"Then why do you not help us to lift him to the light?"

"I like him," was the laconic reply.

"Then why don't you talk to him of his soul?"

"Haven't the nerve," said the factor, shaking his head and blowing more
smoke.

The curé shrugged his shoulders.

"I say," said the florid factor, facing the pale priest. "Did you see me
decorating the old chief, Dunraven, yesterday?"

"Yes, I presume you were giving him a _pour boire_ in advance to secure
the greater catch of furs next season," said the priest, with his usual
sad yet always pleasant smile.

"A very poor guess for one so wise," said the factor. "_Attendez_," he
continued. "This post used to be closed always in winter. The tent doors
were tied fast on the inside, after which the man who tied them would
crawl out under the edge of the canvas. When winter came, the snow,
banked about, held the tent tightly down, and the Hudson's Bay business
was bottled at this point until the springless summer came to wake the
sleeping world.

"Last winter was a hard winter. The snow was deep and game scarce. One
day a Cree Indian found himself in need of tea and tobacco, and more in
need of a new pair of trousers. Passing the main tent one day, he was