Yes, almost dead. Of late, it had been hard to keep the fire alive.
Faith is like that. One hardly sees it while the sun is shining, but it glows bravely in the night, a comfort in the darkness, a mercy in times of hunger, pain or loneliness. The world-thought comes like rain to damp the fires of faith, which feed on winds of trouble, blow high on gales of persecution, set the whole world alight just when our need is greatest.
"See," said my wife, "the little flames have come. We'll make a fine blaze now."
So a good woman makes our faith burn strongly.
"There's no smoke now," she said.
Prayer is the smoke which comes from the fire of faith, and when the air is calm it goes straight up. Mine had been blown about during the time of waiting, but now my faith blazed clear in great thanksgiving.
A few days later, when Rain was quite recovered and fixed in camp again, a telegram from Buckie told me to expect him. So I went to the railroad station and watched the day's train arrive.
I was looking for a non-commissioned officer of mounted police, whose gold and scarlet made him the most brilliantly conspicuous personage in North America.
Buckie was looking for some sort of cowboy.
So it happened that a well-dressed civilian in tweeds, with a portmanteau, a rod and a shotgun, came along the platform, and was hailed in stage whispers by an Indian loafer. "Oh, Buckie, how could you? Trousers turned down—umbrella rolled up—what awful side!"