a cheery strain, "Come,
grandfather, I am waiting to write down what you have to say."

Suddenly he sprang up in a way that startled us all, and, stretching out
his hand like an orator, he began:--

"Missionary! the old wicked life is like a nightmare, like a bad dream,
like a terrible sickness that made us cry out with pain. I am trying to
banish it, to forget it, to wipe it out of my memory. Please do not ask
me to talk about it, or to bring it up. I could not sleep; I should be
miserable."

Of course I put up my book and pencil, and did not further trouble the
dear old man, who seemed so loth to talk about his old belief.

The next Sunday after this interview we had a Fellowship Meeting in the
church. One of the first to speak was this venerable grandfather. He
said, "The Missionary wanted me to talk to him about my old religion. I
could not do it. It was my enemy. It only made me miserable. The more
I followed it, the more unhappy I was. So I have cast it out of my
life, and from my heart. Would that I could wash it out of my memory!"
Then he added, "But perhaps the memory of it helps to make me love my
Saviour better, as I can remember from what He has saved me. I was so
far from him, and so dark and sinful He reached down His strong arm and
lifted me out of the dark place, and put me into the light. O, I am so
thankful Jesus saves me, and I love to talk about it."

And he did talk about it, and our hearts rejoiced with him.

Of him it could be truthfully said, "What he once loved he now hates,
and does it so thoroughly that he does not even wish to talk about it."

While writing these pleasant memories, perhaps I cannot do better than
here record the remarkable closing scenes of the life of this venerable
old man, the patriarch of the village. His family was a large one. He
had several sons. Worthy, excellent men they were. About some of them
we shall have interesting things to say. The youngest, Edward, it was
my joy to lead into the sweet assurance that his sins were all forgiven.
In July, 1889, he was ordained, in Winnipeg, to the office and work of
the Christian ministry.

Martin, another of his sons, was one of my most loved and trusted
guides, and my companion, for thousands of miles, in birch canoe by
summer, and dog-trains by winter. We have looked death in the face
together many times, but I never knew him to flinch or play a coward's
part. Supplies might fail, and storms and