word, and puff away steadily at his strong
black pipe. "Caribou" Sol, the name by which he was generally known,
was not the only one interested in these tales. Others drifted into
the shack, and listened too, strapping fellows, some of them, who would
remain very still while the story continued. It was in their own
cabins where they gave vent to their feelings.

"By gar," said one brawny chap, "that was a crack-a-jack yarn the
parson read to-day. It tickled me, it did, about that Trotty, and his
daughter. Wasn't she a brick?"

"And did ye see Sol when he read about the chap wid the kid in his
arms?" asked another.

"No, what about him?"

"Why, he leaned right over, and even forgot his pipe. I never saw such
a wistful look in any man's face."

"That's nothing. I guess we all looked pretty much that way."

One night when Joe was almost recovered, Keith walked back to his
lonely cabin lost in thought. He had been reading, as usual, and the
small shack had been crowded to its utmost capacity. For several days,
as he watched the men, he had been wondering what he could do to make
their lives a little brighter. He knew very well how cheerless were
their cabins. Four square walls of rough-hewn logs, unrelieved by
ornament or picture; a bunk, a sheet-iron camping stove, one or two
three-legged stools, and a small table filled the room, dimly lighted
by one feeble candle.

In addition to such dreary abodes were the long nights, the cheerless
silence, with no one to care whether a man lived or died; no news from
the great outside world, and one day dragging wearily to a close, only
to be succeeded by another, and then another, through long dreary
months. Sometimes the men would meet together, but the cabins were all
much alike. Perdue's store was the only bright spot, and there the men
wandered.

Keith thought of all this. What could he do? What right had he to be
a missionary, a saviour of souls, if he had no line to let out, or boat
to launch in the hour of need?

Reaching his cabin, he sat for some time at the small table where he
carried on his writing and translational work. His few choice books
looked down upon him from their rude shelves.

"Ah, old friends," he said, looking up at them, "if you could only
comfort those men, as you have comforted me, what a help you would be
now."

Then it was that the books spoke to him. They suggested an idea,
which, flashing along the brain, flushed the t