I am sure that as fervent and as acceptable prayers went up, like
incense, towards heaven, and blessings as choice, like dew, fell upon
the humble worshippers, as ever the peal of the cathedral organ
announced, or as ever descended upon the faithful beneath the gorgeous
domes of the most splendid Basilicas. Memory still often summons up
before me the scenes of silent, dusky, faithful children of the
forest, kneeling in prayer, and with mingled feelings of awe, wonder,
admiration and confidence, listening to the divine truths as explained
in their own language, by the missionaries. But the picture becomes
dark, when I reflect upon the fate of the two good men whose sad story
I have yet to tell. Most assuredly theirs was a _confession of
blood_--and dying at their posts, faithful to their mission,
relieving the soul of an expiring Christian when the hand of death
fell upon them. Theirs must have been a triumphal entry into heaven,
to the kingdom of God! The great cross that the 90th Battalion placed
over the united graves of the victims of the Frog Lake massacre, is a
fitting emblem and a worthy monument; its base rests upon the soil
that covers their union in the grave, but its summits points to where
their souls are united above.

I will now take up the question of the Indians under my husband's
control, and I will tell how they got along, improved, and were
contented and happy. That will bring me to my last and all important
chapter--the one which will contain the story so tragically mournful.


THE INDIANS AS THEY ARE


It would not become me, perhaps, to comment upon the manner in which