gracious, dipping willows,
which had survived years of the break up of the spring ice and the
accompanying freshet. Indians and half-breeds lounged and smoked,
squatting around regardless of the hours which had small enough meaning
for them at any time. Just now contentment reigned in their savage
hearts. Each hour of their lives contained only its own troubles.

It was the most pleasant time of the northern year. The spring dangers
on the river were past. The chill nights had long since sealed up the
summer wounds in the great glacier. As yet the summer heat of the
earth still shed its beneficent influence on the temperature of the
air. And, greatest blessing of all, the flies and mosquitoes were
rapidly abating their attacks, and the gaps in their ranks were
increasing with every frosty night that passed.

The fall tints in the woods were ablaze on every hand. The dark green
of the pine woods kept the character of the northland weird. The
vegetation of deciduous habit had assumed its clothing of russet and
brown, whilst the scarlet of the dying maple lit up the darkening
background with its splendid flare, so like the blaze of a setting sun.

Only the northland man can really appreciate the last weeks before the
merciless northern winter shuts him in. The hope inspired by the
turbulent spring speaks to him but of the delight of the season to
come. Far too often do the summer storms weight down his spirit to
make the height of the open season his time of festival. Those are the
days of labor. Fierce labor, in preparation for the dark hours of
winter. The days of early fall are the days in which he can look on
labor accomplished, and forward, with confidence, to security under
stress, and even a certain comfort.

Dr. Bill had been left at the landing with the canoes, and Peigan
Charley, and the pack Indians. The girl and the man were wandering
along the woodland bank, talking the talk of those whose years, for the
greater part, lay still before them, and finding joy in the simple fact
of the life which moved about them. No threat of the Indians which
Murray had gone to encounter on their behalf could cast a shadow over
their mood. They were full to the brim of strong young life, when the
world is gold tinted, a reflection of their own virile youth.

They had come to a broad ditch which contained in its depths the narrow
trickle of a miniature cascade, pouring down from some spring on the
hillside,