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“‘You see I ‘m a prisoner,’ says he; ‘they won’t let me go.’

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘you don’t seem to be troubled about it. I tell you what, young man,’ says I, ‘it’s mighty pretty now to stroll round here, and pick mosses, and hunt birds’ eggs with that gal; but wait till November comes, and everything freezes up stiff and dead except white bears And Ingens, and there’s no daylight left to speak of, and you ‘ll be sick enough of your choice. You won’t live the winter out; and it ‘s an awful place to die in, where the ground freezes so hard that they can’t bury you.’

“‘Lucille says,’ says he, ‘that God is as near us in the winter as in the summer. The fact is, Skipper, I’ve no nearer relative left in the States than a married brother, who thinks more of his family and business than of me; and if it is God’s will that I shall die, I may as well wait His call here as anywhere. I have found kind friends here; they will do all they can for me; and for the rest I trust Providence.’

“Lucille begged that I would let him stay; for she said God would hear her prayers, and he would get well. I told her I would n’t urge him any more; for if I was as young as he was, and had such a pretty nurse to take care of me, I should be willing to winter at the North Pole. Wilson gave me a letter for his brother; and we shook hands, and I left him. When we were getting under way he and Lucille stood on the landing-place, and I hailed him for the last time, and made signs of sending the boat for him. The little French girl understood me; she shook her head, and pointed to her father’s house; and then they both turned back, now and then stopping to wave their handkerchiefs to us. I felt sorry to leave him there; but for the life of me I could n’t blame him.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” said the Doctor.

“Well, next year I was at Nitisquam Harbor; and, although I was doing pretty well in the way of fishing, I could n’t feel easy without running away north to ‘Brador to see what had become of my sick passenger. It was rather early in the season, and there was ice still in the harbor; but we managed to work in at last; when who should I see on shore but young Wilson, so stout and hearty that I should scarcely have known, him. He took me up to his lodgings and told me that he had never spent a happier winter; that he was well and strong, and could fish and hunt like a native; that he was now a partner with the Frenchman in trade, and only waited the coming of the priest from the Magdalenes, on his yearly visit to the settlements, to marry his daughter. Lucille was as pretty, merry, and happy as ever; and the old Frenchman and his wife seemed to love Wilson as if he was their son. I’ve never seen him since; but he now writes me that he is married, and has prospered in health and property, and thinks Labrador would be the finest country in the world if it only had heavy timber-trees.”

“One cannot but admire,” said the Doctor, “that wise and beneficent ordination of Providence whereby the spirit of man asserts its power over circumstances, moulding the rough forms of matter to its fine ideal, bringing harmony out of discord,–coloring, warming, and lighting up everything within the circle of its horizon. A loving heart carries with it, under every parallel of latitude, the warmth and light of the tropics. It plants its Eden in the wilderness and solitary place, and sows with flowers the gray desolation of rocks and mosses. Wherever love goes, there springs the true heart’s-ease, rooting itself even in the polar ices. To the young invalid of the Skipper’s story, the dreary waste of what Moore calls, as you remember,