"I will accept, my friend," said the stranger. "You shall lose
nothing by it." He took up the bag that he had placed beside
him on the platform, saying briefly, "Lead the way."

"Your pardon, brother," said Simon, taking the bag from him,
"this is the way."

Northward across the railway tracks and up the street for two
blocks, then westward they turned, toward the open prairie.
After walking some minutes, Simon pointed to a huddling group
of shacks startlingly black against the dazzling snow.

"There," he cried with a laugh, "there is little Russia."

"Not Russia," said Joseph, "Galicia."

The stranger stood still, gazing at the little shacks, and letting
his eye wander across the dazzling plain, tinted now with crimson
and with gold from the setting sun, to the horizon. Then pointing
to the shacks he said, "That is Canada. Yonder," sweeping his hand
toward the plain, "is Siberia. But," turning suddenly upon the men,
"what are you?"

"We are free men," said Joseph. "We are Canadians."

"We are Canadians," answered Simon more slowly. "But here,"
laying his hand over his heart, "here is always Russia and
our brothers of Russia."

The stranger turned a keen glance upon him. "I believe you,"