"We went back. Our old parishioners were delighted to see us; and soon we were hard at work again. Winter came on, and God gave us another little one. You may be sure he had a double welcome; but as the cold became intense, our little lamb showed signs of following his brothers. I tried to keep my wife's spirits up, while I went about my work dazed. At last the little fellow's eyes seemed so large for his face, and he would look at us so pitifully, that I would break down in spite of myself. "He died; and the ground was frozen over six feet deep, and we had to bury him in a deep snow-bank that nearly covered our little shanty. My wife would go out nights when she could hear the wolves howling, and stand with an old Paisley shawl over her head, while I was miles away preaching to a handful of settlers in a log cabin; and when I would return I would find her there keeping watch, and sometimes I would have hard work to get her into the house. Pardon these tears, my brother, but come they will." He need not have said it; my own were running, though my head was turned away. Yes, we weep, and hold on to our money, while brave men and women, with their little ones, suffer for the lack of it, and lay down their lives for those who come after them. How men and women can live in fine homes, and spend ten times as much on luxuries as they give to the Lord, and still sing they love his kingdom, is more than I can understand --except it be they don't mean what they sing. The first thing one notices after passing the great iron dock are the odd names on some of the signs. There is the "Golden Rule" livery stable, with its attendant saloon. On its left, quaintly linking the past with the present, is an old log house, built in past century style, with its logs hewn, tongued, and grooved, but used at present as a printing-office, with the latest style of presses. One can easily imagine the time when beside its huge fireplace the half-breed and the Indian squatted, smoked their pipes, and told their stories; for it is not four years since that was so. Outside, nailed to the logs, is a coon-skin, and underneath it the legend, "Hard Cider." From this primitive place issues the democratic _Free Press_. A little farther on, and we notice "Dr. ----, horse doctor and saloon keeper." A very few more steps brings us to the Home Saloon, the Mansion House, the Clarendon, and the Young Canadian. Besides these, there are twenty other saloons, with and without names; you will not be surprised when I tell you that, on my first visit here, I found a poor man had cut his throat after a heavy spree. The shame he felt at the thought of meeting wife and children (who were on their way, expecting to find a home) was too much for him, and hence suicide. So when wife and little ones arrived they found only a dying husband and father.