rhe MAID of the MOUNT A IN 



PART FIRST 



IT had been a long day on the Jacques Cartier 

 River. We had run it in my canoe from 

 far up among the mountains down into the 

 valley where it ceases to fret and foam, and 

 an occasional clearing on the bank indicated the 

 pioneers' struggle for foothold on the land. I had 

 fished the twenty miles of water and a goodly pile 

 of trout lay in the bottom of the canoe. It was 

 time to camp while there was yet light enough to 

 make snug for the night. At a likely looking 

 point I directed Charlo, my half-breed guide, to 

 beach the canoe. The little tent was soon set and 

 the fragrant bed of balsams laid. Charlo had 

 crossed the river to gather some birch bark, and I 

 had thrown myself down for that sweet half hour 

 of rest that follows the fatigue of a day of cramped 

 position in a canoe. I must have dozed off, for I 

 heard no approaching footsteps, but a voice that 

 was evidently that of a woman awakened me, and 

 I sprang to a sitting position. Standing beside 



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