much rougher; and Garth was glad of Natalie's having
greater comfort on the front seat. About five o'clock they climbed their
last hill. At the top Old Paul, pulling up his horses, swept his whip
with an eloquent gesture over the magnificent prospect lying below.

"All the water this side goes to the Arctic," he said.

Looking over a wealth of greenery, away below them they saw the mighty
Miwasa River coming eastward from the mountains, make its southernmost
sweep, and shape a course straight away for the North. The Miwasa river!
There was magic in the name; they gazed down at it with a feeling akin
to awe. Off to the left lay the roofs of the Landing, farthest outpost
of civilization.

Presently they were rattling down the steep village street at a great
pace, traces hanging slack; past the factor's house, the "Company's"
store, the blacksmith shop and the "French outfit"; with a dash and
a clatter that brought every inhabitant running to the hotel. Most of
them were already there; for the arrival of the mail is the event of the
week. Old Smiley swept up to the gallery at Trudeau's with a flourish
worthy of coaching's palmiest days. The passengers alighted; and again
the girl with the green wings in her hat became the cynosure of every
eye. Garth delivered her into the comfortable arms of Mrs. Trudeau, who
took her upstairs. Turning back into the general room, he asked the
first man he met where the Bishop lived.

"Up the street and to the left a piece," was the reply. "But say--"

"Well?" said Garth.

"The Bishop and his party started up the river two days ago."

Garth, turning, saw Nick Grylls listening with an evil grin.

V

AT MIWASA LANDING

Miwasa Landing is the jumping-off place of civilization; here, at
Trudeau's, is the last billiard table, and the last piano; here, the
wayfarer sleeps for the last time on springs, and eats his last "square"
ere the wilderness swallows him. It is at once the rendezvous, the place
of good-byes, and the gossip-exchange of the North; here, the incomer
first apprehends the intimate, village spirit of that vast land, where a
man's doings are registered with more particularity than in the smallest
hamlet outside. For where there are not, in half a million square miles,
enough white men to fill a room, or as many white women as a man has
fingers, each individual fills a large space in the picture. Away up in
Fort Somervell, three months' journey from Prince George