wed her into the house. The letters were on the table, Mrs.
Motherwell read them to him, read them with tears that almost choked
her utterance.

"And Polly's dead, Sam!" she cried when she had finished the last one.
"Polly's dead, and the poor old mother will be looking, looking for
that money, and it will never come. Sam, can't we save that poor old
woman from the poorhouse? Do you remember what the girl said in the
letter, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my little
ones, ye have done it unto Me?' We didn't deserve the praise the girl
gave us. We didn't send the flowers, we have never done anything for
anybody and we have plenty, plenty, and what is the good of it, Sam?
We'll die some day and leave it all behind us."

Mrs. Motherwell hid her face in her apron, trembling with excitement.
Sam's face was immovable, but a mysterious Something, not of earth, was
struggling with him. Was it the faith of that decrepit old woman in
that bare little room across the sea, mumbling to herself that God had
not forgotten? God knows. His ear is not dulled; His arm is not
shortened; His holy spirit moves mightily.

Sam Motherwell stood up and struck the table with his fist.

"Ettie," he said, "I am a hard man, a danged hard man, and as you say
I've never given away much, but I am not so low down yet that I have to
reach up to touch bottom, and the old woman will not go to the poor
house if I have money enough to keep her out!"

Sam Motherwell was as good as his word.

He went to Winnipeg the next day, but before he left he drew a check
for one hundred dollars, payable to Polly's mother, which he gave to
the Church of England clergyman to send for him. About two months
afterwards he received a letter from the clergyman of the parish in
which Polly's mother lived, telling him that the money had reached the
old lady in time to save her from the workhouse; a heart-broken letter
of thanks from Polly's mother herself accompanied it, calling on God to
reward them for their kindness to her and her dear dead girl.

CHAPTER XXII

SHADOWS

One morning when Tom came into the kitchen Pearl looked up with a
worried look on her usually bright little face.

"What's up, kid?" he asked kindly. He did not like to see Pearl looking
troubled.

"Arthur's sick," she said gravely.

"Go on!" he answered, "he's not sick. I know he's been feeling kind of
used up for about a week, but he worked as well as ever yesterday. Wh