e were
about four miles east of Kenemish, and an hour later we arrived there.

The lumber camp at the mouth of the Kenemish River is composed of a saw
mill, a storehouse in which also live the native helpers, a cookhouse,
a part of which is given over to lodgings for the Nova Scotian
lumbermen, and a log stable for the horses that do the general work
about the camp and in the woods. Hugh Dunbar, the engineer, extended a
warm welcome to the doctor and me, and his wife, who did the camp
cooking, made us comfortable in the cookhouse. I was destined to
remain at the camp for many weeks, and I cannot help testifying to the
gratitude I feel to those lumber folk, especially Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar,
Wells Bently, the storekeeper; Tom Fig, the machinist, and Archie
McKennan, Leigh Stanton and James Greenan.

The chill he had received during the trip from Northwest River so
affected Dr. Hardy that he was unable to proceed to Muddy Lake. Two
days after our arrival he had a severe hemorrhage, and the following
day another. They forced him to take to his bed, and thereafter he
rose only occasionally for half an hour's rest in a chair. He was a
deeply religious nature, and, realising that he was doomed, he awaited
the slow approach of death with calm resignation.

And my feet steadily grew worse. Three days after our arrival at
Kenemish I could not touch them to the floor. The doctor and I lay on
couches side by side. I could not even bear the weight of the
bed-clothes on my feet, and Dunbar built a rack from the hoops of an
old flour barrel to protect them. Under the doctor's direction, Mrs.
Dunbar every day removed the bandages from my feet, cleansed them with
carbolic acid water and rebandaged them. Dunbar and the other men
carried me in their arms when it was necessary for me to be taken from
my couch. My temperature ran up until it reached 103 1/2. The doctor
then said there was only one way to save my life--to cut off my legs.

"And," he added, "I'm the only one here that knows how to do it, and
I'm too weak to undertake it. So were both going to die, Wallace.
There's nothing to fear in that, though, if you trust in God."

The doctor was an accomplished player of the violin, but he had left
his own instrument at Muddy Lake, and the only one he could obtain at
Kenemish was a miserable affair that gave him little satisfaction. So
while he lay dying by the side of his patient who he thought was also
dying, he, for the