hair.  It was a gracious memory to carry into the Silent Places, and was in itself well worth the bestowal.  However, Virginia, as was her habit, gave presents.  On each she bestowed a long silk handkerchief.  Sam Bolton, with a muttered word of thanks, stuffed his awkwardly into his shirt bosom.  Dick, on the other hand, with a gesture half of gallantry, half of bravado, stripped his own handkerchief from his neck and cast it far into the current, knotting the girl’s gift in its place.  Virginia smiled.  A strong push sent the canoe into the current.  They began to paddle up-stream.

For perhaps a mile their course threaded in and out the channel of a number of islands, then shot them into the broad reach of the Moose itself.  There they set themselves to straight-forward paddling, hugging closely the shore that they might escape as much as possible the full strength of the current.  In this manner they made rapid progress, for, of course, they paddled in the Indian fashion—­without bending either elbow, and with a strong thrust forward of the shoulders at the end of the stroke—­and they understood well how to take advantage of each little back eddy.

After an hour and a half they came to the first unimportant rapids, where they were forced to drop their paddles and to use the long spruce-poles they had cut and peeled that morning.  Dick had the bow.  It was beautiful to see him standing boldly upright, his feet apart, leaning back against the pressure, making head against the hurrying water.  In a moment the canoe reached the point of hardest suction, where the river broke over the descent.  Then the young man, taking a deep breath, put forth the strength that was in him.  Sam Bolton, poised in the stern, holding the canoe while his companion took a fresh hold, noted with approval the boy’s physical power, the certainty of his skill at the difficult river work, the accuracy of his calculations.  Whatever his heedlessness, Dick Herron knew his trade.  It was, indeed, a powerful Instrument that Galen Albret in his wisdom had placed in Sam Bolton’s hands.

The canoe, torn from the rapid’s grasp, shot into the smooth water above.  Calmly Sam and Dick shook the water from their poles and laid them across the thwarts.  The swish click! swish click! of the paddles resumed.

Now the river began to hurry in the ten-mile descent below the Abitibi.  Although the smooth rush of water was unbroken by the swirls of rapids, nevertheless the current proved too strong for paddling.  The voyagers were forced again to the canoe poles, and so toiled in graceful but strenuous labour the remaining hours of their day’s journey.  When finally they drew ashore for the night, they had but just passed the mouth of French River.