"It is the floating population,--the here-to-day-and-away-to-morrow people who should not be given credit. And,--Mr. Bremner, if you desire to act in kindness to the men themselves, do not allow the loggers, who come in here, to run up bills for themselves personally. Not that they are more dishonest than other people,--far from it. I find it generally the other way round,--but they are notoriously improvident; inclined,--God bless them,--to live for the fleeting moment. "In many ways they are like children in their simplicity and their waywardness,--and their lot is not one of roses and honeysuckle. They make good money and can afford to pay as they go. If they cannot pay, they can easily wait for what they want until they can, for they are well fed and well housed while in the camps." We sat down at the table together. "There is a list, George. May I call you George? It is so much more friendly." I nodded in hearty approval. "It is not by any means complete, but it contains the principal people among your near-hand neighbours. You can trust them to pay their last cent: Neil Andrews, Semple, Smith, Johannson, Doolan, MacAllister and Gourlay. "Any others who may call,--make them pay; and I shall be glad to inform you about them when I am this way again." "How often do you come in here, Mr. Auld?" "I try to make it, at least, once in two weeks, but I am not always successful. I like to visit Jake Meaghan. Poor, old, faithful, plodding Jake,--how I tried, at first, to extract the thorn from his flesh--the accursed drink! I talked to him, I scolded him, I threatened him, but,--poor Jake,--he and his whisky are one, and nothing but death will ever separate them." Suddenly his face lit up and his eyes seemed to catch fire. "And who are we to judge?" he said, as if denying some inward question. "What right have we to think for a moment that this inherent weakness shall deprive Jake Meaghan of eternal happiness? He is honest; he does good in his own little sphere; he harms no one but himself, for he hasn't a dependent in the world. He fills a niche in God's plan; he is still God's child, no matter how erring he may be. He is some mother's son. George,--I am fully persuaded that my God, and your God, will not be hard on old Jake when his time comes; and, do you know, sometimes I think that time is not very far off." We sat silent for a while, then the minister spoke again: "Tell me, George,--have you met any of your neighbours yet?" "Only two," I said, "Jake, and Rita Clark." He raised his white, bushy eyebrows. "So you have met Rita! She's a strange child; harboured in a strange home." He sighed at some passing thought.