Thompson sat back after his supper, fanning himself with an ancient
newspaper, for the day's heat still lingered. Across the table on which
he rested an elbow MacLeod, bearded, aggressive, capable, regarded his
guest with half-contemptuous pity under cover of the gathering dusk.
MacLeod smoked a pipe. Thompson chewed the cud of reflection.

"And so," the factor began suddenly, "ye are a missionary to the Lone
Moose Crees. It will be a thankless task; a tougher one nor I'd care to
tackle. I ha' seen the job undertaken before by folk who--beggin' your
pardon--ha' little conception of the country, the people in it, or the
needs of either. Ye'll find the Cree has more concern for meat an'
clothes, for traps an' powder, than he has for his soul. Ye'll
understand this better when ye ha' more experience in the North. Indeed,
it's no impossible ye might come to the same way of thinkin' in time."

The dusk hid the shocked expression that gathered on Thompson's face.

"'What shall it profit a man to gain the whole world if he knoweth not
God?'" he quoted gravely. "The priests of the Catholic church have long
carried on missionary work among these tribes. We of the Protestant
faith would be lacking if we did not try to extend our field, if we made
no effort to bear light into the dark places. Man's spiritual need is
always greater than any material need can ever be. I hardly expect to
accomplish a great deal at first. But the work will grow."

"I see, I see," MacLeod chuckled dryly. "It's partly a matter of the
Methodist Church tryin' to compete with the fathers, eh? Well, I am no
what ye'd call devout. I ha' had much experience wi' these red folk, an'
them that's both red an' white. An' I dinna agree with ye aboot their
speeritual needs. I think ye sky-pilots would do better to leave them to