in the shadow of a club, but like a thing tamed into slavery by a yearning adoration.  It was a fact that seized upon David with a peculiar hold.  It built up between them—­between this down-and-out beast and a man fighting to find himself—­a comradeship which perhaps only the man and the beast could understand.  Even as he devoured the fish Baree kept his one eye on David, as though fearing he might lose him again if he allowed his gaze to falter for an instant.  The truculency and the menace of that eye were gone.  It was still bloodshot, still burned with a reddish fire, and a great pity swept through David, as he thought of the blows the club must have given.  He noticed, then, that Baree was making efforts to open the other eye; he saw the swollen lid flutter, the muscle twitch.  Impulsively he put out a hand.  It fell unflinchingly on Baree’s head, and in an instant the crunching of the dog’s jaw had ceased, and he lay as if dead.  David bent nearer.  With the thumb and forefinger of his other hand he gently lifted the swollen lid.  It caused a hurt.  Baree whined softly.  His great body trembled.  His ivory fangs clicked like the teeth of a man with ague.  To his wolfish soul, trembling in a body that had been condemned, beaten, clubbed almost to the door of death, that hurt caused by David’s fingers was a caress.  He understood.  He saw with a vision that was keener than sight.  Faith was born in him, and burned like a conflagration.  His head dropped to the snow; a great, gasping sigh ran through him, and his trembling ceased.  His good eye closed slowly as David gently and persistently massaged the muscles of the other with his thumb and forefinger.  When at last he rose to his feet and returned to the cabin, Baree followed him to the edge of the clearing.

Mukoki and the Missioner had made their beds of balsam boughs, two on the floor and one in the bunk, and the Cree had already rolled himself in his blanket when David entered the shack.  Father Roland was wiping David’s gun.

“We’ll give you a little practice with this to-morrow,” he promised.  “Do you suppose you can hit a moose?”

“I have my doubts, mon Pere.”

Father Roland gave vent to his curious chuckle.

“I have promised to make a marksman of you in exchange for your—­your trouble in teaching me how to use the gloves,” he said, polishing furiously.  There was a twinkle in his eyes, as if a moment before he had been laughing to himself.  The gloves were on the table.  He had been examining them again, and David found himself smiling at the childlike and eager interest he had taken in them.  Suddenly Father Roland rubbed still a little faster, and said: 

“If you can’t hit a moose with a bullet you surely can hit me with these gloves—­eh?”

“Yes, quite positively.  But I shall be merciful if you, in turn, show some charity in teaching me how to shoot.”

The Little Missioner finished his polishing, set the rifle against the wall, and took the gloves in his hands.