“Yes, I have wondered, sometimes,” confessed Wayland.  “I could not just reconcile you with the poverty-stricken, down-in-the-mouth—­”

“Don’t say ‘poverty-stricken’, Wayland!  A’m . . . rich.  A’ve never known want!  God has taken care of me since A put it squarely up to Him!  A’ve my wife!  A’ve my children!  A’ve my ranch; an’ my ranch pays for the school!  A’ve never known want!  Why, man, thirty dollars a year is more than A need for m’ clothes!  A’m rich!  What wud A be doin’ goin’ among a lot o’ kiddie boys t’ study Hebrew when A know the language o’ the man on the street; an’ A know God?  ’Twas the bishop’s idea t’ have me come t’ College at forty years o’ age an’ potter t’ A-B-C an’ white collar an’ clerics buttoned up the back an’ a’ the rest.”  The old frontiersman laughed.  “Poh!  What for wud A waste m’ years doin’ that?  A’d wasted forty servin’ the Devil.  A’d no more years t’ waste.  A must be up, up, up an’ doin’, Wayland, the way y’r up an’ doin’, for the Nation.  A’d earned m’ livin’ when A served th’ Devil!  A would earn m’ livin’ when A served God; an’ as A spoke th’ Cree, A tackled them first; an’ now we’re buildin’ our hospital.

“How did it happen, y’ ask?” The old frontiersman sat down on a log.  “God knows!  A don’t!  A can no more tell y’, Wayland, what happened t’ me, than y’ cud tell a man what comin’ off th’ Desert an’ bathin’ in a cool mountain stream was like; no more than y’ cud tell what happened t’ y’, when y’ first looked in her eyes an’ read, love!  God, man, it was love!  That’s what happened t’ me!  A all of a sudden got t’ see what life meant when ye bathed in love.  God looked into m’ eyes, Wayland, that was it!  An’ all th’ dirt o’ me shrivelled up an’ th’ mud in m’ manhood, way yours did when y’ looked in her eyes!  A needed washin’, Wayland, that was it, an’ then A saw Him on the Cross as y’ see that—­yon Cross there in the sky.  ‘Sense o’ sin!’ Man alive, A’d never heard them words till that night.”

“What night?” asked Wayland, quietly.

“Oh, ‘twas a hot night, Wayland, my boy; an’ hot for more reasons than one.  Th’ tin horns an’ the plugs an’ the toots had come up t’ our construction camp, an’ of a Monday mornin’ after Sunday’s spree, y’ cud count fifty dead navvies, Chinks an’ Japs an’ dagoes, washed down th’ river after gamblers’ fights an’ chucked up in the sands o’ Kickin’ Horse!  Well, a lot o’ big fellows o’ th’ railway company had come thro’ that day on the first train.  There was Strathcona, who was plain Donald Smith in them days, an’ Van Horn, who was manager, an’ Ross, who was contractor!  A’d been workin’ m’ crews on the high span bridge, there,—­y’ don’t know,—­well no matter, ’tis the highest in the Rockies an’ dangerous from a curve!  A didn’t want that train load o’ directors to risk crossin’:  wasn’t safe!  M’ crew hadn’t one main girder placed; but Ross was a headstrong dour man; an’ Smith—­Smith wud a’