the pelt. His eyes closed, and he seemed about to fall asleep, but
presently looked up and whispered: "I haven't said my prayers, have I?"

The father shook his head in a sort of rude confusion.

"I can pray out loud if I want to, can't I?"

"Of course, Dominique." The man shrank a little.

"I forget a good many times, but I know one all right, for I said it
when the bird was singing. It isn't one out of the book Father Corraine
sent mother by Pretty Pierre; it's one she taught me out of her own
head. P'r'aps I'd better say it."

"P'r'aps, if you want to." The voice was husky. The boy began:

"O bon Jesu, who died to save us from our sins, and to lead us to Thy
country, where there is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no
one is afraid, listen to Thy child.... When the great winds and rains
come down from the hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the woods
cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us; and do not let the prairie-fires
burn us. Keep wild beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us good
hearts that we may not kill them in anger."

His finger twisted involuntarily into the bullet-hole in the pelt, and
he paused a moment.

"Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Saviour." Again there was a
pause, his eyes opened wide, and he said:

"Do you think mother's lost, father?"

A heavy broken breath came from the father, and he replied haltingly:
"Mebbe, mebbe so."

Dominique's eyes closed again. "I'll make up some," he said slowly. "And
if mother's lost, bring her back again to us, for everything's going
wrong."

Again he paused, then went on with the prayer as it had been taught him.

"Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou callest, and to see Thee when Thou
visitest us, and let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak often to
Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ have
mercy upon us. Amen."

Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, and said "I'll go to sleep
now, I guess."

The man sat for a long time looking at the pale, shining face, at the
blue veins showing painfully dark on the temples and forehead, at the
firm little white hand, which was as brown as a butternut a few weeks
before. The longer he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his soul.
His wife had gone, he knew not where, his child was wasting to death,
and he had for his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever had that
touch of mystical imagination inseparable from the far north, yet he had