dream；　but　it　cannot　be。'
  'And　why；　Father？　I　have　said　yes。'
  'You　knew　not　what　you　did。　You　did　not　think　of　the　oath　you
  took；　before　your　God；　to　that　man　who　is　your　husband。　It　remains　for
  me　to　make　you　realize　the　sanctity　of　such　a　pledge。'
  'And　if　I　do　realize；　and　yet　refuse？'
  'Then　God…'
  'Which　God？　My　husband　has　a　God　which　I　care　not　to　worship。
  There　must　be　many　such。'
  'Child！　unsay　those　words！　Ah！　you　do　not　mean　them。　I　understand。
  I；　too；　have　had　such　moments。'　For　an　instant　he　was　back　in　his
  native　France；　and　a　wistful；　sad…eyed　face　came　as　a　mist　between　him
  and　the　woman　before　him。
  'Then；　Father；　has　my　God　forsaken　me？　I　am　not　wicked　above
  women。　My　misery　with　him　has　been　great。　Why　should　it　be　greater？
  Why　shall　I　not　grasp　at　happiness？　I　cannot；　will　not；　go　back　to
  him！'
  'Rather　is　your　God　forsaken。　Return。　Throw　your　burden　upon　Him；
  and　the　darkness　shall　be　lifted。　O　my　child；…'
  'No；　it　is　useless；　I　have　made　my　bed　and　so　shall　I　lie。　I　will　go
  on。　And　if　God　punishes　me；　I　shall　bear　it　somehow。　You　do　not
  understand。　You　are　not　a　woman。'
  'My　mother　was　a　woman。'
  'But…'
  'And　Christ　was　born　of　a　woman。'
  She　did　not　answer。　A　silence　fell。　Wharton　pulled　his　mustache
  impatiently　and　kept　an　eye　on　the　trail。　Grace　leaned　her　elbow　on
  the　table；　her　face　set　with　resolve。　The　smile　had　died　away。
  Father　Roubeau　shifted　his　ground。
  'You　have　children？'
  'At　one　time　I　wished…　but　now…　no。　And　I　am　thankful。'
  'And　a　mother？'
  'Yes。'
  'She　loves　you？'
  'Yes。'　Her　replies　were　whispers。
  And　a　brother？…　no　matter；　he　is　a　man。　But　a　sister？'
  Her　head　drooped　a　quavering　'Yes。'
  'Younger？　Very　much？'
  'Seven　years。'
  'And　you　have　thought　well　about　this　matter？　About　them？　About　your
  mother？　And　your　sister？　She　stands　on　the　threshold　of　her　woman's
  life；　and　this　wildness　of　yours　may　mean　much　to　her。　Could　you　go
  before　her；　look　upon　her　fresh　young　face；　hold　her　hand　in　yours；　or
  touch　your　cheek　to　hers？'
  To　his　words；　her　brain　formed　vivid　images；　till　she　cried　out；
  'Don't！　don't！'　and　shrank　away　as　do　the　wolf…dogs　from　the　lash。
  'But　you　must　face　all　this；　and　better　it　is　to　do　it　now。'
  In　his　eyes；　which　she　could　not　see；　there　was　a　great
  compassion；　but　his　face；　tense　and　quivering；　showed　no　relenting。
  She　raised　her　head　from　the　table；　forced　back　the　tears；　struggled
  for　control。
  'I　shall　go　away。　They　will　never　see　me；　and　come　to　forget　me。　I
  shall　be　to　them　as　dead。　And…　and　I　will　go　with　Clyde…　today。'
  It　seemed　final。　Wharton　stepped　forward；　but　the　priest　waved　him
  back。
  'You　have　wished　for　children？'
  A　silent　'Yes。'
  'And　prayed　for　them？'
  'Often。'
  'And　have　you　thought；　if　you　should　have　children？'　Father
  Roubeau's　eyes　rested　for　a　moment　on　the　man　by　the　window。
  A　quick　light　shot　across　her　face。　Then　the　full　import　dawned　upon
  her。　She　raised　her　hand　appealingly；　but　he　went　on。
  'Can　you　picture　an　innocent　babe　in　your　arms；'　A　boy？　The　world　is
  not　so　hard　upon　a　girl。　Why；　your　very　breast　would　turn　to　gall！　And
  you　could　be　proud　and　happy　of　your　boy；　as　you　looked　on　other
  children？…'
  'O；　have　pity！　Hush！'
  'A　scapegoat…'
  'Don't！　don't！　I　will　go　back！'　She　was　at　his　feet。
  'A　child　to　grow　up　with　no　thought　of　evil；　and　one　day　the　world
  to　fling　a　tender　name　in　his　face。　A　child　to　look　back　and　curse　you
  from　whose　loins　he　sprang！'
  'O　my　God！　my　God！'
  She　groveled　on　the　floor。　The　priest　sighed　and　raised　her　to　her
  feet。
  Wharton　pressed　forward；　but　she　motioned　him　away。
  'Don't　come　near　me；　Clyde！　I　am　going　back！'　The　tears　were
  coursing　pitifully　down　her　face；　but　she　made　no　effort　to　wipe
  them　away。
  'After　all　this？　You　cannot！　I　will　not　let　you！'
  'Don't　touch　me！'　She　shivered　and　drew　back。
  'I　will！　You　are　mine！　Do　you　hear？　You　are　mine！'　Then　he　whirled
  upon　the　priest。　'O　what　a　fool　I　was　to　ever　let　you　wag　your　silly
  tongue！　Thank　your　God　you　are　not　a　common　man；　for　I'd…　but　the
  priestly　prerogative　must　be　exercised；　eh？　Well；　you　have　exercised
  it。　Now　get　out　of　my　house；　or　I'll　forget　who　and　what　you　are！'
  Father　Roubeau　bowed；　took　her　hand；　and　started　for　the　door。　But
  Wharton　cut　them　off。
  'Grace！　You　said　you　loved　me？'
  'I　did。'
  'And　you　do　now？'
  'I　do。'
  'Say　it　again。'
  'I　do　love　you；　Clyde；　I　do。'
  'There；　you　priest！'　he　cried。　'You　have　heard　it；　and　with　those
  words　on　her　lips　you　would　send　her　back　to　live　a　lie　and　a　hell
  with　that　man？'
  But　Father　Roubeau　whisked　the　woman　into　the　inner　room　and
  closed　the　door。　'No　words！'　he　whispered　to　Wharton；　as　he　struck　a
  casual　posture　on　a　stool。　'Remember；　for　her　sake；'　he　added。
  The　room　echoed　to　a　rough　knock　at　the　door；　the　latch　raised　and
  Edwin　Bentham　stepped　in。
  'Seen　anything　of　my　wife？'　he　asked　as　soon　as　salutations　had　been
  exchanged。
  Two　heads　nodded　negatively。
  'I　saw　her　tracks　down　from　the　cabin；'　he　continued　tentatively；
  'and　they　broke　off；　just　opposite　here；　on　the　main　trail。'
  His　listeners　looked　bored。
  'And　I…　I　though…'
  'She　was　here！'　thundered　Wharton。
  The　priest　silenced　him　with　a　look。　'Did　you　see　her　tracks　leading
  up　to　this　cabin；　my　son？'　Wily　Father　Roubeau…　he　had　taken　good　care
  to　obliterate　them　as　he　came　up　the　same　path　an　hour　before。
  'I　didn't　stop　to　look；　I…'　His　eyes　rested　suspiciously　on　the　door
  to　the　other　room；　then　interrogated　the　priest。　The　latter　shook
  his　head；　but　the　doubt　seemed　to　linger。
  Father　Roubeau　breathed　a　swift；　silent　prayer；　and　rose　to　his
  feet。　'If　you　doubt　me；　why…'　He　made　as　though　to　open　the　door。
  A　priest　could　not　lie。　Edwin　Bentham　had　heard　this　often；　and
  believed　it。　'Of　course　not；　Father；'　he　interposed　hurriedly。　'I
  was　only　wondering　where　my　wife　had　gone；　and　thought　maybe…　I
  guess　she's　up　at　Mrs。　Stanton's　on　French　Gulch。　Nice　weather；
  isn't　it？　Heard　the　news？　Flour's　gone　down　to　forty　dollars　a
  hundred；　and　they　say　the　che…cha…quas　are　flocking　down　the　river
  in　droves。　But　I　must　be　going；　so　good…by。'
  The　door　slammed；　and　from　the　window　they　watched　him　take　his
  quest　up　French　Gulch。
  A　few　weeks　later；　just　after　the　June　high…water；　two　men　shot　a
  canoe　into　mid…stream　and　made　fast　to　a　derelict　pine。　This　tightened
  the　painter　and　jerked　the　frail　craft　along　as　would　a　tow…boat。
  Father　Roubeau　had　been　directed　to　leave　the　Upper　Country　and　return
  to　his　swarthy　children　at　Minook。　The　white　men　had　come　among
  them；　and　they　were　devoting　too　little　time　to　fishing；　and　too
  much　to　a　certain　deity　whose　transient　habitat　was　in　countless　black
  bottles。　Malemute　Kid　also　had　business　in　the　Lower　Country；　so
  they　journeyed　together。
  But　one；　in　all　the　Northland；　knew　the　man　Paul　Roubeau；　and　that
  man　was　Malemute　Kid。　Before　him　alone　did　the　priest　cast　off　the
  sacerdotal　garb　and　stand　naked。　And　why　not？　These　two　men　knew
  each　other。　Had　they　not　shared　the　last　morsel　of　fish；　the　last
  pinch　of　tobacco；　the　last　and　inmost　thought；　on　the　barren　stretches
  of　Bering　Sea；　in　the　heartbreaking　mazes　of　the　Great　Delta；　on　the
  terrible　winter　journey　from　Point　Barrow　to　the　Porcupine？
  Father　Roubeau　puffed　heavily　at　his　trail…worn　pipe；　and　gazed　on
  the　red…disked　sun；　poised　somberly　on　the　edge　of　the　northern
  horizon。　Malemute　Kid　wound　up　his　watch。　It　was　midnight。
  'Cheer　up；　old　man！'　The　Kid　was　evidently　gathering　up　a　broken
  thread。　'God　surely　will　forgive　such　a　lie。　Let　me　give　you　the
  word　of　a　man　who　strikes　a　true　note：
  If　She　have　spoken　a　word；　remember　thy　lips　are　sealed；
  And　the　brand　of　the　Dog　is　upon　him　by　whom　is　the　secret
  revealed。
  If　there　be　trouble　to　Herward；　and　a　lie　of　the　blackest　can
  clear；
  Lie；　while　thy　lips　can　move　or　a　man　is　alive　to　hear。'
  Father　Roubeau　removed　his　pipe　and　reflected。　'The　man　speaks　true；
  but　my　soul　is　not　vexed　with　that。　The　lie　and　the　penance　stand　with
  God；　but…　but…'
  'What　then？　Your　hands　are　clean。'
  'Not　so。　Kid；　I　have　thought　much；　and　yet　the　thing　remains。　I
  knew；　and　made　her　go　back。'
  The　clear　note　of　a　robin　rang　out　from　the　wooden　bank；　a　partridge
  drummed　the　call　in　the　distance；　a　moose　lunged　noisily　in　the
  eddy；　but　the　twain　smoked　on　in　silence。