ings. With the country and smaller trees buried under a great depth
of snow, and no landmarks to guide him, George would lead the other men
on, and, with no searching about or hesitancy, stop and say, "We'll dig
here." And not once did his remarkable instinct play him false.

"'Tis sure wonderful," said Tom, in telling me about it. "I ne'er
could ha' done it, an' no man on Th' Labrador could ha' done it, sir.
Not even th' Mountaineers could ha' done it." And Duncan seconded
Tom's opinion.

On Sunday, March 27th, I was sitting in the cosey post house wondering
where George and the others were, when suddenly George appeared from
out the snow that the howling gale was whirling about. My long
suspense was ended. The body had been recovered in good condition,
George said. Wrapped in the blankets that Hubbard had round him when
died--the blankets he had so gaily presented me with that June morning
on the Silvia--and our old tarpaulin, which George had recovered
farther back on the trail, it had been dragged on the Indian sled forty
miles down over the sleeping Susan River, and thence out over Grand
Lake to the Cape Corbeau tilt, where the men had been compelled to
leave it the day before owing to the heavy snowstorm that then
prevailed. From the tilt the men had gone on to Tom's house at the
rapid to spend the night, and George had now come down to the post to
relieve my mind with the news that the body was safe.

It was arranged that the next morning George and Duncan should take the
post dogs and komatik, drive up to Cape Corbeau and bring the body
down. The morning was calm and fine, and they started early. It was
a strange funeral procession that returned. The sun was setting when,
on their way back, with the body lashed to the komatik, they passed
over the rapid where Hubbard that beautiful July morning had sprung
vigorously into the water to track the canoe into Grand Lake. How full
of hope and pleasurable anticipation he had been when we paddled
through the Little Lake! Over the snow and ice that now hid the lake
the seven dogs that were hauling his corpse strained and tugged, ever
and anon breaking into a trot as George and Duncan, running on their
snowshoes on either side of the komatik, urged them forward with Eskimo
exclamations or cracked their long whip over a laggard. No need to
urge any one of them on, however, when they came in sight of the post.
Darkness was falling. Knowing that their daily