sullenness almost equally instinctive. In some way he felt himself
aggrieved by the girl's presence. At first it was merely the natural
revolt of a very young man against assuming responsibility he had not
invited. The resulting discomfort of mind, however, he speedily assigned
to the girl's account. He continued, as at first, to ignore her. But in
the slow rumination of the forest he became more and more irritably
sensible of her presence. Sam's taciturnity was contrastedly sunny and
open. He looked on things about him with the placid receptivity of an
old man, and said nothing because there was nothing to say. The Ojibway
girl remained inscrutable, helping where she could, apparently desirous
of neither praise nor blame.

At the end of three days the provisions were ready. There had resulted
perhaps sixty pounds of "jerky." It now became necessary to leave the
water-way, and to strike directly through the forest, over the hills,
and into the country of the Kabinikágam.

Dick shouldered a thirty-pound pack and the canoe. Sam Bolton and the
girl managed the remainder. Every twenty minutes or so they would rest,
sinking back against the trunks of trees, mossy stones, or a bank of new
ferns. The forest was open and inexpressibly lofty. Moose maples, young
birches, and beeches threw their coolness across the face, then above
them the columns of the trunks, then far up in green distance the leaves
again, like the gold-set roof of a church. The hill mounted always
before them. Ancient rocks hoary with moss, redolent of dampness, stood
like abandoned altars given over to decay. A strange, sweet wind
freighted with stray bird-notes wandered aimlessly.

Nothing was said. Dick led the way and set the intervals of the
carrying. When he swung the canoe from his shoulders the others slipped