the wilderness, the Doctor has his will and gathers
violets, moccasin flowers, and the purple _dodecatheon_. As we pass Lily
Lake he remarks, "This reminds me of the Duke of Norfolk's place at
Arundel; it is just like this." South Dakoty returns, "I don't know
him."

Here and there we pass clusters of Galician huts. Instead of following
the line of least resistance in the fertile plains to the south, these
people, the Mark Tapleys of the prairies, choose cheap land up here for
the pleasure of conquering it and "coming out strong." They are a frugal
people, with a fondness for work, a wholesome horror of debt, and the
religious instinct strongly insistent. Off on a hillside near each
little settlement a naked cross extends its arms. These are their
open-air churches, and in all weathers, men, women, and children gather
at the foot of the cross to worship the God of their fathers. By and by,
when the soil has yielded to their labours, with their own hands will
they build a church and without debt it will be dedicated. The idea of
raising an imposing church and presenting God with the mortgage does not
appeal to the Galician.

The clean sheets at "Eggie's," the second stopping-place, are
attractive, and we sleep the sleep of the just. We acknowledge with
inward shame that two years of city life have given us the soft muscles
of the chee-chaco; we'll have to harden up a bit if we are to reach that
far-away ocean.

Next day, midway between Edmonton and Athabasca Landing, we water our
horses at the Tautinau. We are standing at the Height of Land, the
watershed between the Saskatchewan and the Athabasca. This little ridge
where the harebells grow divides the drops of rain of the noon-day
shower. Some of these drops, by way of the Saskatchewan, Lake Winnipeg,
and Hudson Bay, will reach the Atlantic. Others, falling into the
Athabasca, will form part of that yellow-tinged flood which, by way of
Great Slave Lake and the mighty Mackenzie, carries its tribute to the
Frozen Ocean. These last are the drops we follow.

To save the horses we walk the hills, and I try to match giant steps
with Sergeant Anderson. Kennedy, Junior, joins us and has a knotty point
to settle regarding "the gentleman wot murdered the man." It is hard to
induce a Mounted Policeman to talk. However, to be striding Athabasca
Trail with the hero of the Hayward-King murder-trial is too good an
opportunity to lose, and, reluctantly rendered, bit by bit the stor