of fire, peril of frost and peril of heat, peril of sickness, pain
and death, peril of men, ignorant and wicked, of wild beasts and
wilder storms--all these he had braved with his wife and little
ones for the sake of his convictions added to a genuine love of his
fellow-man. I began to consider, and rightly I think, the unknown,
obscure Bishop of Saskabasquia one of the most interesting men of
the day.

Our journey, however, could not always last. Our pleasant chats, our
lively table-talk, Mrs. Saskabasquia's pretty womanly confidences and
her husband's deep-voiced readings from Dickens which he told me were
of the utmost moral value to his people, all came to an end. We all
felt sorry to part, yet greatly relieved at seeing the mighty cliff
of Quebec draw nearer and nearer with each succeeding hour. I had
been quite ill for the last two days like nearly all the other
passengers. Coming up the Gulf of St. Lawrence that is sometimes the
case, and we were a miserable party that Friday, hardly anyone on
deck except the irrepressible Bishop and his family and myself. I
was wretched, sick and cold and trembling in every limb, undoubted
_mal de mer_ had fastened upon me. We were standing close by the
railing of the promenade deck when a something swept by on the water.
"Child overboard!" I sang out as loudly as I could. Instantly the
steerage was in a state of commotion--the child was missed. There
didn't appear to be a sailor on the spot. The Bishop looked at me,
and I looked at the Bishop. Like lightning he tore off his coat. I
put my hand on his arm.

"Dear sir, you will not do such a thing!"

"What is it, Henry?" cried his wife. "Somebody must."