was the divine look of
motherhood.

"Peace be to this house!" said the man gently as he stepped forward from
the door.

The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as if he had seen a
spirit.

"M'sieu' le cure!" he said in French, with an accent much poorer than
that of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from
his wife; he himself was English.

The priest's quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little
shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man.

"The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, looking round. "Ah, the boy!" he
added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice:
"Dominique is ill?"

Bagot nodded, and then answered: "A wild-cat and then fever, Father
Corraine."

The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then with a close personal look
he spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly too:

"Your wife, Bagot?"

"She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was low and gloomy.

"Where is she, Bagot?"

"I do not know, m'sieu'."

"When did you see her last?"

"Four weeks ago, m'sieu'."

"That was September, this is October--winter. On the ranches they let
their cattle loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not where they go,
yet looking for them to return in the spring. But a woman--a woman and
a wife--is different.... Bagot, you have been a rough, hard man, and you
have been a stranger to your God, but I thought you loved your wife and
child!"

The hunter's hands clenched, and a wicked light flashed up into his
eyes; but the calm, benignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in
his veins. The priest sat down on the couch where the child lay, and
took the fevered hand in his very softly.

"Stay where you are, Bagot," he said; "just there where you are, and
tell me what your trouble is, and why your wife is not here.... Say all
honestly--by the name of the Christ!" he added, lifting up a large iron
crucifix that hung on his breast.

Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace, the light playing on his
bronzed, powerful face, his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like
two coals. After a moment he began:

"I don't know how it started. I'd lost a lot of pelts--stolen they were,
down on the Child o' Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous, like
as not--she always was brisker and more sudden than I am. I--I laid my
powder-horn and whisky-flask-up there!"

He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, where now his candle