searches in the undergrowth for a lost trail.
Then his eyes lighted up as he found it.

"My son," said he, clasping the old fiddler's hand in his own, "you are
Jacques Dellaire. And I--do you know me now?--I am Baptiste Lacombe.
See those two scars upon my neck. But it was not death. You have not
murdered. You have given the stroke that changed my heart. Your sin is
forgiven--AND MINE ALSO--by the mercy of God!"

The round clock ticked louder and louder. A level ray from the setting
sun--red gold--came in through the dusty window, and lay across the
clasped hands on the bed. A white-throated sparrow, the first of the
season, on his way to the woods beyond the St. Lawrence, whistled so
clearly and tenderly that it seemed as if he were repeating to these two
gray-haired exiles the name of their homeland. "Sweet--sweet--Canada,
Canada, Canada!" But there was a sweeter sound than that in the quiet
room.

It was the sound of the prayer which begins, in every language spoken by
men, with the name of that Unseen One who rules over life's chances,
and pities its discords, and tunes it back again into harmony. Yes,
this prayer of the little children who are only learning how to play
the first notes of life's music, turns to the great Master musician who
knows it all and who loves to bring a melody out of every instrument
that He has made; and it seems to lay the soul in His hands to play upon
as He will, while it calls Him, OUR FATHER!

Some day, perhaps, you will go to the busy place where Bytown used to
be; and if you do, you must take the street by the river to the white
wooden church of St. Jacques. It stands on the very spot where there was
once a cabin with a curved roof. There is a gilt cross on the top of
the church. The door is usually open, and the interior is quite gay with
vases of china and brass, and paper flowers of many colours; but if
you go through to the sacristy at the rear, you will see a brown violin
hanging on the wall.

Pere Baptiste, if he is there, will take it down and show it to you. He
calls it a remarkable instrument--one of the best, of the most sweet.

But he will not let any one play upon it. He says it is a relic.

II. THE REWARD OF VIRTUE

I

When the good priest of St. Gerome christened Patrick Mullarkey, he lent
himself unconsciously to an innocent deception. To look at the name, you
would think, of course, it belonged to an Irishman; the very appearance
of it was equ