follow.

How completely Paddy Dougan's whisky, most of which he made on his back premises, changed Ould Michael and the whole company! From being solemn, silent, alert and generally good-natured, they became wildly vociferous, reckless, boastful and quarrelsome. That Sunday, as always happens in the Mountains, where there are plenty of whisky and a crowd of men, was utterly horrible. The men went wild in all sorts of hideous horseplay, brawls and general debauchery, and among them Ould Michael reigned a king.

"It is bad whisky," McFarquhar exclaimed. McFarquhar himself was never known to get drunk, for he knew his limit on good whisky, and he avoided bad. Paddy Dougan knew better than to give him any of his own home-made brew, for if, after his fourth, McFarquhar found himself growing incapable, knowing that he could enjoy his sixth and even carry with comfort his ninth, then his rage blazed forth, and the only safety for Paddy lay in escape to the woods. It was not so much that he despised the weakness of getting drunk, but he resented the fraud that deprived him of the pleasure of leisurely pursuing his way to his proper limit.

"It is the bad whisky," repeated McFarquhar "and Ould Michael ought to know better than fill himself up with such deplorable stuff."

"Too bad!" I said.

"Ay, but I'll jist take him away with me to-morrow and he'll come to in a few days."

I knew enough of the life in these valleys not to be hard with Ould Michael and his friends. The slow monotony of the long, lonely weeks made any break welcome, and the only break open to them was that afforded by Paddy Dougan's best home-made, a single glass of which would drive a man far on to madness. A new book, a fresh face, a social gathering, a Sabbath service—how much one or all of these might do for them!

With difficulty I escaped from Ould Michael's hospitality and, leaving the scenes of beastly debauchery behind, betook myself to the woods and river. Here, on the lower bench, the woods became an open glade with only the big trees remaining.

I threw myself down on the river-bank and gave myself up to the gracious influences that stole in upon, me from trees and air and grass and the flowing river. The Sabbath feeling began to grow upon me, as the pines behind and the river in front sang to each other soft, crooning songs. As I lay and listened to the solemn music of the great, swaying pines and the soft, full melody of the big river, my heart went back to my boyhood days when I used to see the people gather in the woods for the "Communion." There was the same soothing quiet over all, the same soft, crooning music and, over all, the same sense of a Presence. In my dreaming, ever and again there kept coming to me the face of Ould Michael, with the look that it bore after reading his home-letter, and I thought how different would his Sabbath day have been had his sister and his little one been near to stand between him and the dreariness and loneliness of his life.

True to his promise, McFarquhar carried off Ould Michael to his ranch up Grizzly Creek. Before the sun was high McFarquhar had his own and Michael's pony ready at the door and, however unwilling Ould Michael might be, there was nothing for it but march. As they rode off Ould Michael took off his hat under the flag and called out:

"God save Her Majesty!"

"God bless her!" I echoed heartily.

At once the old soldier clambered down and, tearing open his coat, pulled out a flask.

"Mr. McFarquhar," he said, solemnly, "it would be unbecoming in us to separate from our friend without duly honoring Her Gracious Majesty's name." Then, raising high the flask, he called out with great ceremony, and dropping his brogue entirely: "Gentlemen, I give you the Queen, God bless her!" He raised the flask to his lips and took a long pull and passed it to me. After we had duly honored the toast, Ould Michael once more struck an impressive attitude and called out: "Gentlemen, Her Majesty's loyal forces——" when McFarquhar reached for him and, taking the flask out of his hand, said, gravely:

"It is a very good toast, but we will postpone the rest till a more suitable occasion."

Ould Michael, however, was resolute.

"It would ill become a British soldier to permit this toast to go unhonored."

"Will you come after this one is drunk?" asked McFarquhar.

"I will that."

"Very well," said McFarquhar, "I drink to the very good health of Her Majesty's army," and, taking a short pull, he put the flask into his pocket.

Ould Michael gazed at him in amazed surprise and, after the full meaning of the joke had dawned upon him, burst out into laughter.

"Bedad, McFarquhar, it's the first joke ye iver made, but the less fraquent they are the better I loike them." So saying, he mounted his pony and, once more saluting me and then the flag, made off with his friend. Every now and then, however, I could see him sway in his saddle under the gusts of laughter at the excellence of McFarquhar's joke.

That was the last I saw of Ould Michael for more than six months, but often through that winter, as I worked my way to the Coast, I wondered what the monthly mails were doing for the old man and whether to him and to his friends of those secluded valleys any better relief from the monotony of life had come than that offered by Paddy Dougan's back room.

In early May I found myself once more with my canvas and photographic apparatus approaching Grand Bend, but this time from the West. As I reached the curve in the river where the trail leads to the first view of the town I eagerly searched for Ould Michael's flag. There stood the mast, sure enough, but there was no flag in sight. What had happened to Ould Michael? While he lived his flag would fly. Had he left Grand Bend, or had Paddy Dougan's stuff been too much for him? I was rather surprised to find in my heart a keen anxiety for the old soldier. As I hurried on I saw that Grand Bend had heard the sound of approaching civilization and was waking up. Two or three saloons, a blacksmith's shop, some tents and a new general store proclaimed a boom. As I approached the store I saw a sign in big letters across the front, "Jacob Wragge, General Store," and immediately over the door, in smaller letters, "Postoffice." More puzzled than ever I flung my reins over the hitching-post and went in. A number of men stood leaning against the counter and piled-up boxes, none of whom I knew.

"Is Ould Michael in?" I asked, forgetting for the moment his proper name.

"In where?" asked the man behind the counter.

"The postoffice," I replied. "Doesn't he keep the postoffice?"

"Not much," he answered, with an insolent laugh; "it's not much he could keep, unless it's whisky."

"Perhaps you can tell me where he is?" I asked, keeping my temper down, for I longed to reach for his throat.

"You'll find him boozing in one of the saloons, like enough, the old sot."

I walked out without further word, for the longing for his throat grew almost more than I could bear, and went across to Paddy Dougan's. Paddy expressed great delight at seeing me again and, on my asking for Ould Michael, became the picture of woe.

Four months ago the postoffice had been taken from Ould Michael and set up in Jacob Wragge's store, and with the old soldier things had gone badly ever since.

"The truth is, an' I'll not desave you," said Paddy, adopting a confidential undertone, "he's drinkin' too much and he is."

"And where is he? And where's his flag?"

"His flag is it?" Paddy shook his head as if to say, "Now you have touched the sore spot. Shure,