ather Rielle."

"Where?" Poussette rose, superstitious fears of the village _cure_
giving him strength and aiding his resolution.

"Nowhere at present. But he's coming to tea. The cook told me he was."

"What cook? I'm the cook!"--with great dignity.

"No, no. You are cook extraordinary, when you wish it. I mean Frank,
who gets the wood and keeps the fire going, who cooks under you--you
know well enough whom I mean. Now, are you coming?"

Poussette allowed himself to be hauled out of the shack and presently
he and Ringfield were walking up the road.

"I've got to get you sober for to-morrow, you see. To-morrow's Sunday
and I want to know about the music. If we are going to introduce our
hymns to St. Ignace, you must help me to find some one to play the
harmonium. Better be a lady. Do you know any one?"

But Poussette was not following. The mention of the priest had
awakened a flood of memory.

"Father Rielle--I don't know if I like that one or not. One's enough,
you're enough, Mr. Ringfield. Give Father Rielle a drink and let him
go."

"I'm not talking about Father Rielle at all just now. I'm talking
about our church and some one to play for us. And look here,
Poussette, this returning of mine wasn't my own doing. I want you to
know this. The man who wrote to me telegraphed afterwards--here's the
message in my pocket--and you see I never got it. I'm here now and we
must make the best of things. That fellow Crabbe mislaid the message
or detained it knowingly, I can't tell which, and I don't like him,
Poussette, I don't like his looks at all. He's a low fellow, always
drunk, and if I were you I wouldn't be seen going about with him. I'm
astonished at you, Poussette, with such a good businesss, two good
businesses, you may say, well-to-do and prosperous as you are, keeping
such a fellow on the premises. For I suppose he rents the shack from
you. Well, I know I wouldn't have him round the place at all."

Poussette wagged his head in imbecile accord.

"Low fellow--Crabbe--_marche donc_--get off, _animal_, don' come my
place 'tall."

"You know I'm talking _right_, Poussette. Get rid of Crabbe. And
sober up now, man; don't let folks see you like this."

Ringfield put his arm through the other's and led him aside under a
thick canopy of trees as a party of fishermen and Martin came along.

"Look here--I'll make a pillow for you, here, out of these balsam
twigs! You lie down--that's it