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with three white men comfortably seated in the bottom. On landing, a man of about forty, whose head and face looked as though they had not been disturbed by scissors or

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the St. Lawrence route. You have the advantage of us," he added. "What is your name, sir?" "My name," he said, "is Franklin—John Franklin—and these are my friends, Richardson and Morrison. Richardson and I have travelled about five thousand miles. We have been exploring the northern coast of the continent. We travelled over land from Davis Strait westward until we came to the Mackenzie River, where we found our friend, here," he said, pointing to a poor cripple who was being lifted from the canoe by the Indians. Since the mention of the name o

 
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f Morrison Chrissy had stood transfixed. Could it be that the tall, powerful, manly figure that she remembered so well could have become so distorted as to be bent almost double? Could it be possible that the cripple before her was George—her long-lost George? A smile of recognition crossed Morrison's face as he ca

 
," sai

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ught sight of Chrissy. She uttered a scream of delight—"O George! George! Is it you? is it you?" For a time the two were too overcome to be able to utter a word. The expression of peace and joy and hope which Chrissy possessed even as a girl in the old convent days was more noticeable now, not only in her face but in her whole manner. It was the same sweet, modest face, the same earnest lov

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