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"Oh, Shock," he said, "this is too much. What can I say?"

"Nothing at all, old chap. Don't say anything What is that between
us? We have been through too many things together to have this
bother us."

"Shock! Shock!" continued The Don, "I have been an awful fool, a
blank, cursed fool!"

"Don't swear, old chap," said Shock.

"No, no, I won't, but I curse myself. I have been waiting for this
chance to tell you. I don't want you to think too badly of me. This
thing began in Hickey's saloon some days before that night. He was
playing some fellows from the camp a skin game. I called him down
and he challenged me. I took him up, and cleaned him out easily
enough. You know my old weakness. The fever came back upon me, and I
got going for some days. That night I was called to visit a sick
girl at Nancy's. The gang came in, found me there, and throwing down
their money dared me to play. Well, I knew it was play or fight. I
took of my coat and went for them. They cleaned me out, I can't tell
how. I could not get on to their trick. Then, determined to find
out, I put up that--that other money, you know--and I was losing it
fast, too, when you came in."

As Shock listened to The Don's story his face grew brighter and
brighter.

"My dear fellow," he said in a tone of relief, "is that all? Is that
the whole thing? Tell me, as God hears you!"

"That's the whole story, as God hears me!" said The Don solemnly.

"Oh, thank God!" said Shock. "I thought--I was afraid--" He paused,
unable to go on.

"What! You thought I had forgotten," cried The Don. "Well, I confess
things did look bad. But I want to tell you I am clean, and may God
kill me before I can forget! No, no woman shall ever touch my lips
while I live. Do you believe me, Shock?"

Shock put out his hand. He was still too much moved to speak.

At length he said: "Nothing else matters, Don. I could not bear the
other thing."

For some minutes the friends sat in silence.

"But, Don," said Shock at length, "you can not go on this way. Your
whole life is being ruined. You cannot draw off from God. You have
been keeping Him at arm's length. This will not do."

"It is no use, Shock," said The Don bitterly. "My head is all right.
I believe with you. But I cannot get over the feeling I have for
that--" He broke off suddenly.

"I know, I know. I feel it, too, old chap, but after all, it is not
worth while. And besides, Don, forgive me saying this--if it had not
been true about you he could not have hurt you, could he?"

The Don winced.

"I am not excusing him, nor blaming you," continued Shock eagerly,
"but a man has got to be honest. Isn't that right?"

"Oh, yes, it is true enough, Shock. I was a beast, as you know, at
that time in my life, but I had put it all past me, and I believed
that God had forgiven me. And then those two raked it all up again,
and broke my darling's heart, and drove me away, an outcast. He is a
minister of the gospel, and she is a member of the Christian
Church."

"Don," said Shock gravely, "that won't do. You are not fair."

The door opened quietly, and the nurse came in and sat down out of
Shock's sight behind the bed.

"Now, Don, I want you to read for me that tale of the Pharisee and
the woman who was a sinner. For my sake, mind you, as well as for
yours, for I was wrong, too, on this matter. I confess I hated him,
for I cannot help thinking that he has done me a great wrongs and I
have found it hard enough to say the Lord's Prayer. Perhaps you had
better read this letter so that you may understand."

He took from under his pillow Mrs. Fairbanks' letter and gave it to
The Don, who read it in silence. Poor Shock! He was opening up
wounds that none had ever seen, or even suspected, and the mere
uncovering of them brought him keen anguish and humiliation.

As The Don read the letter he began to swear deep oaths.

"Stop, Don. You mustn't swear. Now listen to me. I think she has a
perfect right to do as she has been doing. But--Lloyd"--Shock seemed
to get the name out with difficulty,--"was my friend, and I think he
has not been fair."

"Fair!" burst out The Don. "The low down villain!"

"But listen. The question with me has been how to forgive him, for I
must forgive him or keep far from Him who has forgiven me, and that
I cannot afford to do. Now read." And The Don took up the Bible from
the little table beside Shock's bed, and read that most touching of
all tales told of the Saviour of the sinful.

"'Wherefore I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are forgiven,
for she loved much: but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth
little. And he said unto her, Thy sins are forgiven. Thy faith hath
saved thee; go in peace.'"

As The Don finished reading, a sound of sobbing broke the silence in
the room.

"Who is that? Is that you, Nell?" said Shock. "What is the matter,
Nell? That is for you, too. Now we will have Don read it again." And
once more, with great difficulty, The Don read the words, so
exquisitely delicate, so divinely tender.

"That is for you, too, Nell," said Shock.

"For me?" she cried. "Oh, no, not for me!"

"Yes, Nell, my sister, it is for you."

"Oh," she cried, with a tempest of sobs, "don't call me that. It
cannot be. I can never be clean again."

"Yes, Nell, He says it Himself. 'Her sins, which are many, are
forgiven,' and He can make you clean as the angels. We all need to
be made clean, and He has undertaken to cleanse us."

It was a very humble and chastened man that went out from Shock's
presence that evening. Through the days of the week that followed
The Don went about his work speaking little, but giving himself with
earnestness and in a new spirit, more gentle, more sympathetic, to
his ministry to the sick in the camps and shacks round about. But
still the gloom was unlifted from his heart. Day by day, however, in
response to Shock's request he would read something of the story of
that great loving ministration to the poor, and sick, and needy, and
of infinite compassion for the sinful and outcast, till one day,
when Shock had been allowed for the first time to sit in his chair,
and The Don was about to read, Shock asked for the story of the
debtors, and after The Don had finished he took from his pocket
Brown's letter and said:

"Now, Don, forgive me. I am going to read something that will make
you understand that story," and he read from Brown's letter the
words that described Betty's last hour.

The Don sat white and rigid until Shock came to the words, "God
forgives us all, and we must forgive," when his self-control gave
way and he abandoned himself to the full indulgence of his great
sorrow.

"It was not to grieve you, Don," said Shock, after his friend's
passion of grief had subsided. "It was not to grieve you, you know,
but to show you what is worth while seeing--the manner of God's
forgiveness; for as she forgave and took you to her pure heart again
without fear or shrinking, so God forgives us. And, Don, it is not
worth while. in the face of so great a forgiveness, to do anything
else but forgive, and it is a cruel thing, and a wicked thing, to
keep at a distance such love as that."

"No, no," said The Don, "it is not worth while. It is wicked, and it
is folly. I will go back. I will forgive."

XIX

THE REGIONS BEYOND

The visit of the Superintendent to a mission field varied according
to the nature of the field and the character of the work done,
between an inquisitorial process and a triumphal march. Nothing
escaped his keen eye. It needed no questioning on his part to become
possessed of almost all the facts necessary to his full information
about the field, the work, the financial condition, and the general
efficiency of the missionary. One or two points he was sure to make
inquiry about. One of these was the care the missionary had taken of
the outlying points. He had the eye of an explorer, which always
rests on the horizon. The results of his investigations could easily
be read in his joy or his grief, his hope or his disappointment, his
genuine pride in his missionary or his blazing, scorching rebuke.
The one consideration with the Superintendent was the progress of
the work. The work first, the work last, the work always.

The announcement to Shock through his Convener, that the
Superintendent purposed making a visit in the spring, filled him
with more or less anxiety. He remembered only too well his failure
at the Fort; he thought of that postscript in the Superintendent's
letter to his Convener; he knew that even in Loon Lake and in the
Pass his church organization was not anything to boast of; and
altogether he considered that the results he had to show for his
year's labour were few and meagre.

The winter had been long and severe. In the Pass there had been a
great deal of sickness, both among the miners and among the
lumbermen. The terrible sufferings these men had to endure from the
cold and exposure, for which they were all too inadequately
prepared, brought not only physical evils upon them, but reacted in
orgies unspeakably degrading.

The hospital was full. Nell had been retained by The Don as nurse,
and although for a time this meant constant humiliation and trial to
her, she bore herself with such gentle humility, and did her work
with such sweet and untiring patience, that the men began to regard
her with that entire respect and courteous consideration that men of
their class never fail to give to pure and high-minded women.

The Don was full of work. He visited the camps, treated the sick and
wounded there, and brought down to the hospital such as needed to be
moved thither, and gradually won his way into the confidence of all
who came into touch with him. Even Ike, after long hesitation and
somewhat careful observation, gave him once more his respect and his
friendship.

The doctor was kept busy by an epidemic of diphtheric croup that had
broken out among the children of the Loon Lake district, and began
to take once more pride in his work, and to regain his self-respect
and self-control. He took especial pride and joy in the work of The
Don at the Pass, and did all he could to make the hospital and the
club room accomplish all the good that Shock had hoped for them.

But though the hospital and club room had done much for the men of
the Pass, there was still the ancient warfare between the forces
that make for manhood and those that make for its destruction.
Hickey still ran his saloon, and his gang still aided him in all his
nefarious work. Men were still "run" into the saloon or the red-
light houses, there to be "rolled," and thence to be kicked out, fit
candidates for the hospital. The hospital door was ever open for
them, and whatever the history, the physical or moral condition of
the patient, he was received, and with gentle, loving ministration
tended back to health, and sent out again to camp or mine, often
only to return for another plunge into the abyss of lust and
consequent misery; sometimes, however, to set his feet upon the
upward trail that led to pure and noble manhood. For The Don, while
he never preached, took pains to make clear to all who came under
his charge the results of their folly and their sin to body and to
mind, as well as to soul, and he had the trick of forcing them to
take upon themselves the full responsibility for their destiny,
whether it was to be strength, soundness of mind, happiness, heaven,
or disease, insanity, misery, hell. It was heart-breaking work, for
the disappointments were many and bitter, but with now and then an
achievement of such splendid victory as gave hope and courage to
keep up the fight.

At Loon Lake during the winter Shock had devoted himself to the
perfecting of his church organization A Communion Roll had been
formed and on it names entered of men and women whose last church
connection reached back for ten or fifteen or twenty years, and
along with those the names of some who had never before had a place
in that mystic order of the saints of God. And, indeed, with some of
these Shock had had his own difficulty, not in persuading them to
offer themselves as candidates, but in persuading himself to assume
the responsibility of accepting them. To Shock with his Highland
training it was a terribly solemn step to "come forward." The
responsibility assumed, bulked so largely in the opinion of those
whom Shock had always regarded as peculiarly men of God, that it
almost, if not altogether, obliterated the privilege gained.

When a man like Sinclair, whose reputable character and steady life
seemed to harmonize with such a step, he had little difficulty; and
had the Kid, with his quick intelligence, his fineness of spirit and
his winning disposition, applied for admission, Shock would have had
no hesitation in receiving him. But the Kid, although a regular
attendant on the services, and though he took especial delight in
the Sabbath evening gatherings after service, had not applied, and
Shock would not think of bringing him under pressure; and all the
more because he had not failed to observe that the Kid's interest
seemed to be more pronounced and more steadfast in those meetings in
which Marion's singing was the feature. True, this peculiarity the
Kid shared with many others of the young men in the district, to
Shock's very considerable embarrassment, though to the girl's
innocent and frank delight; and it is fair to say that the young
men, whom Shock had put upon their honor in regard to one who was
but a child, never by word or look failed in that manly and
considerate courtesy that marks the noble nature in dealing with the
weak and unprotected.

The truth about the Kid was that that gay young prince of broncho
busters, with his devil-may-care manner and his debonair appearance,
was so greatly sought after, so flattered and so feted by the
riotous and reckless company at the Fort, of which the Inspector and
his wife were the moving spirits, that he was torn between the two
sets of influences that played upon him, and he had not yet come to
the point of final decision as to which kingdom he should seek.

It was with Ike and men like Ike, however, that Shock had his
greatest difficulty, for when the earnest appeal was made for men to
identify themselves with the cause that stood for all that was
noblest in the history of the race, and to swear allegiance to Him
who was at once the ideal and the Saviour of men, Ike without any
sort of hesitation came forward and to Shock's amazement, and,
indeed, to his dismay, offered himself. For Ike was regarded through
all that south country as the most daringly reckless of all the
cattle-men, and never had he been known to weaken either in "takin'
his pizen," in "playin' the limit" in poker, or in "standin' up agin
any man that thought he could dust his pants." Of course he was
"white." Everyone acknowledged that. But just how far this quality
of whiteness fitted him as a candidate for the communion table Shock
was at a loss to say.

He resolved to deal with Ike seriously, but the initial difficulty
in this was that Ike seemed to be quite unperplexed about the whole
matter, and entirely unafraid. Shock's difficulty and distress were
sensibly increased when on taking Ike over the "marks" of the
regenerate man, as he had heard them so fully and searchingly set
forth in the "Question Meetings" in the congregation of his
childhood, he discovered that Ike was apparently ignorant of all the
deeper marks, and what was worse, seemed to be quite undisturbed by
their absence.

While Shock was proceeding with his examination he was exceedingly
anxious lest he should reveal to Ike any suspicion as to his
unfitness for the step he proposed to take. At the same time, he was
filled with anxiety lest through any unfaithfulness of his on
account of friendship a mistake in so solemn a matter should be
made. It was only when he observed that Ike was beginning to grow
uneasy under his somewhat searching examination, and even offered to
withdraw his name, that Shock decided to cast to the winds all his
preconceived notions of what constituted fitness for enrollment in
the Church of the living God, and proceeded to ask Ike some plain,
common sense questions.

"You are sure you want to join this church, Ike?"

"That's what," said Ike.

"Why do you want to join?"

"Well, you gave us a clear invite, didn't you?"

"But I mean, is it for my sake? Because I asked you?"

"Why, sure. I want to stand at your back"

Shock was puzzled. He tried another line of approach.

"Do you know, Ike, what you are joining?"

"Well, it's your church, you said."

"Supposing I was not here at all, would you join?"

"Can't say. Guess not."

Shock felt himself blocked again.

"Ike, do you think you are really fit to do this?"

"Fit? Well, you didn't say anything about bein' fit. You said if
anyone was willin' to take it up, to stay with the game, to come
on."

"Yes, yes, I know, Ike. I did say that, and I meant that," said
Shock. "But, Ike, you know that the Apostle calls those who belong
to the church 'saints of God.'"

"Saints, eh? Well, I aint no saint, I can tell you that. Guess I'm
out of this combination. No, sir, I aint no paradox--paragon, I
mean." Ike remembered the Kid's correction.

His disappointment and perplexity were quite evident. After hearing
Shock's invitation from the pulpit it had seemed so plain, so
simple.

His answer rendered Shock desperate.

"Look here, Ike, I am going to be plain with you. You won't mind
that?"

"Wade right in."

"Well, you sometimes swear, don't you?"

"Yes, that's so. But I've pretty much quit, unless there's some
extraordinary occasion."

"Well, you drink, don't you?"

"Why, sure. When I can git it, and git it good, which aint easy in
this country now."

"And you sometimes fight?"

"Well," in a tone almost of disappointment, "there aint nobody
wantin' to experiment with me in these parts any longer."

"And you gamble? Play poker for money, I mean?"

"Oh, well, I don't profess to be the real thing," replied Ike
modestly, as if disclaiming an excellence he could hardly hope to
attain, "but I ginerally kin stay some with the game."

"Now, Ike, listen to me. I'm going to give it to you straight."

Ike faced his minister squarely, looking him fair in the eyes.

"You have been doing pretty much as you like all along. Now, if you
join the church you are swearing solemnly to do only what Jesus
Christ likes. You give your word you will do only what you think He
wants. You see? He is to be your Master."

"Yes," said Ike. "Yes, that's so. That's right."

"In everything, remember."

"Why, sure." That seemed quite simple to Ike.

"Swearing, drinking, fighting, gambling," Shock continued.

Ike hesitated.

"Why, you don't suppose He would mind a little thing like a smile
with the boys now and then, or a quiet game of poker, do you?"

"What I say, Ike, is this--if you thought He did mind, would you
quit?"

"Why, sure. You just bet! I said so."

"Well, Ike, supposing some--one of those chaps from the Pass, say
Hickey, should walk up and hit you right the face, what would you
do?"

"What? Proceed to eddicate him. Preject him into next week. That is,
if there was anything left."

Shock opened his Bible and read, "'But I say unto you, That ye
resist not evil; but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek
turn to him the other also.' That is what Jesus Christ says, Ike."

"He does, eh? Does it mean just that?" Ike felt that this was a
serious difficulty.

"Yes, it means just that."

"Are all you fellers like that?"

This wrought in Shock sudden confusion.

"Well, Ike, I am afraid not, but we ought to be, and we aim to be."

"Well," said Ike slowly, "I guess I aint made that way."

Then Shock turned the leaves of his Bible, and read the story of the
cruel bruising of the Son of Man, and on to the words, "Father,
forgive them." Ike had heard this story before, but he had never
seen its bearing upon practical life.

"I say," he said, with reverent admiration in his voice, "He did it,
didn't He? That's what I call pretty high jumpin', aint it? Well,"
he continued, "I can't make no promises, but I tell you what, I'll
aim at it. I will, honest. And when you see me weaken, you'll jack
me up, won't you? You'll have to stay with me, for it's a mighty
hard proposition."

Then Shock took his hands. "Ike, you are a better man than I am, but
I promise you I will stay all I can with you. But there will be days
when you will be all alone except that He will be with you. Now
listen," and Shock, turning over the leaves of his Bible, read, "Lo,
I am with you always," and a little further over and read again, "I
can do all things through Christ that strengtheneth me."

"That is His solemn promise, Ike. He has promised to save us from
our sins. Do you think you can trust Him to do that?"

"Why, sure," said Ike, as if nothing else was possible. "That's His
game, aint it? I guess He'll stay with it. He said so, didn't He?"

"Yes," said Shock, with a sudden exaltation of faith, "He said so,
and He will stay with it. Don't you be afraid, Ike. He will see you
through."

The Communion Roll when it was completed numbered some eighteen
names, and of these eighteen none were more sorely pressed to the
wall in God's battle than Ike, and none more loyally than he stayed
with the game.

Owing to miscarriage in arrangements, when the Superintendent
arrived at the Fort he was surprised to find no one to meet him.
This had an appearance of carelessness or mismanagement that
unfavorably impressed the Superintendent as to the business capacity
of his missionary. He was too experienced a traveller, however, in
the remote and unformed districts of the West, to be at all
disconcerted at almost any misadventure.

He inquired for Mr. Macfarren, and found him in Simmons' store,
redolent of bad tobacco and worse whiskey, but quite master of his
mental and physical powers. The Superintendent had business with Mr.
Macfarren, and proceeded forthwith to transact it.

After his first salutation he began, "When I saw you last, Mr.
Macfarren, you professed yourself keenly desirous of having services
established by our church here."

"Yes."

"Why this sudden change, represented by your letter to the
Committee, and the petition, which I judge was promoted by yourself?
I placed a man here, with every expectation of success. How can you
explain this change in you and in the people you represent?"

The Superintendent's bodily presence was anything but weak, and men
who could oppose him when at a distance, when confronted with him
found it difficult to support their opposition. Macfarren found it
so. He began in an apologetic manner, "Well, Doctor, circumstances
have changed. Times have been none too good. In fact, we are
suffering from financial stringency at present."

"Mr. Macfarren, be specific as to your reasons. Your letter and your
petition were instrumental in persuading the Committee to a complete
change of policy. This should not be without the very best of
reasons."

"Well, as I was saying," answered Macfarren, "finances were--"

"Tut! tut! Mr. Macfarren. You do not all become poor in six months.
Your cattle are still here. Your horses have suffered from no
plague."

"Well," said Mr. Macfarren, "the people have become alienated."

"Alienated? From the church?"

"Well, yes. They seem to be satisfied with--to prefer, indeed, the
Anglican services."

"Mr. Macfarren, do you mean to tell me that the Presbyterians of
this country prefer any church to their own? I fear they are a
different breed from those I have known, and unworthy to represent
the church of their fathers."

"Well, the truth is, Doctor," said Macfarren, considerably nettled
at the Superintendent's manner, "the people consider that they were
not well treated in the supply you sent them."

"Ah! Now we have it. Well, let us be specific again. Is Mr.
Macgregor not a good preacher?"

"No, he is not. He is not such a preacher as many of us have been
accustomed to."

"By the way, Mr. Macfarren, what do your people pay toward this
man's salary? Five hundred? Three hundred? We only asked you two
hundred, and this you found difficult. And yet you expect a two-
thousand-dollar preacher."

"Well, his preaching was not his only fault," said Macfarren. "He
was totally unsuited to our people. He was a man of no breeding, no
manners, and in this town we need a man--"

"Wait a moment, Mr. Macfarren. You can put up with his preaching?"

"Yes."

"Did he visit his people?"

"Yes, goodness knows, he did that enough."

"Was his character good?"

"Oh, certainly."

"Then I understand you to say that as a preacher he was passable, as
a pastor and as a man all that could be desired?"

"Oh, yes, certainly. But he was--well, if you have met him you must
know what I mean. In short, he was uncouth and boorish in his
manners."

The Superintendent drew himself up, and his voice began to burr in a
way that his friends would have recognized as dangerous.

"Boorish, Mr. Macfarren? Let me tell you, sir, that he is a Highland
gentleman, the son of a Highland gentlewoman, and boorishness is
impossible to him."

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