"Yesterday Dunraven came to the post and confessed.

"It was to reward him for his honesty that I gave him the fur coat and
looped the big brass baggage check in his buttonhole. _Voilà!_"

The curé crossed his legs and then recrossed them, tossed his head from
side to side, drummed upon the closed book which lay in his lap, and
showed in any number of ways, peculiar to nervous people, his amazement
at the story and his admiration for the Indian.

"Little things like that," said the factor, filling his pipe, "make me
timid when talking to a Cree about 'being good.'"

* * * * *

When summer came, and with it the smell of flowers and the music of
running streams, the factor and his friend the curé used to take long
tramps up into the highlands, but the curé's state of health was a
handicap to him. The factor saw the telltale flush in the priest's face
and knew that the "White Plague" had marked him; yet he never allowed
the curé to know that he knew. That summer a little river steamer was
sent up from Athabasca Lake by the Chief Commissioner who sat in the
big office at Winnipeg, and upon this the factor and his friend took
many an excursion up and down the Peace. The friendship that had grown
up between the factor and the new curé formed the one slender bridge
that connected the Anglican and the Catholic camps. Even the "heathen
Crees" marvelled that these white men, praying to the same God, should
dwell so far apart. Wing You, who had wandered over from Ramsay's Camp
on the Pine River, explained it all to Dunraven: "Flenchman and
Englishman," said Wing. "No ketchem same Glod. You--Clee," continued the