In the morning (Monday, July 27) Hubbard arose with a feeling of
depression, but fair progress during the day brightened him up. A
typical fall wind blew all day, and we were very wet and very cold
when we went into camp at night. But with the coming of evening
the clouds were driven away before the wind, affording us an
occasional glimpse of the new moon hanging low in the heavens; and
this, together with the sound of the river and the roaring
campfire, soon cheered us up. No matter how weary and discouraged
we were during the day, our evening fire invariably brought to us a
feeling of indescribable happiness, a sweet forgetfulness of
everything but the moment's comfort.

Our fire that Monday night was no exception to the general rule,
but after supper, while we were luxuriantly reclining before it on
a couch of boughs, Hubbard gave expression to a strange feeling
that had been growing on him and me in the last few days. It was
almost as if the solitude were getting on our nerves. Hubbard was
munching a piece of black chocolate, which he dipped at intervals
in a bit of sugar held in the palm of his left hand, when he said:

"It's queer, but I have a feeling that is getting stronger from day
to day, that we are the only people left in the world. Have you
fellows experienced any such feeling?"

"Yes," said I; "I have. I have been feeling that we must forever
be alone, going on, and on, and on, from portage to portage,
through this desolate wilderness."

"That's it exactly," said Hubbard. "You sort of feel, that as you
are now, so you always have been and always will be; and your past