when charlie rayson passed out of the dance-hall in the little mountain mining town a few nights after old ken's round-up, he was on the border-line between despair and hope. was there any chance? for years he had apparently worked with the logging gang only that he might give full rein to the lusts that devoured him; and if he remained in the bush the whole winter it was with an impatience for the days to pass so that the spring might bring him to the bar-rooms and dens of vice, where the awful monotony might be relieved in a spring-long spree. nobody had any particular interest in charlie, and no one knew from whence he came.

and yet there seemed to be some slight ray of hope to-night. he had listened for the first time since boyhood to the pearl of the parables, and then old ken had asked the preacher to "sing that there wandering boy piece." charlie knew not if his mother still lived, but the words, "oh! could i see you now, my boy, as fair as in olden times," came like his mother's call through the sin-stained past. for thirteen years he had cut himself entirely off, so far as his whereabouts was concerned, from that one who had never ceased to love him.

in a few minutes after the close of the service charlie and the preacher were alone on the mountain trail. suddenly charlie stopped and said, "good god, preacher, you can't, you don't understand what i'm up against. for nineteen years i've been in the hands of the doctor or the policeman—my passions rip me to pieces—men can't help me; i wonder if god can? i want to believe what you said to-night is true, but i've always wanted to do the thing that damns me, worse than i have wanted to do anything else, and yet i never do it without something saying 'don't.'"

in the silence of the lonely hills the two men stood, while one asked him who is the help of the helpless to be the refuge of the passion-pursued man. poor charlie could utter but few words: "god, oh, god," he sobbed, "i'm like that prodigal, and i'm sick of it all. oh, god, can you help me? i want to see my old mother." with the mention of the word mother the man burst into a passion of weeping. for several minutes no word was uttered, as the preacher steadied the trembling man. it was no easy task for charlie to do what he was counselled to do after he had made the great decision. but that night he read, from the testament given him, a portion of the third chapter of st. john's gospel, and knelt by his bunk and asked for strength sufficient. to kneel down and pray in certain western mining camp bunk-houses is a man's job, but charlie had realized that only one was able to deliver from the passions that rend, and to that one he appealed.

a fortnight later an old woman in a far-away ontario village received a letter bearing a british columbia postmark. she was a poor, lonely, half-crippled individual, but the message of that letter enriched and cheered her and quickened her footsteps as nothing had done in years. to everybody she knew, and to a good many people she did not know, she told of her new joy. in her trembling old hands she held the precious letter. "do you know, i've got a letter from my charl. i thought he was dead. i haven't heard from him in thirteen years, but he's in british columbia, and he says he's a christian man now, and he wants to see his mother—and he's going to save up so's he can come home, and till he comes he's going to write every week—and he sent me some money. oh, how good god is to give me back my charl!" the poor old soul seemed raised as if by a miracle from her invalidism.

charlie toiled on in the logging gang, and when pay-day came the hotel-keeper reaped the usual harvest from most of the men, and was hoping that charlie and bill davis, two of his best customers, would be coaxed back to their old habits. bill had been known as the "little devil" of primeau's gang, and his professed change of heart was a thing incredible to the entire community. but charlie and bill had been a good deal together of late, and the latter had told charlie all he purposed to do and be with god's help, and so the two men became mutually helpful.

five months passed, and besides having purchased new clothes, charlie rayson had one hundred and fifty dollars in the savings bank at brandon falls.

and so at last the home journey was to be made. it would be hard to say who was the more excited, charlie or his loyal friend bill davis. for some time bill thought he would "pull out" when charlie went, but later he decided to stay on his job a few months longer. nothing would do but that charlie should take "just a little remembrance" of $25 from bill to the aged mother.

on saturday afternoon the final arrangements were made, and bill did a score of things to make charlie's get-away easier and pleasanter. while bill was purchasing a few little necessities at the company store, charlie stepped across the threshold of the bar-room for the first time in months. he wanted to say good-bye to andy the bar-tender. a number of charlie's old pals were sitting or lounging around, some of them well on the way to their terrible monthly debauch. numerous hands were extended and not a few glasses offered to charlie. "not for me, boys—i've cut it out for good, thanks all the same," was charlie's firm response.

"oh, come off," cried one, "you ain't a-going back on your old pals just 'cause you've got a new suit o' clothes."

numerous sallies followed this, but to each one charlie gave a similar reply, and backed towards the door. it has always been supposed that it was primeau himself who tripped charlie, but be that as it may, somehow charlie stumbled backwards to the bar-room floor; and when bill davis was returning through the hall some of the men were holding charlie while others were pouring whiskey through his lips, "just to give him a lesson in sociability." bill davis could scarcely believe that the boys had tried to make charlie drink, but when he realized what had happened, his indignation prompted the profanity that had become a life habit. he checked the words, however, and shouted at the scoffing group to leave charlie alone or somebody would get a headache. there was a laugh from one and a muttered "mind your own d—— business" from another. and then bill took a hand in the affair.

the following day the affray was being generally discussed. one or two men who were participants in it were careful to keep out of the public gaze. bill had not selected places where they should fall when he was defending charlie. to a little group in the bar-room andy gave the information that "there was something doing alright, when bill started in to look after charlie. say! the feathers was a-flying. bill ain't such a blamed good christian that he's forgot how to fight."

the taste of whiskey had aroused the old craving in charlie, and long after the east-bound train had pulled out he was fighting his battle with bill by his side.

never had the two men felt more alone, and never had they more needed a friend than now. all charlie's confidence in his ability to stand firm seemed to be shaken. "bill!" he said, "i swallowed some, and it seems like it was running all through me to find some more to keep it company. bill! for god's sake don't leave me. i feel as if i was going to lose the game."

bill hardly knew what to say or do. the fight in charlie's behalf and the disappointment over the delayed journey had left a great depression. neither of the men went down to the evening meal. to pass the bar-room door and to face the men again seemed more than charlie dare undertake.

the next train for the east passed through at 3 a.m., and after thinking over the events of the afternoon, bill made up his mind that they would flag number 56, and that he would journey a hundred miles or so with his sorely-tempted chum. in the darkness of midnight, the two men passed quietly out of the building and along the trail to the railway station. at last they were really on the train, and having found an empty double seat the men made themselves as comfortable as possible, and were soon, like their fellow-passengers, getting such fitful sleep as one may obtain on the average "local."

it was the season of the year when "washouts" make journeying dangerous, and frequently in western canada trains are delayed many hours, and sometimes days, by the swelling of the mountain streams which in their onward rush sometimes carry culverts and ballast from beneath ties and track.

the train had pulled out of sinclair, and was making her usual time through the eastern section of the pass, when passengers were suddenly thrown from their seats by a terrific jolt. lamp glasses crashed to the aisle, and baggage was dislodged from the racks. charlie pulled himself to his feet almost instantaneously, despite the knocks he had received. the lamps were flickering and smoking, but fortunately there appeared no danger of fire. the brakeman, hatless and with a bleeding face, came rushing through the cars seeking to allay the fears. "stay in the cars, please—there's no danger of fire. you're better here than outside. doctors will be here soon."

bill had not escaped serious injury. he found it impossible to rise, and as tenderly as he knew how, charlie pillowed his head and stooped beside him as he lay in the aisle. "i'm feared i'm pretty badly hurted, pardner," groaned bill. "there was something kind o' crushed inside. guess i'll just lie here for a bit."

the engine had plunged through an undermined piece of track, and engineer and fireman were terribly cut and scalded, while the baggage-man had been pinned beneath some heavy trunks that had shot forward and downward when the engine crashed into the washout.

"it's the hospital for you, my man," said the doctor kindly, after a hurried examination of bill's injuries. "we'll make you as comfortable as we can before the 'special' pulls out, but you need a little attention that you can't get in the camp even if you were able to stand the journey."

charlie got permission to accompany his pal, and for bill's sake he kept a brave heart, although the events of the past twenty-four hours robbed him of the lightheartedness that had been his in anticipation of the home-going.

two days later charlie decided to continue his journey eastward. the doctors were still anxious about bill, but there was nothing charlie could do, and he knew the old mother was waiting for her boy.

it was a touching farewell as the sick man's hand was clasped. a score of times charlie had expressed his sorrow that he had ever let bill accompany him, and yet each time in his own way he thanked bill for standing by him when he was "near bowled out."

bill tried to say that he was glad charlie was going home, but his tone and look revealed his sense of loss and loneliness at the prospect of his pal's departure, and charlie's eyes needed a good deal of attention, which they received surreptitiously.

motioning for charlie to come nearer, the sick man whispered: "you're a brick, old pard, to stay by me this long. i guess she's getting anxious for yer. say, charlie, when yer away down there i'll be kind er lonely; how would it be if yer made a bit of a prayer once in a while for me?" then with a last pressure on the still clasped hand, he added, "good-bye, old pal, god bless yer; maybe we'll hit the trail together again some day, but say, charlie!" (the voice was throbbing with emotion, and the eyes reflected well-nigh a mother's tenderness)—"say, charlie! we'll stay by it, won't we? if the whole world goes back on jesus christ we two'll stick to him, 'cause we know what he can do; don't we, charlie?"

thus they parted. inside of three days the one was clasped in a mother's arms and there was great joy in the little village home; and almost at the same hour the other reached his father's home, and there, too, was great joy.