"Now you must remain in bed for a time in order to give it every chance," she said; "for if you go about with it inflammation may set in and you may lose it. Here is a book which you may read when the time seems long." He glanced at the title. "The Pilgrim's Progress," he said, giving a sly wink at one of his friends. "Shure an I'll be purty hard up for somethin' to do when I read the like o' that." "It is not so bad as it looks, Andrew," she said, good-naturedly, as she shook hands with him on leaving. Soon the messenger of mercy and healing was flying along the road to Paul Mousseau's shanty, where she found poor old Paul at the gate in tears. "What is the matter, Mousseau?" she said, as she tied her pony to a tree. "_Le charbon_, Madame, le charbon; ma bonne femme, I fear she no get well again." The charbon was a disease which afflicted many of the French settlers in Canada at that time. A small black spot would appear on the body, resembling a piece of charcoal, which soon spread until the whole body was affected. The only remedy known was to cut out the affected part as soon as it appeared. It was supposed that it was contracted through skinning and eating the flesh of cadaverous animals. Paul's shanty contained one large, low, common room or kitchen with two windows, a fireplace at one side, one bedroom for the family, with a loft above, where the older boys slept among all sorts of provender and farm tools, and which was reached by a ladder. The walls of the room in which the sick woman lay were adorned with rude religious pictures, with an earthenware crucifix, which had attached to it a receptacle for holy water. Mrs. Wright shook her head sadly as she examined the poor woman, and said: "I fear, Paul, that it has gone too far." The poor old man fell on his knees, made the sign of the cross, and gave way to a paroxysm of tears. "Ma bonne Katrine!" he cried; "Ma bonne Katrine! Ah! Sainte Vierge--no preese--no messe--ma pauvre femme--ma pauvre femme." "Paul," said Mrs. Wright, "though you have no priest and no church you are not shut out from the Great High Priest--the Lord Himself. Pour out your sorrows to Him and He will hear and comfort you and save Katrine." The old man kissed her hand as she took leave of him, and assisted her to mount her impatient pony, which needed no urging to hasten home, for darkness had come on, and she was alone in the forest. They were not long in covering the distance to the Wigwam, where the children were anxiously awaiting her return. "Where is Chrissy?" asked Phil, who was cleaning his gun and was evidently having great difficulty in the effort to extricate the ramrod from the barrel. "She is going to sit up to-night with poor Mrs. Murphy," said his mother, "who will probably not live through the night." "Jee-roo-salem!" exclaimed Phil, "and what can a girl like Chrissy do for a dying woman?"