from the Bible. Hubbard read Philemon
aloud and told us the story. I read aloud from the Psalms. George,
who received his religious training in a mission of the Anglican Church
on James Bay, listened to our reading with reverent attention.

Towards noon the storm began to moderate, and in a short stroll about
the island we found some blueberries and currants, which we fell upon
and devoured. At one o'clock the wind abated to such an extent that we
succeeded in leaving the island and reaching the mainland to the
northeast. The wind continuing to abate, we paddled several miles in
the afternoon looking in vain for the outlet. In the course of our
search we caught a namaycush, and immediately put to shore to eat it.
While it was being cooked we picked nearly a gallon of cranberries on a
sandy knoll. We camped near this spot, and for supper had a pot of the
cranberries stewed, leaving enough for two more meals.

For several days past now, when George and I were alone, he had
repeated to me stories of Indians that had starved to death, or had
barely escaped starvation, and a little later he spoke of these things
in Hubbard's presence. To me he would tell how weak he was becoming,
and how Indians would get weaker and weaker and then give up to it and
die. He also spoke of how he had heard the big northern loons cry at
night farther back on the trail, which cries, he said, the Indians
regarded as sure signs of coming calamity. At the same time he was
cheerful and courageous, never suggesting such a thing as turning back.
His state of mind was to me very interesting. Apparently two natures
were at war within him. One--the Indian--was haunted by superstitious
fears; the other--the white man--rejected these fears and invariably
conquered them. In other words, the Indian in him was panicky, but the
white man held him fast. And in seeing him master his superstitious
nature, I admired him the more.

Until this time it had been Hubbard's custom to retire to his blankets
early, while George and I continued to toast our shins by the fire and
enjoy our evening pipe. Then George would turn in, and I, while the
embers died, would sit alone for an hour or so and let my fancy form
pictures in the coals or carry me back to other days. In our Sunday
night's camp on Windbound Lake, however, Hubbard sat with me long after
George was lost in sleep, and together we talked of the home folks and
exchanged confidences.

I observed