"Of course, Dominique." The man shrank a little.

"I forget a good many times, but I know one all right, for I said it
when the bird was singing. It isn't one out of the book Father Corraine
sent mother by Pretty Pierre; it's one she taught me out of her own
head. P'r'aps I'd better say it."

"P'r'aps, if you want to." The voice was husky.

The boy began:

"O Bon Jésu, who died to save us from our sins, and to lead us to Thy
country, where there is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no
one is afraid, listen to Thy child.... When the great winds and rains
come down from the hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the woods
cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us, and do not let the prairie-fires
burn us. Keep wild beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us good
hearts that we may not kill them in anger."

His finger twisted involuntarily into the bullet-hole in the pelt, and
he paused a moment.

"Keep us from getting lost, O Bon Jésu."

Again there was a pause, his eyes opened wide, and he said:

"Do you think mother's lost, father?"

A heavy broken breath came from the father, and he replied haltingly: