llowing, written in a firm hand:

"Keith Steadman,
"First Prize for proficiency in English Literature.
"Collegiate School,
"Windsor, N. S.
"Christmas, 18--."

"What, is that the parson?" asked Tim.

"Certainly, who else would it be?" replied Perdue.

Silence followed these words, and the men looked at one another.
Pritchen, noticing this, was vexed and puzzled.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he blurted out.

"I don't think much about it, if you ask me," responded Missouri. "You
can't prove that the parson had anything to do with that chap's death."

"But the book."

"Oh, he might have spent a night there, and dropped the book; that's
all."

"But the letters, and the cross on the rock; what about them?"

"Any man might have done that. And if the parson did find a sick man
in the cabin who died on his hands, he would naturally bury him in the
snow, and put up some marks. It's all quite natural."

"But why didn't he say something about it when he came to Klassan?"

"Blamed if I know. Maybe he had some reason. Anyway it doesn't prove
anything."

"I didn't say it did," snapped Pritchen, who was feeling sore at this
man's indifference, and considerate way of looking at the matter. His
elation had very much cooled in the presence of these men. They were
known throughout the camp as miners who were wedded to their cards, and
took only a passing interest in the events around them. They were
seldom mixed up in any quarrel, and their words were few. He had
noticed that only these were in the store with Perdue, but had not
given it much thought before, so full was he of his story. Now he
wondered what had become of his own gang. He knew he could make an
impression upon them.

"Where are the rest of the boys?" he asked, turning to Perdue.

"Over at the Reading Room," replied the latter. "There's a big time on
there to-night."

"What's up?" and Pritchen's face darkened as various thoughts flashed
through his mind.

"Ye needn't worry," Perdue hastened to explain. "The boys are all
right. They're only after a little fun. Ye see, there's a debate on,
and that's why they're there."

"A debate! On what?"

"Ye'd never guess, Bill. It's a h-- of a subject. 'Which has caused
more misery in the world, war or whiskey?' that's what it is."

"Ha, ha," laughed Pritchen. "They're after you, Jim. Ain't you going
to hold up your end of the game?"

"Not much. The boys'll do