so violently insane when she reached Winnipeg that they
decided a trial was unnecessary, so she was placed at once in an
asylum.

After they had buried his little mate on the great silent prairie, Joe
tried to forget and to do his work as usual; but the odor of the
newly-severed sod, the cracking of the drivers' whips, the shouting to
the stubborn mules, the stampede over the prairie at noon, the hateful
sight of Shuter and his daughter--in fact, everything around him--made
the longing for the company of his little driver so keen that he could
not bear it, and a week after his death he drew his wages and slipped
away, none knew whither.

* * * * *

A Daughter of the Church.

It had been a severe Canadian winter, but the bright spring sunshine
was now honeycombing the great snow-heap, which all winter had beset
farmer Frechette's farm-house, and which, on this early March morning,
was still banked almost as high as the kitchen window.

Glinting through the old-fashioned narrow panes, the generous rays
fell upon the white bowed head of farmer Frechette, who sat warming
himself at the square box wood-stove, gazing the while with furrowed
brow at the roystering wood sparks, as at short intervals they shot
aggressively from the partly open door.

Suddenly there floated through the raised window the joyous chimes of
church bells. With an angry exclamation the old man sprang to his
feet, hurried to the window, and violently drew it down. His extreme
weakness made the anger that convulsed his thin, wrinkled face painful
to see. Straightening up his bent frame, he shook his hand at the
church, which he could see in the distance, and uttered anathemas
against it. As he did so, the door leading from the little bedroom at
the back of the kitchen was burst open, and his wife, a woman many
years younger than he, ran over to his side, dragged down his still
uplifted arm, and led him over to his seat. She then sat down beside
him, and burying her face in her hands, began to cry.

Her distress moved him and he told her somewhat doggedly, but not
unkindly, to cease. "Do you know what the bells are ringing for?" he
asked cynically, after a short pause.

"Why worry about it? We must submit," she answered, trying to keep out
of her voice the discontent that assailed her.

"They are ringing," he went on in a hard voice, "for farmer Cadieux's
daughter, who is to take her life vows to-day. Alre