The Colonel sat in a rural church and looked at the averted face of a woman.

Only to the priest was the sound all music.

“That language,” he said, “speaks to men whatever tongue they call their own.  The natives hear it for miles up the river, and down the river, and over the white hills, and far across the tundra.  They come many miles to Mass—­”

He opened the door, and the gale rushed in.

“I do not mean on days like this,” he wound up, smiling, and out they went into the whirling snow.

The church was a building of logs like the others, except that it was of one story.  Father Brachet was already there, with Father Wills and Brother Etienne; and, after a moment, in came Brother Paul, looking more waxen and aloof than ever, at the head of the school, the rear brought up by Brother Vincent and Henry.

In a moment the little Mother Superior appeared, followed by two nuns, heading a procession of native women and girls.  They took their places on the other side of the church and bowed their heads.

“Beautiful creature!” ejaculated the Colonel under his breath, glancing back.

His companion turned his head sharply just in time to see Sister Winifred come last into the church, holding by either hand a little child.  Both men watched her as she knelt down.  Between the children’s sallow, screwed-up, squinting little visages the calm, unconscious face of the nun shone white like a flower.

The strangers glanced discreetly about the rude little church, with its pictures and its modest attempt at stained glass.

“No wonder all this impresses the ignorant native,” whispered the Colonel, catching himself up suddenly from sharing in that weakness.

Without, the wild March storm swept the white world; within another climate reigned—­something of summer and the far-off South, of Italy herself, transplanted to this little island of civilisation anchored in the Northern waste.

“S’pose you’ve seen all the big cathedrals, eh?”

“Good many.”

There was still a subdued rustling in the church, and outside, still the clanging bell contended with the storm.

“And this—­makes you smile?”

“N—­no,” returned the older man with a kind of reluctance.  “I’ve seen many a worse church; America’s full of ’em.”

“Hey?”

“So far as—­dignity goes—­” The Colonel was wrestling with some vague impression difficult for him to formulate.  “You see, you can’t build anything with wood that’s better than a log-cabin.  For looks—­just looks—­it beats all your fancy gimcracks, even brick; beats everything else hollow, except stone.  Then they’ve got candles.  We went on last night about the luxury of oil-lamps.  They don’t bring ’em in here!”

“We do in our prairie and Southern country churches.”

“I know.  But look at those altar lights.”  The Boy was too busy looking at Sister Winifred.  “I tell you, sir, a man never made a finer thing than a tall wax candle.”