shelter and nursing. And it was also declared by the romantic that the
man with the broken back recovered, while he with the shattered leg,
recovering also, found that his foot, pointing backwards, "made a fool of
his nose."

The Abbe de Casson's life had one affection, which had taken the
place of others, now almost lost in the distance of youth, absence, and
indifference. For France lay far from Montreal, and the priest-musician
was infinitely farther off: the miles which the Church measures between
the priest and his lay boyhood are not easily reckoned. But such as
Dollier de Casson must have a field for affection to enrich. You cannot
drive the sap of the tree in upon itself. It must come out or the tree
must die-burst with the very misery of its richness.

This night he was crowding into the music four years of events: of
memory, hope, pride, patience, and affection. He was waiting for some
one whom he had not seen for these four years. Time passed. More and
more did the broad sonorous notes fill the room. At length they ceased,
and with a sigh he pressed the violin once, twice, thrice to his lips.

"My good Stradivarius," he said, "my pearless one!" Once again he kissed
it, and then, drawing his hand across his eyes, he slowly wrapped the
violin in a velvet cloth, put it away in an iron box, and locked it up.
But presently he changed his mind, took it out again, and put it on the
table, shaking his head musingly.

"He will wish to see it, maybe to hear it," he said half aloud.

Then he turned and went into another room. Here there was a prie-dieu in
a corner, and above it a crucifix. He knelt and was soon absorbed.