There was a general limpness to be observed in camp that morning, aggravated by a steady downpour of rain; but before noon it cleared, and the men took all but the camp stuff forward.  We had supper late to avoid the flies, the still night gathering round us as we ate.  Rising close above was the dark mass of Lookout Mountain, the lake at its foot stretching away into the gloom, reflecting dimly the tinge of sunset light in the sky above.  By the camp fire, after our meal, the men sat telling each other stories till Job and Joe broke the little circle and went to their tent.  Then floating out on the solemn, evening silence came the sound of hymns sung in Indian to old, familiar tunes, and last the “Paddling Song.”  With what an intense love the one who was “gone away” had loved it all.  I could not help wondering if sometimes he wished to be with me.  It seemed as if he must.

On Sunday morning it rained, but cleared before noon, and at 11.30 A.M. we were on the river.  That afternoon and the day following we passed the most picturesque part of the river.  There were Maid Marion Falls, where the river drops fifty feet into a narrow gorge cut out of the gneiss and schists of the Laurentian rock over which it flows; Gertrude Falls, a direct drop of sixty feet, which for dignity and beauty is unsurpassed by any feature of the Nascaupee; and Isabella Falls, a system of falls and rapids and chutes extending for more than a mile, where the water poured over ledges, flowed in a foaming, roaring torrent round little rocky islands, or rushed madly down a chute.  About half-way up there was an abrupt, right angle bend in the river, and, standing at the bend looking northward, you could see through the screen of spruce on the islands, high above you and half a mile away, the beginning of the river’s wild mile race, as it took the first flying leap out over a wall of rocks.

The rock colouring was a deep red brown, and in some places almost purple.  The perpendicular surfaces were patched with close lying grey-green moss, and in places with a variety almost the colour of vermilion.  The country was not burned over, and everywhere the beautiful reindeer moss grew luxuriantly, setting off in fine contrast the tall spruces, with occasional balsams growing among them.

A mile and a half of very rough portaging brought us at 3 P.M. to the head of the falls, and there we found ourselves on a lake at last.  Perhaps few will understand how fine the long stretch of smooth water seemed to us.  That day the portaging had been very rough, the way lying over a bed of great, moss-covered boulders that were terribly slippery.  The perspiration dripped from the men’s faces as they carried, for it was very hot.  The big Labrador bulldogs (flies as large as wasps) were out in force that day, as well as the tiny sandflies.  One thing we had to be thankful for, was that there were no mosquitoes.  The men told me that there