holding　her　hand　as　they　sat。　　Then　with　swift　change　of　scene　he　saw　a　queer；　rude；　wooden　church　in　the　raw　frontier　town　in　the　new　land；　and　in　the　church　himself；　his　brother；　and　between　them；　a　fair；　slim　girl；　whose　face　and　voice　as　she　sang　made　him　forget　all　else　in　heaven　and　on　earth。　　The　tides　of　memory　rolled　in　upon　his　soul；　and　with　them　strangely　mingled　the　swelling　springs　rising　from　this　scene　before　him；　with　its　marvellous　setting　of　sky　and　woods　and　river。　　No　wonder　he　sat　voiceless　and　without　power　to　move。
  All　this　Brown　could　not　know；　but　he　had　that　instinct　born　of　keen　sympathy　that　is　so　much　better　than　knowing。　　He　sat　silent　and　waited。　　French　turned　to　the　index；　found　a　hymn；　and　passed　it　over　to　Brown。
  〃Know　that？〃　he　asked；　clearing　his　throat。
  〃'For　all　thy　saints'？　　Well；　rather；〃　said　Brown。　　〃Here；　Kalman；〃　passing　it　to　the　boy；　〃can　you　sing　this？〃
  〃I　have　heard　it；〃　said　Kalman。
  〃This　is　a　favourite　of　yours；　French？〃　enquired　Brown。
  〃Yesbutit　was　my　brother's　hymn。　　Fifteen　years　ago　I　heard　him　sing　it。〃
  Brown　waited；　evidently　wishing　but　unwilling　to　ask　a　question。
  〃He　died；〃　said　French　softly；　〃fifteen　years　ago。〃
  〃Try　it；　Kalman；〃　said　French。
  〃Let　me　hear　it；〃　said　the　boy。
  〃Oh；　never　mind；〃　said　French　hastily。　　〃I　don't　care　about　having　it　rehearsed　now。〃
  〃Sing　it　to　me；〃　said　Kalman。
  Brown　sang　the　first　verse。　　The　boy　listened　intently。　　〃Yes；　I　can　sing　it；〃　he　said　eagerly。　　In　the　second　verse　he　joined；　and　with　more　confidence　in　the　third。
  〃There　now；〃　said　Brown；　〃I　only　spoil　it。　　You　sing　the　rest。　　Can　you？〃
  〃I'll　try。〃
  Without　pause　or　faltering　Kalman　sang　the　next　two　verses。　　But　there　was　not　the　same　subtle　spiritual　interpretation。　　He　was　occupied　with　the　music。　　French　was　evidently　disappointed。
  〃Thank　you；　Kalman；〃　he　said；　〃let　it　go　at　that。〃
  〃No；〃　said　Brown；　〃let　me　read　it　to　you；　Kalman。　　You　are　not　singing　the　words；　you　are　singing　the　notes。　　Now　listen；
  'The　golden　evening　brightens　in　the　west；　　　　　　　Soon；　soon；　to　faithful　warriors　comes　their　rest；　　　　　　　Sweet　is　the　calm　of　Paradise　the　blest。　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Hallelujah！'
  There　it　is。　　Do　you　see　it？〃
  The　boy　nodded。
  〃Now　then；　sing；〃　said　Brown。
  With　face　aglow　and　uplifted　to　the　western　sky　the　boy　sang；　gaining　confidence　with　every　word；　till　he　himself　caught　and　pictured　to　the　others　the　vision　of　that　〃golden　evening。〃　　When　he　came　to　the　last　verse；　Brown　stopped　him。
  〃Wait；　Kalman；〃　he　said。　　〃Let　me　read　that　for　you。　　Or　better；　you　read　it；〃　he　said；　passing　French　the　book。
  French　took　the　book；　paused；　made　as　if　to　give　it　back；　then；　as　if　ashamed　of　his　hesitation；　began　to　read　in　a　voice　quiet　and　thrilling　the　words　of　immortal　vision。
  〃From　earth's　wide　bounds；　from　ocean's　farthest　coast；　　　　　　　Through　gates　of　pearl　streams　in　the　countless　host。〃
  But　before　the　close　his　voice　shook；　and　ended　in　a　husky　whisper。　Touched　by　the　strong　man's　emotion；　the　boy　began　the　verse　in　tones　that　faltered。　　But　as　he　went　on　his　voice　came　to　him　again；　and　with　a　deeper；　fuller　note　he　sang　the；　great　words；
  〃Singing　to　Father；　Son；　and　Holy　Ghost；　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Hallelujah！〃
  With　the　spell　of　the　song　still　upon　them　Brown　prayed　in　words　simple；　reverent；　and　honest；　with　a　child's　confidence；　as　if　speaking　to　one　he　knew　well。　　Around　the　open　glade　with　its　three　worshippers　breathed　the　silent　night；　above　it　shone　the　stars；　the　mysterious　stars；　but　nearer　than　night；　and　nearer　than　the　stars；　seemed　God；　listening　and　aware。
  Through　all　his　after　years　Kalman　would　look　back　to　that　night　as　the　night　on　which　God　first　became　to　him　something　other　than　a　name。　　And　to　French　that　evening　song　and　prayer　were　an　echo　from　those　dim　and　sacred　shrines　of　memory　where　dwelt　his　holiest　and　tenderest　thoughts。
  Next　day；　Black　Joe；　tired　of　freedom；　wandered　home；　to　the　great　joy　of　the　household。
  CHAPTER　XIV
  THE　BREAK
  〃Open　your　letter；　Irma。　　From　the　postmark；　it　is　surely　from　Kalman。　　And　what　good　writing　it　is！　　I　have　just　had　one　from　Jack。〃
  Mrs。　French　was　standing　in　the　cosy　kitchen　of　Simon　Ketzel's　house；　where；　ever　since　the　tragic　night　when　Kalman　had　been　so　nearly　done　to　death；　Irma；　with　Paulina　and　her　child；　had　found　a　refuge　and　a　home。　　Simon　had　not　forgotten　his　oath　to　his　brother；　Michael　Kalmar。
  Irma　stood；　letter　in　hand；　her　heart　in　a　tumult　of　joy；　not　because　it　was　the　first　letter　she　had　ever　received　in　her　life；　but　because　the　letter　was　from　Kalman。　　She　had　one　passion；　love　for　her　brother。　　For　him　she　held　a　strangely　mingled　affection　of　mother；　sister；　lover；　all　in　one。　　By　day　she　thought　of　him；　at　night　he　filled　her　dreams。　　She　had　learned　to　pray　by　praying　for　Kalman。
  〃Aren't　you　going　to　open　your　letter？〃　said　her　friend；　rejoicing　in　her　joy。
  〃Yes；〃　cried　the　girl；　and　ran　into　the　little　room　which　she　shared　with　Paulina　and　her　child。
  Once　in　that　retreat；　she　threw　herself　on　her　knees　by　the　bed；　put　the　letter　before　her；　and　pressed　her　lips　hard　upon　it；　her　tears　wetting　it　as　she　prayed　in　sheer　joy。　　It　was　just　sixteen　months；　one　week；　three　days；　and　nine　hours　since　she　had　watched；　through　a　mist　of　tears；　the　train　carrying　him　away　to　join　the　Macmillan　outfit　at　Portage　la　Prairie。　　Through　Jack　French's　letters　to　his　sister　she　had　been　kept　in　close　touch　with　her　brother；　but　this　was　his　first　letter　to　herself。
  How　she　laughed　and　wept　at　the　rude　construction　and　the　quaint　spelling；　for　the　letter　was　written　in　her　native　tongue。
  〃My　sister；　my　Irma；　my　beloved；〃　the　letter　ran。　　Irma　kissed　the　words　as　she　read　them。　　〃How　shall　I　ever　write　this　letter；　for　it　must　be　in　our　own　beloved　tongue？　　I　could　have　written　long　ago　in　English；　but　with　you　I　must　write　as　I　speak；　only　in　our　dear　mother's　and　father's　tongue。　　It　is　so　hard　to　remember　it；　for　everything　and　every　one　about　me　is　English；　English；　English。　The　hounds；　the　horses；　the　cattle　call　in　English；　the　very　wind　sounds　English；　and　I　am　beginning　not　only　to　speak；　but　to　think　and　feel　in　English；　except　when　I　think　of　you　and　of　our　dear　mother　and　father；　and　when　I　speak　with　old　Portnoff；　an　old　Russian　nihilist；　in　the　colony　near　here；　and　when　I　hear　him　tell　of　the　bad　old　days；　then　I　feel　and　breathe　Russian　again。　　But　Russia　and　all　that　old　Portnoff　talks　about　is　far　away　and　seems　like　a　dream　of　a　year　ago。　　It　is　old　Portnoff　who　taught　me　how　to　write　in　Russian。
  〃I　like　this　place；　and　oh！　I　like　Jack；　that　is；　Mr。　French；　my　master。　　He　told　me　to　call　him　Jack。　　He　is　so　big　and　strong；　so　kind　too；　never　loses　his　temper；　that　is；　never　loses　hold　of　himself　like　me；　but　even　when　he　is　angry；　speaks　quietly　and　always　smiles。　　One　day　Elluck；　the　Galician　man　that　works　here　sometimes；　struck　Blucher　with　a　heavy　stick　and　made　him　howl。　Jack　heard　him。　　'Bring　me　that　stick；　Elluck；'　he　said　quietly。　'Now；　Elluck；　who　strikes　my　dog；　strikes　me。'　　He　caught　him　by　the　collar　and　beat　him　until　Elluck　howled　louder　than　the　dog；　and　all　the　while　Jack　never　stopped　smiling。　　He　is　teaching　me　to　box；　as　he　says　that　no　gentleman　ever　uses　a　knife　or　a　club；　as　the　Galicians　do；　in　fighting；　and　you　know　that　when　they　get　beer　they　are　sure　to　fight；　and　if　they　use　a　knife　they　will　kill　some　one；　and　then　they　are　sorry。
  〃You　know　about　my　school。　　Jack　has　told　Mrs。　French。　　I　like　Mr。　Brown；　well；　next　to　Jack。　　He　is　a　good　man。　　I　wish　I　could　just　tell　you　how　good　and　how　clever　he　is。　　He　makes　people　to　work　for　him　in　a　wonderful　way。　　He　got　the　Galicians　to　build　his　house　for　him；　and　his　school　and　his　store。　　He　got　Jack　to　help　him　too。　　He　got　me　to　help　with　the　singing　in　the　school　every　day；　and　in　the　afternoon　on　Sundays　when　we　go　down　to　meeting。　He　is　a　Protestant；　but；　although　he　can　marry　the　people　and　baptise　and　say　prayers　when　they　desire　it；　I　do　not　think　he　is　a　priest；　for　he　will　take　no　money　for　what　he　does。　　Some　of　the　Galicians　say　he　will　make　them　all　pay　some　day；　but　Jack　just　laughs　at　this　and　says　they　are　a　suspicious　lot　of　fools。　　Mr。　Brown　is　going　to　build　a　mill　to　grind　flour　and　meal。　　He　brought　the　stones　from　an　old　Hudson's　Bay　Company　mill　up　the　river；　and　he　is　fixing　up　an　old　engine　from　a　sawmill　in　the　hills。　　I　think　he　wants　to　keep　the　people　from　going　to　the　Crossing；　where　they　get　beer　and　whiskey　and　get　drunk。　　He　is　teaching　me　everything　that　they　learn　in　the　English　schools；　and　he　gives　me　books　to　read。　　One　book　he　gave　me；　I　read　all　night。　　I　could　not　stop。　It　is　called　'Ivanhoe。'　　It　is　a　splendid　book。　　Perhaps　Mrs。　French　may　get　it　for　you。　　But　I　like　it　best　on　Sunday　afternoons；　for　then　we　sing；　Brown　and　Jack　and　the　Galician　children；　and　then　Brown　reads　the　Bible　and　prays。　　It　is　not　like　church　at　all。　There　is　no　crucifix；　no　candles；　no　pictures。　　It　is　too　much　like　every　day　to　be　like　church；　but　Brown　says　that　is　the　best　kind；　a　religion　for　every　day；　and　Jack；　too；　says　th