The outgoers are a cosmopolitan and happy “bunch,”—­Major Jarvis, R.N.W.M.P., fur-traders galore, three Grey Nuns and a priest, Mr. Wyllie and his family bound for the Orkney Islands, fifty-four souls in all, without counting the miscellaneous and interesting fraternity down on the lower deck among the fur-bundles.

It is essentially a voyage de luxe.  When Mr. Keele imagines a place is good, the steamer stops and we all gather fossils.  When lame James, the steward, our erstwhile jig-expert, is about to serve coffee, he pokes his head over the side and orders the engines stopped that we may drink the beverage without spillage.  The beardless prospector buys tinned peaches from the commissariat, opens them with a jack-knife and passes them round the deck with impartiality and a to-hell-with-the-man-that-works smile.  Who would envy kings?

We arrive at McMurray in time for treaty-payment.  Tethered horses at the tepee-poles, store-dolls for the babies, and unmistakable “Outside” millinery prove the prosperity of these Crees, and proves also their proximity to Edmonton.  One little group looks tattered, out-at-heel, and hungry,—­a Cree widow presenting her four offspring that they may receive the annual payment.  The officials within the treaty tent declare the youngest baby an illegitimate child and will pay it no treaty,—­it “has no name.”  I catch the anxious look in the mother’s eye.  Five dollars goes a long way when baby bodies have to be fed and clothed.  The situation is crucial.  Without a sponsor, the priest will not name the baby.  With no name, it cannot draw treaty.  I conclude to father the child, as its own (un)lawful father will not.  My offer to give my name to the girlie, after due deliberation of Church and State, is accepted.  Under the name of Agnes Deans Cameron the Cree kiddie is received into the Mother Church and finds her place on the list of treaty-receiving Indians—­No. 53 in the McMurray Band.  May she follow pleasant trails!

[Illustration:  A Meadow at McMurray]

Back of McMurray lies a lush land.  We tread a path a full mile in length leading to meadows where, belly-high, the horses graze.  Every yard of our way is lined with raspberry bushes bent with their rich, red burden.

While the furs are being transferred from the Grahame to the scows, the working of our typewriter is a matter of much wonderment.  Old Paul Fontaine, a half-breed who thinks he is a white man, first looks through the door, then comes into the dining hall where we are, takes his hat off, and watches respectfully.  Then, with an air of great conviction, “This is the first time I ever see that.  It is wonderful what man can do—­wonderful.  There is only one thing left to be done now—­and that is to put the breath of life into a dead body.”  Solemnly putting on his hat, he turns and walks out.