At first David had felt a slight desire to laugh at the Cree’s odd chanting and the grotesque movement of his hands and arms, like two pump handles in slow and rhythmic action, as he kept time.  This desire did not come to him again during the day.  He remembered, long years ago, hearing his mother sing those old hymns in his boyhood home.  He could see the ancient melodeon with its yellow keys, and the ragged hymn book his mother had prized next to her Bible; and he could hear again her sweet, quavering voice sing those gentle songs, like unforgettable benedictions—­the same songs that Mukoki and the Missioner were chanting now, up here, a thousand miles away.  That was a long time ago—­a very, very long time ago.  She had been dead many years.  And he—­he must be growing old.  Thirty-eight!  And he was nine then, with slender legs and tousled hair, and a worship for his mother that had mellowed and perhaps saddened his whole life.  It was a long time ago.  But the songs had lived.  They must be known over the whole world—­those songs his mother used to sing.  He began to join in where he could catch the tunes, and his voice sounded strange and broken and unreal to him, for it was a long time since those boyhood days, and he had not lifted it in song since he had sung then—­with his mother.

* * * * *

It was growing dusk when they came to the Missioner’s home on God’s Lake.  It was almost a chateau, David thought when he first saw it, built of massive logs.  Beyond it there was a smaller building, also built of logs, and toward this Mukoki hurried with the dogs and the sledge.  He heard the welcoming cries of Mukoki’s family and the excited barking of dogs as he followed Father Roland into the big cabin.  It was lighted, and warm.  Evidently some one had been keeping it in readiness for the Missioner’s return.  They entered into a big room, and in his first glance David saw three doors leading from this room:  two of them were open, the third was closed.  There was something very like a sobbing note in Father Roland’s voice as he opened his arms wide, and said to David: 

“Home, David—­your home!”

He took off his things—­his coat, his cap, his moccasins, and his thick German socks—­and when he again spoke to David and looked at him, his eyes had in them a mysterious light and his words trembled with suppressed emotion.

“You will forgive me, David—­you will forgive me a weakness, and make yourself at home—­while I go alone for a few minutes into ... that ... room?”

He rose from the chair on which he had seated himself to strip off his moccasins and faced the closed door.  He seemed to forget David after he had spoken.  He went to it slowly, his breath coming quickly, and when he reached it he drew a heavy key from his pocket.  He unlocked the door.  It was dark inside, and David could see nothing as the Missioner entered.  For many minutes he sat where Father Roland had left him, staring at the door.