It was a fact that Mr. Stagg found himself talking with Chet more than he ever had before. The boy was lonely, and the man found a spark of interest in his heart for him that he had never previously discovered.

He began to probe into his young employee's thoughts, to learn something of his outlook on life; perhaps, even, he got some inkling of Chet's ambition.

That week the ice went entirely out of the cove. Spring was at hand, with its muddy roads, blue skies, sweeter airs, soft rains, and a general revivifying feeling.

Aunty Rose declared that Carolyn May began at once to "perk up." Perhaps the cold, long winter had been hard for the child to bear. At least, being able to run out of doors without stopping to bundle up was a delight.

One day the little girl had a more than ordinarily hard school task to perform. Everything did not come easy to Carolyn May, "by any manner of means," as Aunty Rose would have said. Composition writing was her bane, and Miss Minnie had instructed all Carolyn May's cla.s.s to bring in a written exercise the next morning. The little girl wandered over to the churchyard with her slate and pencil-and Prince, of course-to try to achieve the composition.

The earth was dry and warm and the gra.s.s was springing freshly. A soft wind blew from the south and brought with it the scent of growing things.

The windows of the minister's study overlooked this spot, and he was sitting at his desk while Carolyn May was laboriously writing the words on her slate (having learned to use a slate) which she expected later to copy into her composition book.

The Reverend Afton Driggs watched her puzzled face and labouring fingers for some moments before calling out of the window to her. Several sheets of sermon paper lay before him on the desk, and perhaps he was having almost as hard a time putting on the paper what he desired to say as Carolyn May was having with her writing.

Finally, he came to the window and spoke to her.

"Carolyn May," he said, "what are you writing?"

"Oh, Mr. Driggs, is that you?" said the little girl, getting up quickly and coming nearer. "Did you ever have to write a composition?"

"Yes, Carolyn May, I have to write one or two each week." And he sighed.

"Oh yes! So you do!" the little girl agreed. "You have to write sermons.

And that must be a terribly tedious thing to do, for they have to be longer than my composition-a great deal longer."

"So it is a composition that is troubling you," the minister remarked.

"Yes, sir. I don't know what to write-I really don't. Miss Minnie says for us not to try any flights of fancy. I don't just know what those are. But she says, write what is in us. Now, _that_ don't seem like a composition," added Carolyn May doubtfully.

"What doesn't?"

"Why, writing what is in us," explained the little girl, staring in a puzzled fashion at her slate, on which she had written several lines.

"You see, I have written down all the things that I 'member is in me."

"For pity's sake! let me see it, child," said the minister, quickly reaching down for the slate. When he brought it to a level with his eyes he was amazed by the following:

"In me there is my heart, my liver, my lungs, my verform pend.i.c.ks, my stummick, two ginger cookies, a piece of pepmint candy, and my dinner."

"For pity's sake!" Mr. Driggs shut off this explosion by a sudden cough.

"I guess it isn't much of a composition, Mr. Driggs," Carolyn May said frankly. "But how can you make your inwards be pleasant reading?"

The minister was having no little difficulty in restraining his mirth.

"Go around to the door, Carolyn May, and ask Mrs. Driggs to let you in.

Perhaps I can help you in this composition writing."

"Oh, _will_ you, Mr. Driggs?" cried the little girl. "That is awful kind of you."

The minister must have confided in his wife before she came to the door to let Carolyn May in, for she was laughing heartily.

"You funny little thing!" cried Mrs. Driggs, catching her up in her arms. "Mr. Driggs says he is waiting for you-and this sermon day, too!

Go into his study."

The clergyman did not seem to mind neglecting his task for the pleasure of helping Carolyn May with hers. Be explained quite clearly just what Miss Minnie meant by "writing what is in you."

"Oh! It's what you think about a thing yourself-not what other folks think," cried Carolyn May. "Why, I can do that. I thought it was something like those physerology lessons. Then I can write about anything I want to, can't I?"

"I think so," replied the minister.

"I'm awfully obliged to you, Mr. Driggs," the little girl said. "I wish I might do something for you in return."

"Help me with my sermon, perhaps?" he asked, smiling.

"I would if I could, Mr. Driggs." Carolyn May was very earnest.

"Well, now, Carolyn May, how would you go about writing a sermon, if you had one to write?"

"Oh, Mr. Driggs!" exclaimed the little girl, clasping her hands. "I know just how I'd do it."

"You do? Tell me how, then, my dear," he returned, smiling. "Perhaps you have an inspiration for writing sermons that I have never yet found."

"Why, Mr. Driggs, I'd try to write every word so's to make folks that heard it happier. That's what I'd do. I'd make 'em _look up_ and see the sunshine and the sky-and the mountains, 'way off yonder-so they'd see nothing but bright things and breathe only good air and hear birds sing-Oh, dear me, _that_-that is the way I'd write a sermon."

The clergyman's face had grown grave as he listened to her, but he kissed her warmly as he thanked her and bade her good-bye. When she had gone from the study he read again the text written at the top of the first sheet of sermon paper. It was taken from the book of the Prophet Jeremiah.

"'To write every word so's to make folks that heard it happier,'" he murmured as he crumpled the sheet of paper in his hand and dropped it in the waste-basket.

CHAPTER XXIV-THE AWAKENING

With the opening of spring and the close of the sledding season, work had stopped at Adams' camp. Rather, the entire plant had been shipped twenty miles deeper into the forest-mill, bunk-house, cook-shed, and such corrugated-iron shacks as were worth carting away.

All that was left on the site of the busy camp were huge heaps of sawdust, piles of slabs, discarded timbers, and the half-burned bricks into which had been built the portable boiler and engine.

And old Judy Mason. She was not considered worth moving to the new site of the camp. She was bedridden with rheumatism. This was the report Tim, the hackman, had brought in.

The old woman's husband had gone with the outfit to the new camp, for he could not afford to give up his work. Judy had not been so bad when the camp was broken up, but when Tim went over for a load of slabs for summer firewood, he discovered her quite helpless in her bunk and almost starving. The rheumatic attack had become serious.

Amanda Parlow had at once ridden over with Dr. Nugent. Then she had come home for her bag and had insisted on the carpenter's driving her back to the abandoned camp, proposing to stay with Judy till the old woman was better.

Aunty Rose had one comment to make upon it, and Carolyn May another. Mr.

Stagg's housekeeper said:

"That is just like a parcel of men folks-leaving an old woman to look out for herself. Disgraceful! And Amanda Parlow will not even be thanked for what she does."