ry
did not return, they would try to find his friends, by publishing his
story abroad.

Chaudiere was far from anywhere: it knew little of the world, and the
world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the Cure.
Perhaps Jo was right, he thought. The man was being well cared for, and
what more could be wished at the moment? The Cure was a simple man, and
when Jo urged that if the sick man could get well anywhere in the world
it would be at Vadrome Mountain in Chaudiere, the Cure's parochial pride
was roused, and he was ready to believe all Jo said. He also saw reason
in Jo's request that the village should not be told of the sick man's
presence. Before he left, the Cure knelt down and prayed, "for the good
of this poor mortal's soul and body."

As he prayed, Charley knelt down also, and kept his eyes-calm
unwondering eyes-full fixed on the good M. Loisel, whose grey hair, thin
peaceful face, and dark brown eyes made a noble picture of patience and
devotion.

When the Cure shook him by the hand, murmuring in good-bye, "God be
gracious to thee, my son," Charley nodded in a friendly way. He watched
the departing figure till it disappeared over the crest of the hill.

This day marked an epoch in the solitude of the hut on Vadrome Mountain.
Jo had an inspiration. He got a second set of carpenter's tools, and
straightway began to build a new room to the house. He gave the extra
set of tools to Charley with an encouraging word. For the first time
since he had been brought here, Charley's face took on a look of
interest. In half-an-hour he was at work, smiling and perspiring, and
quickly learning the craft. He seldom spoke, but he sometimes laughed a
mirthful, natural boy's laugh of good spirits and contentment. From that
day his interest in things increased, and before two months went round,
while yet it was late autumn, he looked in perfect health. He ate
moderately, drank a great deal of water, and slept half the circle of
the clock each day. His skin was like silk; the colour of his face was
as that of an apple; he was more than ever Beauty Steele. The Cure
came two or three times, and Charley spoke to him but never held
conversation, and no word concerning the past ever passed his tongue,
nor did he have memory of what was said to him from one day to the next.
A hundred ways Jo had tried to rouse his memory. But the words Cote
Dorion had no meaning to him, and he listened blankly to all names and
phrases