be found in the Appendix, p. 490.] Pere Lacombe made a touching impromptu reply, which was greatly appreciated.  Many of us were not of the worthy Father’s communion, yet there was but one feeling, that of deep respect for the labours of this celebrated missionary, whose life had been a continuous effort to help the unbefriended Indian into the new but inevitable paths of self-support, and to shield him from the rapacity of the cold incoming world now surging around him.  After the presentation, over a good cigar, the Father told some inimitable stories of Indian life on the plains in the old days, which to my great regret are too lengthy for inclusion here.  One incident, however, being apropos of himself, must find place.  Turning the conversation from materialism, idealism, and the other “isms” into which it had drifted, he spoke of the fears so many have of ghosts, and even of a corpse, and confessed that, from early training, he had shared this fear until he got rid of it in an incident one winter at Lac Ste. Anne.  He had been sent for during the night to administer extreme unction to a dying half-breed girl thirteen miles away.  Hitching his dogs to their sled he sped on, but too late, for he was met on the trail by the girl’s relatives, bringing her dead body wrapped in a buffalo skin, and which they asked him to take back with him and place in his chapel pending service.  He tremblingly assented, and the body was duly tied to his sled, the relatives returning to their homes.  He was alone with the corpse in the dense and dark forest, and felt the old dread, but reflecting on his office and its duties, he ran for a long distance behind the sled until, thoroughly tired, he stepped on it to rest.  In doing this he slipped and fell upon the corpse in a spasm of fear, which, strange to say, when he recovered from it, he felt no more.  The shock cured him, and, reaching home, he placed the girl’s body in the chapel with his own hands.  It reminded him, he said, of a Community at Marseilles whose Superior had died, but whose money was missing.  The new Superior sent a young priest who had a great dread of ghosts down to the crypt below the church to open the coffin and search the pockets of the dead.  He did so, and found the money; but in nailing on the coffin lid again, a part of his soutane was fastened down with it.  The priest turned to go, advanced a step, and, being suddenly held, dropped dead with fright.  These gruesome stories were happily followed by an hour or two of song and pleasantry in Mr. McKenna’s tent, ending in “Auld Lang Syne” and “God Save the Queen.”  It was a unique occasion in which to wind up so laborious a day; and our camp itself was unique—­on a lofty bluff overlooking the confluence of the Saulteau River with the Lesser Slave—­a bold and beautiful spot, the woods at the angle of the two rivers, down to the water’s edge, showing like a gigantic V, as clean-cut as if done by a pair of colossal shears.