148 Inasmuch 



a man of such devotion, to speak of separation, of 

 hunger, travel or weariness; he gave himself 

 through his Lord to the Indian, from the con 

 sequence of that &quot;giving&quot; he neither swerved 

 nor faltered. 



The Warrior s His fitting end came in a fitting place, on the 

 far side of the crest of the Northern Rockies. 

 This was Saturday, June 9th,&quot; says the writer 

 of the story of his life, &quot;a day calm and bright, 

 as our summer days in the far north mostly are. 

 The bishop was as active as ever on that day. 

 Twice he had walked across the long railway 

 bridge, and his quick elastic step had been com 

 mented on as that of a young man. Later on 

 he had been up to the Indian School, and up to 

 the Indian Camp to visit some sick Indians. 

 Then he went home, and remained for some time 

 in conversation with Bishop Stringer, into whose 

 hands he had already committed all the affairs 

 of the diocese. Then the mission party dined 

 together, and at eight o clock they all re-assembled 

 for prayers. After prayers the Bishop retired to 

 his study and shut the door. 



&quot;Was there, we wonder, any intimation of the 

 coming rest in the breast of that stalwart warrior, 

 whose end of life was now so near as to be reckon 

 ed, not by hours but by minutes only. Was 

 there any consciousness of having fought a good 

 fight, and finished his course? We know not. 

 Sitting on a box, as was his custom, he began the 

 sermon which proved to be his last. Presently 

 the pen stopped; the hand that so often had 



