again a third night and a fourth, and the simple folk, and wise folk
also, went mad after Parpon the dwarf.

Then, suddenly, he disappeared from Quebec City, and the next Sunday
morning, while the Cure was saying the last words of the Mass, he
entered the Church of St. Saviour's at Pontiac. Going up to the chancel
steps he waited. The murmuring of the people drew the Cure's attention,
and then, seeing Parpon, he came forward.

Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his hands, and
beckoning down the Cure's head, he whispered.

The Cure turned to the altar and raised the bag towards it in ascription
and thanksgiving, then he turned to Parpon again, but the dwarf was
trotting away down the aisle and from the church.

"Dear children," said the Cure, "we are saved, and we are not shamed."
He held up the bag. "Parpon has brought us two thousand dollars: we
shall have food to eat, and there shall be more money against seed-time.
The giver of this good gift demands that his name be not known. Such is
all true charity. Let us pray."

So hard times passed from Pontiac as the months went on; but none save
the Cure and the Avocat knew who had helped her in her hour of need.

MEDALLION'S WHIM

When the Avocat began to lose his health and spirits, and there crept
through his shrewd gravity and kindliness a petulance and dejection,
Medallion was the only person who had an inspiriting effect upon him.
The Little Chemist had decided that the change in him was due to bad
circulation and failing powers: which was only partially true.

Medallion made a deeper guess. "Want to know what's the matter with
him?" he said. "Ha, I'll tell you! Woman."

"Woman--God bless me!" said the Little Chemist, in a frightened way.

"Woman, little man; I mean the want of a woman," said Medallion.

The Cure, who was present, shrugged his shoulders. "He has an excellent
cook, and his bed and jackets are well aired; I see them constantly at
the windows."

A laugh gurgled in Medallion's throat. He loved these innocent folk; but
himself went twice a year to Quebec City and had more expanded views.

"Woman, Padre"--nodding to the priest, and rubbing his chin so that it
rasped like sand-paper--"Woman, my druggist"--throwing a sly look at the
Chemist----"woman, neither as cook nor bottle-washer, is what he needs.
Every man-out of holy orders"--this in deference to his good friend the
Cure--"arrives at the time when his youth must be ren