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?"