You must
come back to-morrow. I want to hear more about your friend
Redfeather. Where did you say you left him?"
"In the Saskatchewan, master. He said that he would wait there, as
he'd heerd the missionary was comin' up to pay the Injins a visit."
"By-the-by, you're going over to the missionary's place to-morrow,
are you not?"
"Yes, I am."
"Ah, then, that'll do. I'll go over with you. How far off is it?"
"Three miles or thereabouts."
"Very good. Call in here as you pass, and my friend Hamilton and I
will accompany you. Good-night."
Jacques thrust his pipe into his bosom, held out his horny hand, and
giving his young friends a hearty shake, turned and strode from the
room.
On the following day Jacques called according to promise, and the
three friends set off together to visit the Indian village. This
missionary station was under the management of a Wesleyan clergyman,
Pastor Conway by name, an excellent man, of about forty-five years of
age, with an energetic mind and body, a bald head, a mild, expressive
countenance, and a robust constitution. He was admirably qualified
for his position, having a natural aptitude for every sort of work
that man is usually called on to perform. His chief care was for the
instruction of the Indians, whom he had induced to settle around him,
in the great and all-important truths of Christianity. He invented an
alphabet, and taught them to write and read their own language. He
commenced the laborious task of translating the Scriptures into the
Cree language; and being an excellent musician, he instructed his
converts to sing in parts the psalms and Wesleyan hymns, many of
which are exceedingly beautiful.
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