“Well,” said the Colonel, splashing mightily in the ice-cold water, “I don’t know as I mind giving my feet twenty-four hours’ time to come to their senses.”

A hurried toilet and they went downstairs, sharp-set for breakfast after the long, refreshing sleep.

Father Richmond was writing on his knee by the stove in the reception-room.

“Good-morning—­good-morning.”  He rang the bell.

“Well, what did we tell you?  I don’t think you’ll get far today.  Let these gentlemen know when breakfast is ready,” he said, as Christopher put his head in.  He looked at his watch.  “I hope you will find everything you need,” he said; and, continuing to talk about the gale and some damage it had done to one of the outbuildings, he went into the entry, just beyond the reception-room door, and began to put on his furs.

“You are not going out in such weather!” the Colonel called after him incredulously.

“Only as far as the church.”

“Oh, is there church today?” inquired the Boy more cheerfully than one might expect.

The Colonel started and made a signal for discretion.

“Blest if it isn’t Sunday!” he said under his breath.

“He doesn’t seem dead-set on our observing it,” whispered the Boy.

The Colonel warmed himself luxuriously at the stove, and seemed to listen for that summons from the entry that never came.  Was Father Richmond out there still, or had he gone?

“Do they think we are heathens because we are not Jesuits?” he said under his breath, suddenly throwing out his great chest.

“Perhaps we ought to...  Hey?  They’ve been awfully considerate of us—­”

The Colonel went to the door.  Father Richmond was struggling with his snow-boots.

“With your permission, sir,” says the Colonel in his most magnificent manner, “we will accompany you, or follow if you are in haste.”

“With all my heart.  Come,” said the priest, “if you will wait and breakfast with us after Mass.”

It was agreed, and the immediate order was countermanded.  The sound of a bell came, muffled, through the storm.

With thoughts turning reluctantly from breakfast, “What’s that?” asked the Boy.

“That is our church bell.”  The Father had helped the Colonel to find his parki.

“Oh—­a—­of course—­”

“A fine tone, don’t you think?  But you can’t tell so well in this storm.  We are fond of our bell.  It is the first that ever rang out in the Yukon valley.  Listen!”

They stood still a moment before opening the front door.  The Boy, seeing the very look of a certain high-shouldered gray stone “St. Andrew’s” far away, and himself trotting along beside that figure, inseparable from first memories, was dimly aware again, as he stood at the Jesuit’s door, in these different days, of the old Sunday feeling invading, permeating his consciousness, half reluctant, half amused.