emoved from it as completely as
though he were dead and buried.

A month went by. Sometimes Jo went down to the village below, and then,
at first, he locked the door of the house behind him upon Charley.
Against this Charley made no motion and said no word, but patiently
awaited Jo's return. So it was that, at last, Jo made no attempt to lock
the door, but with a nod or a good-bye left him alone. When Charley saw
him returning he would go to meet him, and shake hands with him, and say
"Good-day," and then would come in with him and help him get supper or
do the work of the house.

Since Charley came no one had visited the house, for there were no paths
beyond it, and no one came to the Vadrome Mountain, save by chance. But
after two months had gone the Cure came. Twice a year the Cure made it
a point to visit Jo in the interests of his soul, though the visits came
to little, for Jo never went to confession, and seldom to mass. On this
occasion the Cure arrived when Jo was out in the woods. He discovered
Charley. Charley made no answer to his astonished and friendly greeting,
but watched him with a wide-eyed anxiety till the Cure seated himself at
the door to await Jo's coming. Presently, as he sat there, Charley,
who had studied his face as a child studies the unfamiliar face of a
stranger, brought him a bowl of bread and milk and put it in his hands.
The Cure smiled and thanked him, and Charley smiled in return and said:
"It is very good."

As the Cure ate, Charley watched him with satisfaction, and nodded at
him kindly.

When Jo came he lied to the Cure. He said he had found Charley wandering
in the woods, with a wound in his head, and had brought him home with
him and cared for him. Forty miles away he had found him.

The Cure was perplexed. What was there to do? He believed what Jo said.
So far as he knew, Jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he
understood Jo's interest in this man with the look of a child and no
memory: Jo's life was terribly lonely; he had no one to care for, and
no one cared for him; here was what might comfort him! Through this
helpless man might come a way to Jo's own good. So he argued with
himself.

What to do? Tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at
Quebec? Jo pooh-poohed this. Wait till the man's memory came back? Would
it come back--what chance was there of its ever coming back? Jo said
that they ought to wait and see--wait awhile, and then, if his memo