glory and profit. It had been a fort then, in all that the name implies
throughout the fur country. It had boasted a stockade, a brass cannon
which commanded the great gates that swung open to friendly strangers
and were closed sharply to potential foes. But the last remnant of
Pachugan's glory had gone glimmering down the corridors of time. The
Company was still as strong, stronger even in power more sure and subtle
than ever lay in armed retainers and absolute monopoly. But Fort
Pachugan had become a mere collecting station for the lesser furs, a
distributing center for trade goods to native trappers. There were no
more hostile tribes. The Company no longer dealt out the high justice,
the middle, and the low. The stockade and the brass cannon were
traditions. Pachugan sprawled on the bank of the lake, open to all
comers, a dimming landmark of the old days.

What folk were out of doors bent their eyes upon the canoe. The factor
himself rose from his seat on the porch and came down to have speech
with them. Thompson, recognizing authority, made known his name and his
mission. The burly Scot shook hands with him. They walked away together,
up to the factor's house. On the threshold the Reverend Wesley paused
for a backward look, drew the crumpled linen of his handkerchief across
his moist brow, and then disappeared within. Mike Breyette and Donald
MacDonald looked at each other expressively. Their swarthy faces slowly
expanded in a broad grin.

In the North, what with the crisp autumn, the long winter, and that
bleak, uncertain period which is neither winter nor spring, summer--as
we know it in softer lands--has but a brief span to endure. But Nature
there as elsewhere works out a balance, adheres to a certain law of
proportion. What Northern summers lack in length is compensated by
intensity. When the spring floods have passed and the warm rains follow