The other day I had occasion to make a long and tedious journey across the snow-covered, frost-bound prairie. There was no wind to speak of; the air, though keen, was not too cold for comfort; my sleigh was well equipped, my horses strong and willing; my Jehu, a French Canadian, could speak very little English, and my French was very rusty; and so as conversation was denied me, I lay back among the fur robes, and fell into a reverie. On the previous evening I had been in the company of a very dear friend, the Rev. Harold Courtney, one of the most devoted and enthusiastic clergymen in the great Northwest. In the course of conversation he happened to remark; “I have often wondered, Gray, what led you, the son of Presbyterian parents, to become an Anglican. You are not the sort of man that would act in a matter like this without the strongest convictions. How did it all come about?” “Well, Courtney, it is too long a story to tell to-night. You are right, however, in supposing that I could not have made the change without being fully convinced of the superior claims of the Anglican branch of the Church. It took me a long time to unlearn what had been so carefully taught me in my younger days, and to see the defects of the system in which I had been reared. It meant the severing of many associations that were very dear to me. Some day, perhaps, I’ll tell you the whole story.” Doubtless it was the memory of this chat that set my wits awandering, and called up before my mental vision scenes and incidents of long ago that had made lasting impressions upon my impressionable nature. How vividly I could realize those scenes: I can see them clearly still. Let me tell you all I saw as I dozed in my sleigh that fine January day.