Job’s quick eye had seen that the canoes could be taken through the narrows on the north shore.  And when this part of the river was passed all suggestion of Hades vanished.  There stretched before us Mountain Cat Lake, for beauty, a gem in its setting of hills.  It was half a mile wide and two miles long.  In the lower part were two small wooded islands, but the upper part was clear.  Long spruce covered points reached out into its waters, which still flowed so swiftly that instead of paddling we poled along the shore.  It was camping time when we reached the head of the lake, where the river comes down round a fine gravel point in a decided rapid.

George remarked:  “That would be a fine place for Sunday camp.”

“Then why not camp there?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he replied emphatically; “that would not do at all.  There would be no Sunday rest for me.  I’d have to be watching you all the time to keep you away from that rapid.”

A little way up the river we came to another point which seemed even finer than the one at the head of the lake, and on this we made our Sunday camp.  There was no noisy rapid here.  On the opposite shore a long wooded hill sloped down to a point a mile above camp, round which the river came from the west.  The sun was almost touching the hill-top, and below were low, gravel flats covered with fresh spring green and cut by little waterways, still as glass, and reflecting the sunset colours.  In the river above us were small wooded islands, and away beyond them the blue ridges.  It would have been beautiful at any time, but now in the calm evening, with the sunset light upon it, it was peculiarly so, and seemed in a special way to accord with the thought of the Sabbath rest.  There was not a word spoken in reference to it, but about the men and in the way they did their work was something which made you feel how glad they were a resting time had come.

When the outfit had been landed, and the canoes drawn up on shore, George walked up the bank a little way, and there, with folded arms, stood quite still for some time looking up the river.

Presently I asked:  “What are you thinking, George?”

“I was just thinking how proud I am of this river,” he replied.

It seemed luxurious on Sunday morning to be able to loiter over washing and dressing, to get into clean clothes, to read a little, and to look at the day itself.  I had strained both feet the day before, and they were quite swollen, but did not hurt very much.  My hands and face, too, were swollen and sore from the bites of the flies and mosquitoes.  Having a rooted dislike to wearing a veil, I had deferred putting one on; but it was plain now that Labrador flies were soon to overrule all objections.  When breakfast was announced at 10.30 A.M. the men had been for a swim, and appeared shaved and in clean clothes—­Joe and Gilbert in white moleskin trousers.  Everything was done in lazy fashion.  Everyone loitered.  It was washing day for all, and by noon the bushes along the shore were decorated in spots in most unwonted fashion.  Later, walking up the shore a little way I came upon Gilbert cutting Joe’s hair.