From that day Fraser felt himself entitled to turn into the Pine Croft drive when in the neighbourhood. And many an hour, happy and otherwise, did he spend with Gaspard, fighting out the metaphysics of the Calvinistic system in which he was a master, and with Paul over his music, for the minister was music mad. Nor did he fail to “deal faithfully” with Gaspard, to the good of the rancher’s soul. One result of Fraser’s visitations and “faithful dealing” was the loosening of Sleeman’s grip upon Gaspard’s life. It took but a very few visits to lay bare to the minister’s eye the tragedy of degeneration in Gaspard to whom in other and happier days Sleeman had been altogether detestable. “Go and see the man. He is lonely and sick and devil ridden,” he commanded the men of the valley, and they obeyed him. Under the humanising influence of genial friendliness Gaspard gradually came nearer to being himself again. So it came that here he was once more at church, to the great satisfaction of the whole body of his acquaintances of other days, but chiefly of his son, to whom this Sunday morning, this radiant birthday morning of his, was like a gift sent straight from the blue heaven above. On every side Gaspard was welcomed with more effusion than was common among the men of the valley. And the reason for this was that Donald Fraser had been setting before them in no uncertain manner their hypocrisy and Pharisaic self-righteousness in shunning a man who was a sinner differing from them only in this, that his sin happened to be known. Paul waited only to witness his father’s welcome, then slipped in to his old place at the piano, which served as an organ, to which Billy Bickford conducted him in semi-official state, for Billy was a church warden for the Anglican part of the congregation. In a moment or two, through the open windows there streamed out a rippling flow of joyous music. As the gay song of spring came rippling through the windows Sandy Campbell started forward with a word of indignant protest. “Haud ye fast a bit, man,” said John Carr, laying a big detaining hand upon the Highlander’s arm. “The laddie is just tuning a wee.” “Tuning? And iss that what you will be calling yon? I tell ye, John, I love the laddie and his music, but iss yon thing a suitable music for the house o’ God on the Lord’s day?” “Haud on a wee, Sandy man!” adjured his friend. “Gie the laddie time tae draw his breath.” “What’s that reel, Sandy?” inquired Tom Powers, cocking a critical ear toward the window. “Sounds a little like ’Tullochgorum’ to me. But I ain’t Scotch, though my mother was.” Sandy squirmed in the clutch of John Carr’s big hand, under the gibe. “No, that must be Lord Macdonald’s—di-del-di, di-del-um,” hummed Powers, tapping an ungodly foot in time with the music.