to his lonely store. Over to his right, above the horizon the red
sun leapt. He did not raise his eyes; but, as he walked, he whispered
over and over to himself words which seemed incredible, "And, if it
had not been for her, _I_ should have been like that."

CHAPTER V

CITIES OUT OF SIGHT

In Keewatin the human intellect stands forever at a halt, awed in the
presence of a limitless serenity for which it can find no better name
than God, since, of all things which are incalculable, He seems most
infinite.

In this land of rivers and solitude Man is unnecessary, disregarded,
and plays no part; if, after two hundred odd years of white, and many
centuries of Indian habitation, Man were to withdraw himself
to-morrow, he would leave no permanent record of his sojourn
there--only a few outposts and forts, several far-scattered
independent traders' stores, one or two missions and fishing-stations,
all of them built of wood, which within a decade would have crumbled
to decay, over which the tangled forest would silently close up.
Instinctively he knows himself for an impudent intruder on something
which is sacred; he hears continually what Adam heard when he stole of
the fruit which was forbidden, God walking in the garden in the cool
of the day--the accusing footsteps of God. His brain is staggered by
an unchartered immensity in which he has no portion, which he can only
watch. His individual worth to the universe is dwarfed by the
imminence of the All: so nothing seems very serious which is only
personal and, since all things which we apprehend must become in some
sense personal, nothing is very important. The procession of human
effort becomes a spectacle at sight of which Homeric laughter may
sometimes be permissible, but tears never. If a man once gives way to
weeping in Keewatin, he will weep always. Only by the exercise of a
self-restraint which at first seems brutal can life be endured there.

Granger, as he walked toward his store under the shadow of the dawn,
was conscious of all this. The land was wrapped in the intensest
quiet; the very crunch of his snowshoes seemed a profanation, though
he trod lightly. When he had ascended the Point, he paused and gazed
back. Already the thaw had commenced; down the still white face of the
country, which lay at his feet like a shrouded corpse, the tears had
begun to trinkle, though the eyes were tranquil and fast shut; the
sight was as astounding to him as if a man