the north drew from a pocket of his robe a letter. His
marvelously lean fingers touched it almost with a caress, and when he
spoke the softening which could not appear in the rigid features came
into his voice and made it lower and deeper.

"One."

Father Anthony started in astonishment, as one might start to hear a
divine prophet admit a mistake, but being wise he remained silent,
waiting. Jean Paul Victor peered into space.

"Pierre Ryder. He is like a pleasant summer, and I"--he clasped his
colorless hands--"am frozen--frozen to the heart."

Still Father Anthony waited, but his eyes were like diamonds for
brightness.

"He shall carry on my mission in the north. I, who am silent, have
done much; but Pierre sings, and he will do more. I had to fight my
first battle to conquer my own stubborn soul, and the battle left me
weak for the great work in the snows, but Pierre will not fight that
battle, for I have trained him."

He repeated after a pause: "For those who sing forget themselves and
their weariness. I, Jean Paul Victor, have never sung."

He bowed his head, submitting to the judgment of God.

"This letter is for him. Shall we not carry it to him? For two days I
have not seen Pierre."

Father Anthony winced.

He said: "Do you deny yourself even the pleasure of the lad's company?
Alas, Father Victor, you forge your own spurs and goad yourself with
your own hands. What harm is there in being often with the lad?"

The sneer returned to the lips of Jean Paul Victor.

"The purpose would be lost--lost to my eyes and lost to his--the
purpose for which I have lived and for which he shall live--the purpose
to which you are dedicated, Gabrielle Antoine Anthony."

He relented in his fierceness, and continued with the strange gentle
note in his voice: "Our love for the young, it is like a vine that
climbs through the branches of a strong tree. When the vine is young
it may be taken away in safety and both the tree and the vine will
live, but if it grows old it will kill the tree when the vine is torn
away.

"I am the strong tree, and Pierre has grown into my heart. It is time
that he be torn away. He is almost ready. The work is prepared. He
must start forth."

Even while he announced his purpose the sweat poured out on his
forehead. He rose and paced noiselessly up and down the bare room, his
black robe catching around the long, bony legs. Father Anthony drew a
great breath. At last Jean