e of the tobacco in heaven. The men
who use it cannot go there. Ah, Patrique, do you wish to go to the hell
with your pipe?'"

"That was a close question," I commented; "your Miss Miller is a plain
speaker. But what did you say when she asked you that?"

"I said, m'sieu'," replied Patrick, lifting his hand to his forehead,
"that I must go where the good God pleased to send me, and that I would
have much joy to go to the same place with our cure, the Pere Morel, who
is a great smoker. I am sure that the pipe of comfort is no sin to that
holy man when he returns, some cold night, from the visiting of the
sick--it is not sin, not more than the soft chair and the warm fire. It
harms no one, and it makes quietness of mind. For me, when I see m'sieu'
the cure sitting at the door of the presbytere, in the evening coolness,
smoking the tobacco, very peaceful, and when he says to me, 'Good day,
Patrique; will you have a pipeful?' I cannot think that is wicked--no!"

There was a warmth of sincerity in the honest fellow's utterance that
spoke well for the character of the cure of St. Gerome. The good word
of a plain fisherman or hunter is worth more than a degree of doctor of
divinity from a learned university.

I too had grateful memories of good men, faithful, charitable, wise,
devout,--men before whose virtues my heart stood uncovered and reverent,
men whose lives were sweet with self-sacrifice, and whose words were
like stars of guidance to many souls,--and I had often seen these men
solacing their toils and inviting pleasant, kindly thoughts with the
pipe of peace. I wondered whether Miss Miller ever had the good fortune
to meet any of these men. They were not members of the societies for
ethical agitation, but they were profitable men to know. Their very
presence was medicinal. It breathed patience and fidelity to duty, and a
large, quiet friendliness.

"Well, then," I asked, "what did she say finally to turn you? What was
her last argument? Come, Pat, you must make it a little shorter than she
did."

"In five words, m'sieu', it was this: 'The tobacco causes the poverty.'
The fourth day--you remind yourself of the long dead-water below the
Rapide Gervais? It was there. All the day she spoke to me of the money
that goes to the smoke. Two piastres the month. Twenty-four the year.
Three hundred--yes, with the interest, more than three hundred in ten
years! Two thousand piastres in the life of the man! But she comprehends