The wanderers of the parish had come home for Easter.

All who belonged to Chaudiere and worked in the woods or shanties, or lived in big cities far away, were returned--those who could return--to take the holy communion in the parish church.
Yesterday the parish had been alive with a pious hilarity.

The great church had been crowded beyond the doors, the streets had been full of cheerily dressed habitants.

There had, however, come a sudden chill to the seemly rejoicings--the little iron cross blessed by the Pope had been stolen from the door of the church! The fact had been told to the Cure as he said the Mass, and from the altar steps, before going to the pulpit, he referred to the robbery with poignant feeling; for the relic had belonged to a martyr of the Church, who, two centuries before, had laid down his life for the Master on the coast of Africa.
Louis Trudel had heard the Cure's words, and in his place at the rear of the church he smiled sourly to himself.

In due time the little cross should be returned, but it had work to do first.