"You mean--"

"Your people, first. I remember that once you told me there was no
one. But surely there is some one somewhere."

Kent shook his head. "There is no one now. For ten years those
forests out there have been father, mother, and home to me."

"But there must be personal affairs, affairs which you would like
to entrust, perhaps, to me?"

Kent's face brightened, and for an instant a flash of humor leaped
into his eyes. "It is funny," he chuckled. "Since you remind me of
it, Father, it is quite in form to make my will. I've bought a few
little pieces of land here. Now that the railroad has almost
reached us from Edmonton, they've jumped up from the seven or
eight hundred dollars I gave for them to about ten thousand. I
want you to sell the lots and use the money in your work. Put as
much of it on the Indians as you can. They've always been good
brothers to me. And I wouldn't waste much time in getting my
signature on some sort of paper to that effect."

Father Layonne's eyes shone softly. "God will bless you for that,
Jimmy," he said, using the intimate name by which he had known
him. "And I think He is going to pardon you for something else, if
you have the courage to ask Him."

"I am pardoned," replied Kent, looking out through the window. "I
feel it. I know it, Father."