will tell you, as Bill the driver told me, how it
was a full hand this fine frontiersman laid on the Lord's table and
that none of the cards were lacking.

Twelve-Foot Davis was so called because, in the days of the Caribou
rush, he staked a claim of twelve feet. Each prospector was allowed
one hundred feet and there was no claim left when Twelve-Foot appeared
on the scene. But to be assured in his mind he was not outdone, he
measured the claims and found that two of the prospectors were holding
two hundred and twelve feet. Davis wanted those extra twelve feet and
the prospectors decided to give him a place directly in the centre of
their claims on a spot where a basin of shale lay. From this narrow
claim, Twelve-Foot dug up a large quantity of gold, and this was the
only spot on the entire creek where the least trace of ore was found,
even his neighbours being unable to pan out a grain. It was from this
happening that he derived the name which, because of the question it
carries on its face, would, as a nom-de-plume, be worth a corresponding
amount of gold to an obscure author.

Bill, who is fairly amenable to bribes, takes me over to the further
hill where the Church of England Mission stands, which Mission was the
spiritual husbandry of the late Bishop Holmes.

It would be pleasant to tell of this place and of the school, but Bill
is in haste and will not tarry my leisure. It may be that his swaying
motive is another bribe.

It was only three months ago that the Bishop and his family started for
England, and soon afterwards came the news that he had died in a London
hospital. The teachers tell me the family who went out together on
this holiday are never coming back, in that they cannot afford to take
the journey now that the bread-winner is gone. The furniture is to be
sold and the house will be done-over for another bishop.

As I walk through the home which for many years has been the most
hospitable one in the north, it is with a mist in my eyes and a painful
tightness in my throat. I touch the chords of Auld Lang Syne on the
piano in honour of Madam, the mother; I kiss the house-flowers for the
love of the young girls who carried them safely over the long, long
winter; I finger the books in the library with affection in memory of
the good Bishop who once told me kindly tales of these Indians who were
his friends.

And when I, too, have gone, may it happen that some one who understands
will touch