"A great deal, Vital." There was no reproach in the tone.

"Zotique--I don't know what to say--I never was, as you know, a very
good hand at saying things. It was hard to think of you being here all
alone. I--I--want you to know, Zotique, that I have not tried to act
underhanded. It all happened between us so suddenly, and so--so--"

"Yes, I understand; don't worry about it, Vital," he interrupted,--in
a tone which eased Vital's heart more than any words could have done.

They sat ever so long without speaking. Finally Zotique said quietly,
"My coming back was all a mistake, Vital; I never thought you cared
for her in that way; you were always so quiet and absent-minded that I
misunderstood you." He paused for a few moments and then went on
unevenly: "After I get back--perhaps not just at once--I will write
and tell her how fortunate she is."

* * * * *




The Faith that Removes Mountains.


Just as the bells in the great towers of old Notre Dame Church, in
Montreal, were striking the hour of ten, a gust of October wind, more
fierce than its fellows, bore down upon the trees in the French Square
fronting the church, tore from them multitudes of leaves, brown and