narrowed down to a mere strait, and that portion of it below the
canoes was hidden from my view. It stretched out far to the
northwest, with some distance up a long arm reaching to the west. A
point which I recognized from Duncan's description as the place where
the winter tilt used by him and Donald was situated extended for some
distance out into the water. The entire length of Seal Lake is about
forty miles, but only about thirty miles of it could be seen from the
elevation upon which I stood. Its shores are generally well wooded
with a growth of young spruce. High hills surround it.

We visited the tilt as we passed the point and, in accordance with an
arrangement made with Duncan, added to our stores about twenty-five
pounds of flour that he had left there during the previous winter.
Five miles above the point where Babewendigash River empties into Seal
Lake we entered the Nascaupee, up which we paddled two miles to the
first short rapid. This we tracked, and then made camp on an island
where the river lay placid and the wind blew cool and refreshing.

Long we sat about our camp fire watching the glories of the northern
sunset, and the new moon drop behind the spruce-clad hills, and the
aurora in all its magnificence light our silent world with its
wondrous fire. Finally the others left me to go to their blankets.

When I was alone I pushed in the ends of the burning logs and sat down
to watch the blaze as it took on new life. Gradually, as I gazed into
its depths, fantasy brought before my eyes the picture of another camp
fire. Hubbard was sitting by it. It was one of those nights in the
hated Susan Valley. We had been toiling up the trail for days, and
were ill and almost disheartened; but our camp fire and the relaxation
from the day's work were giving us the renewed hope and cheer that