
the fish which had been for Brandy-wine and the rest--but not to kill
it! and it did not die. That night I lie down in my bag--no, I was not
afraid! The bear lie beside me, between me and the sled. Ah, it was
warm! Day after day we travel together, and camp together at night--ah,
sweet Sainte Anne, how good it was, myself and the wild beast such
friends, alone in the north! But to-day--a little while ago--something
went wrong with me, and I got sick in the head, a swimming like a tide
wash in and out. I fall down-asleep. When I wake I find you here beside
me--that is all. The bear must have drag me here.'"

Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light another cigarette, and
paused as if expecting the governor to speak, but no word coming, he
continued: "I had my arm around him while we talked and come slowly down
the hill. Soon he stopped and said, 'This is the place.' It was a
cave of ice, and we went in. Nothing was there to see except the sled.
Babiche stopped short. It come to him now that his good comrade was
gone. He turned, and looked out, and called, but there was only the
empty night, the ice, and the stars. Then he come back, sat down on the
sled, and the tears fall.... I lit my spirit-lamp, boiled coffee, got
pemmican from my bag, and I tried to make him eat. No. He would only
drink the coffee. At last he said to me, 'What day is this, Pierre?' 'It
is the day of the Great Birth, Babiche,' I said. He made the sign of the
cross, and was quiet, so quiet! but he smile to himself, and kept saying
in a whisper: 'Ma p'tite Corinne! Ma p'tite Corinne!' The next day we
come on safe, and in a week I was back at Fort St. Saviour with Babiche
and all the mails, and that most wonderful letter of the governor's."

"The letter was to tell a factor that his sick child in the hospital at
Quebec was well," the governor responded quietly. "Who was 'Ma p'tite
Corinne,' Pierre?"

"His wife--in heav