nything I can do for you?" asked the Englishman. The dying
priest made a movement as if hunting for something. The bishop, to
assist, stepped quickly to his side. The patient gave up the quest of
whatever he was after and looked languidly at the factor. "What is it,
my son?" asked the bishop, bending low. "What would you have the factor
fetch from his house?"

"Just a small bit of cheese," said the sick man, sighing wearily.

"Now, that's odd," mused the factor, as he went off on his strange
errand.

When the Englishman returned to the cabin, the bishop and the priest
stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Upon a bench on the narrow
veranda Dunraven sat, resting after his hundred-mile tramp, and on the
opposite side of the threshold Wing You lay sleeping in his blankets, so
as to be in easy call if he were wanted.

When the two friends were alone, the sick man signalled, and the factor
drew near.

"I have a great favor--a very great favor to ask of you," the priest
began, "and then I'm off. Ah, _mon Dieu!_" he panted. "It has been hard
to hold out. Jesus has been kind."

"It's damned tough at your time, old fellow," said the factor, huskily.

"It's not my time, but His."

"Yes--well I shall be over by and by."

"And those faithful dogs--Dunraven and Wing--thank them for--"

"Sure! If _I_ can pass," the factor broke in, a little confused.

"Thank them for me--for their kindnesses--and care. Tell them to
remember the sermon of the wheat. And now, good friend," said the
priest, summoning all his strength, "_attendez_!"

He drew a thin, white hand from beneath the cover, carrying a tiny
crucifix. "I want you to send this to my beloved mother by registered
post; send it yourself, please, so that she may have it before the end
of the year. This will be my last Christmas gift to her. And the one
that comes from her to me--that is for you, to keep in remembrance of
me. And write to her--oh, so gently tell her--Jesus--help me," he
gasped, sitting upright. "She lives in Rue ---- O Mary, Mother of Jesus,"
he cried, clutching at the collar of his gown; and then he fell back
upon his bed, and his soul swept skyward like a toy balloon when the
thin thread snaps.

When the autumn sun smiled down on Chinook and the autumn wind sighed in
by the door and out by the open window where the dead priest lay, Wing
and Dunraven sat on the rude bench in the little veranda, going over it
all, each in his own tongue, but utteri