A second time he returned to the smoking compartment.

Father Roland was no longer huddled down in his corner. He was on his
feet, his hands thrust deep down into his trousers pockets, and he was
whistling softly as David came in. His hat lay on the seat. It was the
first time David had seen his round, rugged, weather-reddened face
without the big Stetson. He looked younger and yet older; his face, as
David saw it there in the lampglow, had something in the ruddy glow and
deeply lined strength of it that was almost youthful. But his thick,
shaggy hair was very gray. The train had begun to move. He turned to the
window for a moment, and then looked at David.

"We are under way," he said. "Very soon I will be getting off."

David sat down.

"It is some distance beyond the divisional point ahead--this cabin where
you get off?" he asked.

"Yes, twenty or twenty-five miles. There is nothing but a cabin and two
or three log outbuildings there--where Thoreau, the Frenchman, has his
fox pens, as I told you. It is not a regular stop, but the train will
slow down to throw off my dunnage and give me an easy jump. My dogs and
Indian are with Thoreau."

"And from there--from Thoreau's--it is a long distance to the place you
call home?"

The Little Missioner rubbed his hands in a queer rasping way. The
movement of those rugged hands and the curious, chuckling laugh that