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proper saucers. At last they were set in a neat row on the round oak table that graced the center of the room and was covered with an oilcloth of Molly’s choosing and ordered from the catalog.
    Unfortunately, he thought with some regret, there was not so much as a cookie crumb left from the baking Molly had delivered the day before. The men of his board, cold when they arrived, would welcome a cup of hot coffee and would understand his lack of baked goods. Perhaps, sympathizing with his pathetic limitations, they would be spurred on in their avowed plan to enlarge the cabin so that he and Molly could marry.
    Parker Jones, not long a pastor, felt himself blessed to have ended up in the Saskatchewan Territory among the good people of Bliss. No better people existed, he was sure, certainly none who would have made him feel more needed, more welcome. They felt keenly their lack of sufficient monetary support and regretted it—Parker existed on the offering that was placed in the basket each week, usually egg and cream money, and some weeks it was pitifully small. But in the fall, when the crops were harvested, the faithful would bring in the tithe. And if the crops were good, so was the tithe. Cash might be sparse, but there would be bushels of garden stuff, shelves of cannedgoods, sacks of flour. The enlarged parsonage would need a roomy cellar—he must remember to mention that today; picking up a pencil, he jotted it down.
    Feeling at last that things were in order, Parker seated himself in a rocking chair at the stove’s side and picked up his book. A man of medium height, with a shock of dark hair, a sensitive face often grave but capable of breaking into an infectious smile, Parker Jones was clearly a man of good breeding and obvious gentility. He exuded masculinity in the same way a spring crocus exudes sturdiness.
    His hands, not accustomed to the plow or harrow, were fitted to the pages of a book.
    Regardless of all else—no matter the season, through meals of beans, bannock, rabbit stew, and pancakes, enslaved by the endless feeding of wood into the stove, sidetracked by board meetings, engaged in courting—sermon preparation had first priority. It was as though—when he pledged himself to the ministry—he had taken a vow as solemn as the wedding vow and much like it: for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health . . .
    Therefore, the amenities completed and all things prepared for the monthly board meeting, Parker Jones returned to his studies. With the cabin cradled in a blanket of snow and silence, the only sounds now were the popping of the fire and the occasional creak of the hand-me-down rocking chair.
    Here, in the backwoods (also termed the bush), in this place rather incongruously called Bliss, an outpost was burgeoning to fruition and vigor, a colony marvelously free of the bondage of the old world. Here, men and women enjoyed opportunity and freedom such as they had never known, gladly paying the price and embracing the struggle. Here, though it seemed a most unlikely reality, dreams came true.
    Most of the civilized world thought of Canada as a wilderness. An idyllic wilderness, perhaps, with a charm that beckoned the adventurer, but a wilderness nevertheless. And theywere not far wrong; wilderness it was, for the most part. Such a huge land and so few adventurers.
    But that was changing; they were coming. What had begun as a trickle was to become a torrent as men and women—downtrodden, poor, hopeless—turned their shabby shoes and beaten wills westward.
    On the frontier, one of the most important figures was the preacher. His presence supplied one of the only antidotes for the loneliness of the isolated lives of the hardworking pioneer. His bodily presence—being there with them—was a tremendous encouragement; his messages, much needed: God loved them; God was with them; they could never get beyond His care. The preacher performed their marriage ceremonies, buried