advertisement for him than the perilous incident at the Red Ravine.
Falling backwards when the horse suddenly bolted, his head had struck the
medicine-chest, and he had lain insensible till brought back to
consciousness by the good offices of the voluble Colonel. He had not,
therefore, seen Charley. It was like him that his sense of gratitude
to the unknown tailor should be presently lost in exploiting the interest
he created in the parish. His piebald horse, his white "plug" hat, his
gaily painted wagon, his flamboyant manner, and, above all, the
marvellous tale of his escape from death, were more exciting to the
people of Chaudiere than the militia, the dancing-bears, the shooting-
galleries, or the boat-races. He could sing extremely well--had he not
trained his own choir when he was a parson? had not Billy approved his
comic songs?--and these comic songs, now sandwiched between his cures
and his sales, created much laughter. He cured headaches, toothaches,
rheumatism, and all sorts of local ailments "with despatch."
He miraculously juggled away pains by what he called his Pain Paint,
and he stopped a cough by a laugh and a dose of his Golden Pectoral.
In the exuberance of trade, which steadily increased till sundown,
he gave no thought to the tailor, to whom, however, he had sent by a
messenger a two-dollar bill and two bottles of Pain Paint, with the
lordly announcement that he would call in the evening and "present his
compliments and his thanks." The messenger left the Pain Paint on the
door-step of the tailor-shop, and the two dollars he promptly spent at
the Trois Couronnes.

Rosalie Evanturel rescued the bottles from the doorstep and awaited
Charley's return to his shop, that she might take them over to him, and
so have an excuse to speak with him; for to-day her heart and mind were
full of him. He had done a brave thing for the medicine-man, and had
then fled from public gaze as a brave man should. There was no one to