Sister Winifred paused a moment, and then, as they did not turn back, and the Boy stood waiting, she took him into the drying-room and into the ironing-room, and then returned to the betubbed apartment first invaded.  There was only one blot on the fairness of that model laundry—­a heap of torn and dirty canvas in the middle of the floor.

The Boy vaguely thought it looked familiar, before the Sister, blushing faintly, said:  “We hope you won’t go before we have time to repair it.”

“Why, it’s our old sled-cover!”

“Yes; it is very much cut and torn.  But you do not go at once?”

“Yes, to-morrow.”

“Oh!  Father Brachet thought you would stay for a few days, at least.”

“We have no time.”

“You go, like the rest, for gold?”

“Like the rest.”

“But you came before to help poor Nicholas out of his trouble.”

“He was quite able to help himself, as it turned out.”

“Why will you go so far, and at such risk?” she said, with a suddenness that startled them both.

“I—­I—­well, I think I go chiefly because I want to get my home back.  I lost my home when I was a little chap.  Where is your home?”

“Here.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Nearly two years.”

“Then how can you call it home?”

“I do that only that I may—­speak your language.  Of course, it is not my real home.”

“Where is the real home?”

“I hope it is in heaven,” she said, with a simplicity that took away all taint of cant or mere phrase-making.

“But where do you come from?”

“I come from Montreal.”

“Oh! and don’t you ever go back to visit your people?”

“No, I never go back.”

“But you will some time?”

“No; I shall never go back.”

“Don’t you want to?”

She dropped her eyes, but very steadfastly she said: 

“My work is here.”

“But you are young, and you may live a great, great many years.”

She nodded, and looked out of the open door.  The Colonel and the Travelling Priest were walking in Indian file the new-made, hard-packed path.

“Yes,” she said in a level voice, “I shall grow old here, and here I shall be buried.”

“I shall never understand it.  I have such a longing for my home.  I came here ready to bear anything that I might be able to get it back.”

She looked at him steadily and gravely.

“I may be wrong, but I doubt if you would be satisfied even if you got it back—­now.”

“What makes you think that?” he said sharply.

“Because”—­and she checked herself as if on the verge of something too personal—­“you can never get back a thing you’ve lost.  When the old thing is there again, you are not as you were when you lost it, and the change in you makes the old thing new—­and strange.”