silence, and no one had more than sour milk and bread and a potato now
and then. The Cure, the Avocat, and the Little Chemist fared no better
than the habitants; for they gave all they had right and left, and
themselves often went hungry to bed. And the truth is that few outside
Pontiac knew of her suffering; she kept the secret of it close.

It seemed at last, however, to the Cure that he must, after all, write
to the world outside for help. That was when he saw the faces of the
children get pale and drawn. There never was a time when there were so
few fish in the river and so little game in the woods. At last, from the
altar steps one Sunday, the Cure, with a calm, sad voice, told the people
that, for "the dear children's sake," they must sink their pride and ask
help from without. He would write first to the Bishop of Quebec; "for,"
said he, "Mother Church will help us; she will give us food, and money to
buy seed in the spring; and, please God, we will pay all back in a year
or two!" He paused a minute, then continued: "Some one must go, to speak
plainly and wisely of our trouble, that there be no mistake--we are not
beggars, we are only borrowers. Who will go? I may not myself, for who
would give the Blessed Sacrament, and speak to the sick, or say Mass and
comfort you?"

There was silence in the church for a moment, and many faces meanwhile
turned instinctively to M. Garon the Avocat, and some to the Little
Chemist.

"Who will go?" asked the Cure again. "It is a bitter journey, but our
pride must not be our shame in the end. Who will go?"

Every one expected that the Avocat or the Little Chemist would rise; but
while they looked at each other, waiting and sorrowful, and the Avocat's