Keith gave a little laugh. "What you say is quite true," he replied, "but it's been so long since I preached to white people that I'm afraid I'll make a mess of it. My addresses to the Indians have always been in their own language, and very simple."

"That's all right, laddie. Give us some of the old prayers from the Prayer Book, sich as 'Lighten Our Darkness,' ye can't beat them. Then about yer preachin': Give it to us red hot from the heart; that's what we want here. Trimmin's, an' fixin's, an' flowers, an' poetry, are all right, I suppose, fer some places, whar they live on sich things. But we want straight shot that'll reach the heart, and help us up the shinin' way. An' ye kin do it, lad; the stuff's thar, so let's have it. I'll round up the b'ys, an' they'll come."

And so it was settled that the service should be held. Keith then threw himself upon the rude bunk, and, wearied out, was soon fast asleep. Late in the day he awoke and made preparations for the evening. He visited his patient, and found him progressing as well as possible, though still possessing the vacant look in his face.

Constance he did not see, as she was taking a much-needed rest, while one of the prospectors was watching by her father's side.

Early in the evening the men of Siwash Creek began to arrive at Pete's cabin. They drifted in, one by one, and sat around smoking and chatting. Some did not even remove their hats, and maintained an air of indifference and lofty superiority. They had not much use for such things, so they told themselves, but, as no other diversion offered, they might as well take in what was going on.

When Keith at length stood up to begin the service, about fifteen men were gathered round him. Before he could say a word, however, Pete came close to his side.

"Whar's the la.s.sie?" he whispered. "She should be here."

Keith had noticed her absence, and wondered, for she had promised to be present.

"Perhaps she is watching her father," he replied. "That must be the reason why she is not here."

Pete at once crossed to where Alec McPherson was sitting. A short whispered conversation ensued, after which both men started for the door.

"Don't begin till I come back," said Pete, as he left the building.

Constance was sitting quietly near her father when the two prospectors arrived. She was thinking hard, and the small handkerchief which lay in her lap was moist with tears. It had been a strange, lonely Christmas Day for her. She remembered the old times when they were all together in their snug little home in Vancouver. What a contrast to her present dreary surroundings! Then, her father was so happy, and Kenneth, the life of the house, was at his best. How her father had changed in such a short time, and the poor boy, she wondered where and how he was spending his Christmas.

She was feeling weary, too, as she sat there, for the excitement of the past night was telling upon her. The flush had left her cheeks, leaving her pale and wan. She felt somewhat troubled about having confided her story to an almost entire stranger. Would her father have approved of such a thing? But then it had lifted a load from her mind; she had shared her burden with another, and it was not so hard to bear.

Besides, she was sure she could trust that big, rough man, who looked at her with such sympathetic eyes.

"Ye'll come to sarvice, la.s.sie, won't ye?" Pete asked, when Constance had opened the door.

"Y-yes," she answered half doubtfully, looking at her father. "I'd like to go, but I can't leave him here alone."

"I'll see to yer father, miss," replied Alec, "sae ye gang along."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. McPherson, but I'm half afraid to go, as I will be the only woman there."

"The greater reason fer ye to come, la.s.sie," broke in Pete. "It isn't every day the b'ys have a woman among them, an' I think yer presence'll soften 'em up a bit, an' make'm think of their mothers, sisters, an'

sweethearts. An' then, ye'll sing some, won't ye?" he continued in a pleading manner.

"Why, how do you know I _can_ sing?" asked Constance, while some of the old colour rushed back to her cheeks.

"Know? How could I help a-knowin'? Haven't I stood at my own cabin door, night after night, an' sometimes in the marnin', too, a-listenin'

to yer singin', remindin' me of a sweet canary bird penned up in a gloomy cage. An' didn't one of the young fellers up yon freeze his toes one night sittin' on the stump of a tree when ye was warblin'

'Annie Laurie'? I ain't got much use fer them newcomers, but to-day bein' Christmas, I feel kinder warm towards'm, an' would like fer'm ter hear ye sing a bit. It 'ud do'm a mighty lot of good."

Constance laughed. She was feeling better already. "Well, I'll go then," she a.s.sented, "if you will promise to look after me."

"I'll see to that," responded Pete, delighted with his success. "I'll stand off any one, even the angel Gabriel himself, except one thing."

"And what's that?"

"It's love," solemnly answered the old man. "It's the cutest, wiriest thing a man kin run aginst. It's so mighty powerful that it'll make the strongest an' biggest chap as weak as a baby, an' the smallest woman as strong as a giant. I can't savvy it, nohow."

"I guess you will have no trouble about such an opponent to-night,"

laughed Constance, as she drew on her mittens.

"Mebbe not, la.s.sie; but we'll see."

The service was short and the strangest that Constance had ever witnessed. Accustomed, as she was, to the familiar and dignified form of the Church of England, this appeared harsh, and at times almost ludicrous. Keith led off with the opening hymn of "Nearer, My G.o.d, to Thee," in a clear, strong, tenor voice, trusting to his memory for the words. He was followed by the others, those who knew the hymn giving him much a.s.sistance. There were a few, however, who persisted in swinging off on tunes of their own composition.

"Stop yer yelpin'," said a miner to one of these vagrant singers. "Yer spilin' the show."

But the other heeded not, and with head thrown back against the wall, and brawny chest expanded, almost drowned the rest of the voices by his marvellous roars.

"My, that's fine!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. "I ain't heard such singing since I left the Caribou country."

"And no one else," contemptuously remarked his companion. "But say, duck yer head, the parson's prayin'."

Interested though Constance was in watching the miners, her attention was centred chiefly on the missionary. She hardly knew him at first, so much had he been transformed by Old Pete's scissors and razor. The long hair had been neatly trimmed, and the unkempt beard removed, exposing a face, almost youthful in appearance, but full of determination and strength of character. It was when the prayers had been said, the second hymn sung, and he had begun his address, that her interest became thoroughly aroused.

His subject was peace, and, after referring to the Great Prince of Peace, whose birth they were commemorating, he pa.s.sed on to speak about the peace of life. As he described a vessel beating her way through a furious storm, while the cruel waves dealt her mighty sledge-hammer blows, she noticed how stern became his face, while a bright light gleamed in his eye. But as he spoke about the peace of the harbour, with the storm shut out, and the light of home shining clearly ahead, his features softened.

"He's livin' it fer sure," remarked Bill Towser, to a miner at his side, when Keith had finished.

"Y' bet," came the response.

"An' did ye notice the power on him when he told about that ship?"

"Yep."

"Well, I tell ye it moved me mighty. I allus said thar's more inside a man than lights an' liver, an' now I know it fer sure. h.e.l.lo! what in blazes is this?" he continued, looking suddenly up. "A fiddle! well, I'll be blowed! an' the parson's tunin' up!"

"Ye'll sing it, la.s.sie, won't ye?" whispered Pete to Constance, when Keith had played over the air of "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."

"I'll help," she replied in an abstracted manner.

From the moment when Pete had brought forth the violin and handed it to Keith for the last hymn, she had not taken her eyes off of the instrument. It fascinated her, and brought back a flood of memory.

She sang almost mechanically the first verse, and had begun the second.

"Mild He lays His glory by, Born that man no more may die, Born----"

Snap! went one of the strings, and the singing suddenly stopped. Keith moved close to the table and endeavored to repair the damage. As he did so the light fell upon a bright piece of metal. Constance saw it, and, with a cry, she rushed forward, and, stooping down, gazed earnestly at the small, letters engraved thereon. Then she looked around the room, as if seeking for some special person.

In her eyes was an expression which the men never forgot, and which formed the topic of conversation for nights afterward.

"When she looked at me with those beseeching eyes of hers," said one husky fellow, "I felt that I had done something wrong, and I wanted to drop right through the floor, that's what I did."

"Well, I tell you I didn't," replied the young chap whose feet had been frozen, "I just longed to be her brother, that was the way I felt."

"Wanted to be her brother!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the other. "And what for? Ye didn't think those pretty arms would encircle yer scrawny neck, did ye, or her sweet lips touch yer rough face?"