“Your pardon, brother,” said Simon, taking the bag from him, “this is the way.”

Northward across the railway tracks and up the street for two blocks, then westward they turned, toward the open prairie.  After walking some minutes, Simon pointed to a huddling group of shacks startlingly black against the dazzling snow.

“There,” he cried with a laugh, “there is little Russia.”

“Not Russia,” said Joseph, “Galicia.”

The stranger stood still, gazing at the little shacks, and letting his eye wander across the dazzling plain, tinted now with crimson and with gold from the setting sun, to the horizon.  Then pointing to the shacks he said, “That is Canada.  Yonder,” sweeping his hand toward the plain, “is Siberia.  But,” turning suddenly upon the men, “what are you?”

“We are free men,” said Joseph.  “We are Canadians.”

“We are Canadians,” answered Simon more slowly.  “But here,” laying his hand over his heart, “here is always Russia and our brothers of Russia.”

The stranger turned a keen glance upon him.  “I believe you,” he said.  “No Russian can forget his fatherland.  No Russian can forget his brother.”  His eyes were lit with a dreamy light, as he gazed far beyond the plain and the glowing horizon.

At the door of the little black shack Simon halted the party.

“Pardon, I will prepare for my brother,” he said.

As he opened the door a cloud of steaming odours rushed forth to meet them.  The stranger drew back and turned his face again to the horizon, drawing deep breaths of the crisp air, purified by its sweep of a thousand miles over snow clad prairie.

“Ah,” he said, “wonderful! wonderful!  Yes, that is Russia, that air, that sky, that plain.”

After some minutes Simon returned.

“Enter,” he said, bowing low.  “This is your house, brother; we are your slaves.”

It was a familiar Russian salutation.

“No,” said the stranger, quickly stretching out his hand.  “No slaves in this land, thank God! but brothers all.”

“Your brothers truly,” said Simon, dropping on his knee and kissing the outstretched hand.  “Lena,” he called to his wife, who stood modestly at the other side of the room, “this is the Elder of our Brotherhood.”

Lena came forward, dropped on her knees and kissed the outstretched hand.

“Come, Margaret,” she cried, drawing her little girl of six toward the stranger, “come and salute the master.”

Little Margaret came forward and offered her hand, looking up with brave shyness into the stranger’s face.

“Shame! shame!” said Lena, horrified.  “Kneel down!  Kneel down!”

“She does not understand how to salute,” said her father with an apologetic smile.

“Aha, so,” cried the stranger, looking curiously at the little girl.  “Where did you learn to shake hands?”

“In school,” said the child in English.